48-My Dog is Dying, I'm Jobless, and I'm in Awe of my Left Index Finger
To listen to audio click link below, listen on iTunes HERE, or continue reading on.My dog is dying. We all are, but Jake’s a little bit further along than most. If I’m at my parent’s house, and we hear a “bang! bang! bang!” late in the evening, we know it’s not a burglar. It’s Jake, tumbling down the wooden stairs because his hind legs have collapsed. Jake poops in the house each afternoon because he can’t hold it in long enough to relieve himself outside. When he does make it outdoors, a five minute neighborhood sniff leaves him huffing and puffing as if he’s just maxed out on the beep test.The other night, at 10:59pm, I calculated that I have exactly 11 days of Jake’s entire life to spend with him. I sobbed. Uncontrollably. Alone. On my apartment floor.I calculated that I have 11 days left with Jake because at the end of my last soccer season, I was released from the Portland Thorns. I’m leaving in 11 days to tryout for the new NWSL Utah Royals team.It’s a funny thing when you enter the professional level starting every game, and then five years later you have to tryout to make it. From the outside, it appears I have regressed. I don’t believe I have.It’s humbling. But, I’m not ashamed.I’m not ashamed because my dog is dying. And every single time I enter my parent’s home, I ignore all other human existence and bee-line to Jake. I suffocate him with cuddles and speak to him in my prepubescent little girl voice, as if somehow the change of tone will indicate I love him more.I love Jake more than he loves medium-rare New York steak, a spoonful of peanut butter, and every other dinner item he’s ever begged for under the table. Once, back in Jake’s prime, he snuck onto the kitchen counter and knocked down an entire platter of brownies. He licked the brownies clean, including parts of the shattered ceramics dish. I love Jake even more than that. My brother thinks Jake has more than a year left to live. I’m an optimist. Miracles happen, but it doesn’t seem likely.My entire life, the thought of Jake dying torched my soul. I avoided this idea entirely.Until one evening, about two years ago, when I drew a bubble bath and began reading a book called Being Mortal. I distinctly remember gripping the book, and digesting a passage about how our bodies are slowly deteriorating. By the age of thirty, our lung capacity declines and the demise continues from there; our teeth slowly decay, our hair changes color, we lose muscle mass….Each word I consumed felt like my gut was stepping into a bottomless pile of quicksand.After reading this passage, I peered down at my left index finger. I observed the criss-cross wrinkle patterns on my skin. I stared at my hair follicles. The deeper grooves on my knuckles. Dang, I need to moisturize more. Why is my finger hair so much shorter than the ones on my arm? Where did this shiny shield we call a “fingernail” come from? How does my my brain Simon-Says this finger to bend back and forth anytime it wants?I’ve been the caretaker of my dying finger for 25 years, and never had I observed it in such vivid detail.It was this bubble bath-the pondering of my finger’s fate- that gave birth to my obsession with death, and, not coincidentally, the moment some of my friend’s questioned whether or not to check me into a psychiatric ward.I became intrigued by the fear surrounding death. Why are we all so afraid of it? Why do we feel like a kindergartner stuck alone underneath a rainbow parachute every time we think about our loved ones passing? Why does no one talk about it?Death is one of the few things in life that is 100% certain. It’s unavoidable. Yet we treat it like it's not just the elephant in the room, but the largest tyrannosaurus rex of the kingdom. It’s as if we think that acknowledging it will somehow bring us down faster.A few months later, I consumed another book, True Refuge. The author, Tara Brach, talks about an exercise she performed at a meditation retreat. The participants were told to find a stranger and hug them. While arms still wrapped around their partner, they were instructed to repeat the following: “I’m going to die. You’re going to die. And all we have are these precious moments.”I immediately began trying this exercise on every person I encountered. My mom, friends, teammates, the mailman (jk, I didn’t take it that far). I asked for a hug, and when they obliged, I’d hit them them with the dialogue. Again, most of them further questioned my sanity.For me, it felt like a similar experience to the night of my finger analyzation. When I acknowledged death, everything seemed to matter more.From this point on, I started consciously accepting that Jake was going to die. I was greeted with deep sadness, but it wasn’t as scary as before. I found I cherished our time together even more.On an off day, I whimsically drove with Jake up to the Oregon coast (his favorite place) and we hopped around from beach to beach, ending at Oceanside, the location of my childhood beach house. I pulled up to a side street, rolled down the windows to breath in the roaring ocean air, and climbed to the backseat to cuddle with Jake. I slept less than three winks the night, but I didn’t care. I knew this may be our last time here together.This last season with the Portland Thorns. I feel like I took the same approach. The previous year and half, I was recovering from a concussion, and my absence from the pitch made me deeply aware of the rarity of playing professional soccer, even more-so in my own hometown. On practice days, I warmed up with a deeper appreciation for my body’s ability to move however it could on that day. On game