The lights were dim and the blinds were closed, casting a grey pallor on my already gray father, lying still under a graying white sheet with a faded “Holy Name Hospital” printed on it in pale green. An impossible number of wires and tubes ran from his nose, mouth, skull, abdomen. A machine wheezed, forcing air into his lungs, and then hissed marking an exhale. Another machine beeped, a green glow signaling a heart beat. I studied the monitors, hoping for a clue, any reassurance that he was improving, but they held their secrets. A shadow passed in front of the door, paused briefly, then moved on. I held Dad’s hand, gently rubbing the paper thin skin and the familiar freckles, and whispered encouraging mantras more for myself than for him. “You’re gonna be fine, Dad. Just squeeze my hand to let me know you can hear me, “ I begged. When I was a little girl, Dad had always squeezed my hand extra hard at the Sign of Peace in Church to try to make me giggle. Today, he didn’t squeeze at all. In fact, the longest 11 days of my life passed before there was any response.

It hurt. Oh, lord, it hurt. Like a white hot knife searing into my abdomen. Impossible to ignore kind of hurt. I focused on the chrome drawer pull on the acetate cart someone had wheeled into my line of sight. Its patina was long gone and there was a small piece of rust on the side. I ignored the round white lights and the nurse counting out the contractions as they waved over me like a steamroller.

One minute, he didn’t exist, and the next minute he was here,crying with the indignity of it. They rushed to take him to meet his parents - so fast that I didn’t get to see his face. His new father was probably pacing in the hall. The new mother was probably wearing pearls and chewing her cuticles. I imagined they would cry, their hearts bursting with love, and reach out to hold him gently, smiling fondly at each other like they do on TV. They planned to send him to the best schools, buy him the best toys, shower him with praise and great advice and all I knew was that my own heart had left the room with him and the soul crushing pain was so visceral that it made the agony of childbirth pale in comparison. Focus on the drawer pull.

When the nurse appeared, she told me I had done great. I looked at her and she smiled sweetly at me, possibly some pity in her eyes or maybe I just imagined it. I tried to answer her but the only sound I could make was a gasp for breath that may have sounded like “No.” She brought me ice water in a plastic yellow cup with a straw and I pushed it away, trying to sit up. “No,” I said, more clearly this time, terrified and yet so sure. “I’ve changed my mind.”

She knew it was time. Six months earlier, Emma’s well loved but aged greyhound had died after a long illness. They had been best friends for more than a decade, and Corset’s rheumatic hips and clouded eyes hadn’t taken away her playful spirit. When the vet told Emma that the unusually sluggish behavior was due to advanced cancer, she had cried with her face buried in Corset’s neck until the last breath. Her house had been so lonely without the beautiful dog, and Emma had lovingly packed the bowls and leash in a box in the attic. “I’ll never love another dog,” she told herself. “It hurts too much to lose them.”

The days were lonely without her best friend, and her co-workers had eventually hinted that she might be ready to think about adopting another dog. Emma had demurred. She wasn’t ready. It hurt too much. But now, she knew it was time. As she walked past the shelter on her way home from work, she spied a volunteer walking a grey pitbull who was pulling enthusiastically. He was big - probably 65 pounds, and had a big white spot around one eye. His ears were big and his face looked like he was laughing. “Slow down,” the young ponytailed volunteer grunted, but he kept pulling, his tongue hanging out and his eyes sparkling with the fun of chasing a new scent.

When Emma approached, he sat, wagging his tail and waiting for her eagerly. “Hi, fella,” she crooned, looking at the volunteer. “Can I pet him?” she asked.

The volunteer shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

Emma let the dog sniff her hand. He licked it. His eyes were huge and brown and when he looked at Emma, she knew he was the one. “Aren’t you beautiful?” she sang to him, rubbing first his chin and then giving him a good pat on the head. He wriggled with delight, his tail batting furiously against the sidewalk. She knelt on the ground and he licked her face with zeal. “What’s his name?” she asked the volunteer.

“Monocle,” he told her.