CW: Death
In 2011, my parents told me a dog had been found for me. I was elated. The news felt monumental, like a door opening to a new chapter in my life.
Without hesitation, I picked up the phone and made two calls. The first was to my Uncle Tom, who has been a steady presence in my life forever. The second was to my long-time paraprofessional from school, someone who had supported me through countless moments and understood me deeply. I could not wait to share the good news with them.
That dog, Lowell, became my childhood companion. For ten years, he was part of our family, woven into our routines, laughter, and quiet moments. He was there through transitions, celebrations, and challenges. Lowell was not just a pet. He was part of my family.
In May 2021, we had to put Lowell to sleep after he developed cancer. That day was harder than I ever imagined. The weight of the loss was immediate and overwhelming. Once again, I reached for my phone. I called the same two people: my Uncle Tom and my former paraprofessional.
There was something deeply moving about that symmetry. Ten years earlier, I had called them to share the joy of a new beginning. Now, I was calling them to help me carry the grief of an ending. It reminded me that some relationships are so rooted in love and understanding that they naturally frame the most significant moments of our lives.
My former paraprofessional came over the very next day. When she arrived, she handed me a sympathy card and a box of Cookie Dough Bites, one of my favorite candies. That small gesture meant everything. It was thoughtful, personal, and deeply comforting. She knew me well enough to bring something that would make me smile, even through tears.
We sat together, reminiscing about Lowell. She remembered him like family, because anything that mattered to me mattered to her. Her memories were vivid and tender, and they reminded me that Lowell had touched more lives than just mine.
I knew she was just a call away if I needed someone to talk to. It never mattered what we were talking about. We often talked about her latest finds while shopping, old memories, or what I was studying in college. We would talk about whatever was going on in our lives, no matter how small it was. That kind of connection, the kind that makes even the ordinary feel meaningful, is rare.
And now, I find myself missing her calls. I miss the way she would check in just to say hello, and talk about whatever was on her mind. I miss hearing her voice. Her calls were a comfort, and a reminder that I was never alone.
Likewise, one of my most cherished routines is a weekly phone call with my Uncle Tom. We have been doing it for so long that I cannot remember how it started. Nearly every Saturday morning begins the same way, with a call that feels both familiar and grounding.
I try my best not to take it for granted, because not everyone has a loving family. His voice on the other end of the line is a reminder that I do. And every time we talk, I am reminded how lucky I am to have someone who shows up, simply because he cares.
Those two calls, made a decade apart, were not just about Lowell. They were about connection. They were about knowing exactly who to turn to when life shifts beneath your feet. And they were about the people who show up, whether you are celebrating or grieving, simply because they love you.