days, I fully soaked in the thunderous energy of the crowd. On off days, I cherished Pacific Northwest adventures with my teammates to Crater Lake and the Gorge.In my mind, I wanted to play in Portland forever. The Rose City is such a special place to me. I grew up a seven minute drive from the stadium. The fans are out of this world. My family comes to every game. Jake lives here.After our championship, I was released from the team. And this idea of me staying forever was gone.Yet, the strangest thing happened: I felt at peace.I was heavyhearted and frustrated, naturally, but I believe this inner calmness arose because of my acceptance that everything in life is temporary. I was going to have to leave the Portland Thorns eventually. I’m going to have to stop playing soccer eventually. Jake is going to die eventually. We all are.I find we often wait to fully celebrate beings and things until they pass. I think we ought to have more living funerals.Once we are gone, there’s no going back. At the end of it all, It doesn’t matter how much money is in our bank accounts, what awards we have won, or our number of Instagram followers. Everyone’s grave is the same size.Why wait to fearlessly live, love, and be our truest selves?When Jake’s time on this earth comes to an end, I know my face will be drenched in more tears than the person who gets splashed the most at Disneyland’s Splash Mountain. I plan on mourning by whatever means necessary (hello, Ben and Jerry).Acknowledging death has been the ultimate wake up call. It has made me think about what it means to be alive and want to experience the simplest thing with as much gratitude as when I slept beachside in the back of the car with Jake and warmed up with my friends on the field at Providence Park.My dog is dying. I am currently jobless, and I am in awe of my left index finger. Because Jake's the cutest and deserves to be seen by the world, here's a few more photos of him:
For a Portlander, aside from the national team, University of Portland was the pinnacle of women’s soccer. I watched Christine Sinclair and her teammates bring home two NCAA championships, with Clive Charles as coach. I set my sights on becoming a Pilot.
My junior year at University of Portland, the National Women’s Soccer League came into fruition. I opted to forgo my final season and enter the college draft. I secretly hoped to get selected by Portland.
I was acquired by Sky Blue FC, in New Jersey. For two years, I got a taste of the east coast lifestyle; enough time to deepen my appreciation for Douglas Firs, quality coffee, and people who let you veer into their lane without flipping you the bird.In 2015, I was traded home to Portland.___________________________________________________________________ Before home games, the national anthem singer walks onto the field to perform. I always close my eyes. I take this time to give thanks for where I am today. I reflect back to when I was the red rose face-painted girl’s age; waking up at 3am to watch the US women team play China; spending hours kicking the ball against the racquetball courts-a mere 100 yards away at the adjacent Multnomah Athletic Club; winning my first state championship for my high school across the street. I think about my club coach, who told me I was going to make it. And the other one, who told me I wasn’t. I thank the people who supported me through all my setbacks. If it weren't for them, I wouldn’t be here. And if it weren’t for the setbacks, I wouldn’t fully grasp how special it is to play for my hometown, in a city that embraces women’s soccer.
I make sure to open my eyes before the anthem ends to witness the thousands of scarves twirling above their owners’ heads, as if helicopters in support of female equality.
Immediately after, I dart my eyes over to the Rose City Riveter section. The gigantic tifo unravels from the rafters. Every single time, (even if, at first the concepts are too sophisticated for me to understand) my jaw drops. The fans dedicate countless hours for the banner’s one minute of fame.
___________________________________________________________________ The final whistle blows, and we stride a lap around the stadium to thank our supporters. My favorite section to greet is the Multnomah Athletic Club balcony. I look up and see my grandma, whom I call Goggie. She’s easy to spy because the club designated her a specific seat.“I don’t even have to pay!” Goggie boasts.She waves down at me as if she is performing the “Y” in the “YMCA” dance.I blow her a kiss. She sends me one back.We turn the corner again. My mom, dad, uncle, brother and family friends are smiling down at me. Whether I play or not, they are always there.
On the final section, we stand in front of the Rose City Riveters. Talk about a P-A-R-T-Y. Even after the game, they’re jumping and chanting like kids who just chugged eleven Red Bulls.I am convinced the Riveters expend more energy during a match than us players.We join hands, and swing them up and down to praise their unparalleled support.We finish the revolution, by shuffling through the autograph line.___________________________________________________________________ “Can you hear us!?” Do you get nervous?” the red rose face-painted girl asks.___________________________________________________________________ When you’re a competitor and play sports for a living, you get accustomed to getting in the zone. It’s as if you’re wearing a pair of goggles that tune out the crowd and only get taken off during special moments. Like, when we score a goal at Providence Park. I chuck the glasses aside, hands flail in the air, smoke bombs ignite, and I allow myself to rumble with the roar of the crowd.
