Wilma Jean Peeples-Murphy

I was told not to get my hopes up or I would be disappointed because you were ‘not a cuddly dog’. You were really just ‘a grumpy old lady who kept to herself’. While I was fully prepared to honor that and to respect your space, I have also fostered and rescued many dogs. I knew how to facilitate trust because I wanted you to be comfortable here.
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What I didn’t know was how quickly you would blossom into the most loving, snuggly, magical velcro soul dog I would ever have the privilege of mothering. We called you our Willy Worm because you would climb up my chest, nestle into my neck, and fall asleep there for hours. They told me you didn’t like anyone near your face, but I took you straight to the vet and after a little dental work you would push your face as hard as you possibly could into mine and close your eyes for endless kisses.
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What I found out the first night after driving you home, was that you were silly. The first time you scooted across the floor on your belly and climbed into my lap with your little tail wagging so hard I thought my heart was exploding. It made me happy to make you happy. You went from a trembling and scared little girl to the Queen of our castle.
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You were so energetic and sassy that I thought I would have you for many years to come. For a whole year you were the happiest little worm. Being near you was a pure injection of joy. Wherever I went, you were right beside me. We had been through similar trauma in our early lives, and I felt like my reward was the pure love in your gaze. You used to stare into my eyes while I sang to you and whispered that I was beyond lucky to be your Mom.
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Around this time last year, you very suddenly got sick with lymphoma. It seemed to come out of nowhere. And so began our journey of weekly oncology appointments. You felt so much better on the chemo that you went into remission right away. You fought so hard. You inspired me everyday with your mighty heart. I stayed home with you after that and took you everywhere with me. For a few months it really seemed like you would be the first to beat this illness.
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We were so proud when you completed your first round of chemo. The entire staff at NVS had fallen in love with you in those six months, and we all celebrated together.
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When the cancer came back less than two months later, you would not go into remission again. We kept you on the chemo as long as it was making you feel better. For the most part it didn’t even seem like you were sick, until it did. It’s amazing what you become accustomed to when you love someone as much as I love you, Wilma Jean. At first it was all the medication, and then the washable diapers (that you looked so adorable in) when the same medicine that kept you alive irritated your bladder. Suddenly I was changing your diapers every 10-20 minutes, and I was happy to wake up every 30 minutes at night for your comfort. Then the chemo just stopped working, and you became so tired that you couldn’t even follow me from room to room anymore. You stopped eating, and you would stand in front of your water bowl desperately thirsty but unable to drink. So I gave you syringes full of water and held you like a baby since it was the only way you could swallow. In between needing water you would just sleep in my arms. You let your Dad and I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you were ready to go.
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I wish I had known that our last walk was our final walk, or that the bath I gave you before your last oncology appointment was the last time I would ever so gently clean your ears and pat dry your tender belly. Even freshly bathed you always smelled exactly like the Pacific Ocean, all salt and brine and slightly sweet.
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Even as I could feel our time together slipping through my fingers, I felt it my life’s greatest honor to be your Mom. I would do it all again in a heartbeat. You were and are the brightest comet shooting across my life. Thank goodness your Dad found you and knew instantly how much we needed one another. Caring for you the way I had always wished someone would care for me healed my inner child in all of the profound ways that years of therapy never could. Fighting for you taught me how to fight for myself too. You were so innocently unaware of the power and magic you possessed while you were here, but I hope with all that I am that you know it now.
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Your exit from this world was exactly how I envisioned it, and even this was a gift from you. I had you swaddled against my chest, with your favorite soft music playing and candles lit all around our bedroom where you slept every night between your Dad and I. The last thing I felt from you was your face pressing into mine for more kisses before falling asleep peacefully into my neck as I felt your heartbeat slowly fade away.
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I know that people want to help and offer comfort, but I want the anguish. I want the immense waves of grief. I want time to stop and kneel in your honor. I don’t want anything except to drown in my memories of you. There will never be another soul like yours. There will never be another connection like ours. I was so busy trying to heal your physical body that I failed to realize I was only supposed to heal your heart and your spirit. I am proud to say that I feel like I did that. I still feel our connection because it is and will remain transcendent.
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I do not want to be made to feel better. I want the cavernous hole in my heart that nothing else will ever fill, and I will proudly shoulder this grief for the rest of my life because I understand the depth of it’s meaning: that for 700 days I had you. My sweetest angel, my Wilma Jean, you were more than worth it. My love for you will never ever be referred to in the past tense.