There is lots to say but not the means to say it. I feel like, ever since I got sick last week, things are still fuzzy. I hope it gets better.
When I was at my miserable-est (that's right.) I decided that while I was sick, I was going to learn something. Anything. And I did.
Sometimes, you have to ask for help. I am terrible at this. Asking for help is hard, as is delegating. You have to admit that you are a tad bit helpless and that you simply can't do it on your own. It is incredibly humbling and my pride is often heavier than a piano. It is hard to move aside.
With that being said, my mom came over and cleaned my house. I sat on the couch and watched Dress My Nest while covered up with a blanket. She chatted away happily from the other room, and when she left, my bathroom sparkled, and I cried. Tim was working like a dog. I was SICK as a dog. I was grateful for the help...and honestly still am.
But the lesson was, unfortunately, short-lived.
Last night, I came home and puttered around in the kitchen. I gave Beezus some seeds and went back to the kitchen. After a few minutes, I noticed that he hadn't climbed out of his little hole to eat (and he always climbs out of his little hole).
I took a closer look, and there he was, stiff and cold and 'sleeping' in his little nest.
Beezus was dead.
I cried my head off while Tim loudly played guitar in the other room. I had no clue what to do with a dead mouse. The crummy thing about being an adult is that when your pets die, there is no one there to flush/bury/dispose of them for you. You have to be brave. You have to do it yourself, and from my experience, you are a little worse off for it.
I went through 1,000 different scenarios in my head, trying to find the most respectful/least traumatic way to 'bury' him without actually having to BURY him at 10:30 at night. I decided to dump him, shavings and all, in a small gift bag and place him in the trash. I worried that if I sat him outside, something would 'get him' which in hindsight, seems a bit silly. I closed the trash can lid, and in a shaky voice, mustered the words, "I love ya' Beez." and went inside. I'm sure the neighbors think I'm crazy.
Later, I had a conversation with Tim about it, and he said things like, "I could have helped you. You have to tell me these things. I could have been there."
And I realized that when we DON'T let ourselves ask for help, we rob other people of the chance to be Jesus. We rob them of the opportunity to bring us love and joy and comfort.
I don't end up protecting myself. I end up hurting even more in the long run.
Yipes. Good lessons are hard.
So, this is Beezus. He was a super fantastic guy who loved running and baked cheetos and dog food and had a crooked tail. He taught me how to say the word, "Help," and I have to believe he is somewhere warm and happy and good surrounded by sunflower seeds and no cats.
On the rest of the way to work, I thought about those 100,000 miles and had to smile. Here's to 100,000 more.
Well, per usual, you've been excellent readers. As promised, here is a sight I spied in Kroger the other day. A chicken bone on top of a danish. It was one of those sights that is equally disturbing as it is intriguing. Who would do such a thing? And we wonder why we have super-bugs like MRSA and H1N1. Gross double Gross-Gross.
Feeling better and better everyday, even as we speak. :)
Aw I'm sorry Holly :( You are such a good mouse-mom!! Why is it that asking for help is such a hard thing to do? It's so silly and so unnecessary...but yet it can be really hard to put into practice! This is a good reminder! Love you!
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