Shortly after, it’s back to business. But in Portland. even when the goggles are on, it’s not enough to tune out the crowd.Despite the chronic rain, Portland has this sunny energy that seeps through your bloodstream.It’s where my teammates and I coached a Girls Inc. clinic, and a squad of 8-year-old girls screamed “I am fierce!!!” with enough conviction to make the hair on my arms stand up.
It’s where the lead capo and flag crew coordinator, Sunday and Heidi White, invited me to their home, showed me their scarf collection and the hundreds of patches the Riveters sell to each other during games to support one another.
It’s where 
It’s where hundreds of supporters greeted and chanted "Build a Bonfire!" with us at the Portland International Airport after winning the NWSL championship.[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sT9FXG5fV2g&feature=youtu.be[/embed] For me, the city resembles my family, my dreams, my sacrifices. My place.___________________________________________________________________“Can you hear us!?” Do you get nervous?” asks the red rose face-painted girl.We can’t necessarily hear the crowd, but we can feel it. It’s this quiet assurance that the entire city is behind us. That the game means as much to you as it does to us. We are in this together.Even if I’m no longer a Thorn. Even if I’m thousands of miles away from you. Even if, when I visit, I’m wearing another jersey, I will always feel you Portland.Thank you for making me proud to call The Rose City home.
“It’s really hard to do work and lacrosse if you don’t have a boss that is supportive of it. I feel very, very fortunate to have one” says Peter.Peter’s boss understands that lacrosse is a top priority and works with him to accommodate his hectic traveling schedule. Peter has to fly to every one of his games, including his home games. He’ll fly out on a Friday, practice that night, train again Saturday morning, play in a game Saturday night, and then catch a flight back in time for work on Monday. And then there’s his Adrenaline and STX work, where he travels across the country for weeks at a time to coach lacrosse clinics and appear in photoshoots.
With the limited training schedule and salary, Peter says “lacrosse for me is a hobby that I work really hard at.” But he hopes that future players will be able to view the sport differently.“It’s definitely a grind, but that’s one of the reasons I love it. I’m living this hectic lifestyle so that players coming after me don’t have to. I want college players to be excited about playing in the MLL, and be able to make professional lacrosse their full-time profession.”Andrew Wiggins and Peter Baum are both professional athletes on the rise. Peter has the same accomplishments as Andrew. He’s even been a two-time all-star in his first two seasons in the MLL, a feat not yet accomplished by Andrew. Plus he has a 9-5 job, travels 548 miles to play in home games, and coaches clinics across the country.
I chugged my first bout of Magnesium Citrate, whose taste can only be described as Sour Patch Kids gone terribly wrong. Next, I mixed my gatorade and Miralax concoction into the most elegant glass vase I could find. I popped my pills, then headed to my lavatory. I adorned my feet with my fuzziest pair of cotton socks, lit a lemon verbena scented candle, turned on some Norah Jones, gathered my Kindle, situated myself atop my throne, and the rest is history.The night wasn’t nearly as bad as my wussypants friends had conveyed. Not only did I clear my internal passageways, I also performed a deep cleaning of my room, closet, and iTunes library. If anyone wants an all-around purifying experience, I highly recommend scheduling a colonoscopy.It was now time to finish the last and easiest piece of the puzzle; a trip to the clinic, a quick sedation, a peaceful nap, and I’d wake up feeling like a new woman. My mother graciously drove me to my appointment. We strolled into the office, checked in, and within a matter of minutes the nurse was there to begin the final act. This was all too easy. Before the nurse took my vitals, he asked to take a gander at my bowels. A peculiar question, but there’s a first for everything. I complied and the nurse came back with an unsettling look on his face.Apparently, I wasn’t cleared out enough, so they could not do the procedure today. I was instructed to go home and start the entire preparation process over again. No nuts, no seeds, no food for the rest of the day. And then I had to go to the store, stock up on massive amount of laxatives, chug them, and spend the night once again on my throne.As much as I wanted to be mad at the nurse, I couldn’t. This was 100% my fault. Ever since kindergarten, teachers and the like have told us to carefully read all of the instructions. This was a very unfortunate circumstance to disregard such advice.It’s my sincerest wish that this story saves future colonoscopers from making the same mistake. However, if you are the rebel type and want to follow in my footsteps, then I definitely understand. You’ll walk away having consumed the best Blizzard of your life, have a spotless clean room, a renewed appreciation for reading instructions, and become a member of the elite group who can say they’ve guzzled down two whole bottles of Miralax in two days. Now if that’s not a feat to be proud of, then I don’t know what is. Cheers to feeling more purified than ever before!