I’m 33 weeks pregnant today. 7 weeks away from Junebug’s due date.

Since our last scan, I’ve found my new normal. With Dad keeping me company, work keeping me busy, and friends and family keeping me distracted, the days have ticked by, one at a time. But unfortunately, life hasn’t eased up on dealing a few emotional blows to keep things interesting.

In Hong Kong, our sweet and ancient bulldog, Alfie, finally came to the end of her days—a mere six and a half years after she was predicted to! I adopted her from the SPCA seven years ago, determined to make any time she had left, happy and full of love.

I wrote her a final eulogy, which I’ll share, because there’s a lot of love and hope in her story, and I know that her presence in my life has made me stronger for what we’re going through now:

Alfie.

Alfie was a brindle bulldog, rescued by the SPCA from a dirty wire cage, along with hundreds of other animals, which were being kept for illegal breeding in a shed. She was loved and cared for at the SPCA for nearly two years before I adopted her. Even after two years of attention and the best veterinary care in Hong Kong, she was still, as my dad said, “in a bit of a sorry state”, but as he also observed, “quite a lovely dog, really”. As she plodded around, nudging my legs with her wet face in homing, my mind was made up.

I was warned on the day I went to pick her up, that she wasn’t in the greatest shape, and probably only had another six months left. That was fine with me. I was determined to give this lump of wrinkles and folds, the best six months she’d ever had.

That was nearly seven years ago.

After years of living in cage, walking wasn’t easy for Alf. I have never ‘walked’ her. Anytime you clipped a leash, she lay flat, unamused, until you removed it again. But I have definitely joined her on hundreds of ambles and wanders. This was always on her terms. You have to follow, at her pace, wherever she wanted to go. Sometimes 20 meters was an hour. But fair enough, we should take our time when exploring the world around us. That’s just one of the things she taught me. On days when she felt more energetic, she’d charge off, only to plonk herself down, exhausted, and you’d have to carry her home.

Being almost 18 kilos, when I first adopted her, I bought myself a metal trolley to wheel her from the ferry back to my ground floor flat on Lamma Island. Alfie on wheels was a theme that would continue for years (although I refused to ever buy an actual dog pram).

Her fur stuck to everything and anything, the natural equivalent of a glitter-filled birthday card. Wherever she went, her presence was known. This was also on account of her multitude of smells—I can’t say I ever came to love them, but I got used to them.

As I learned the true meaning of responsibility, my patient and kind flatmates often bore the brunt of arriving home before me to a ... well... shitstorm. The fact they forgave both Alf and I is a testament to the depth of their compassion. I wish I'd shown my gratitude more at the time.

Alfie liked to dance. She would leap into the air in a way that defied logic. She chewed my arm when I sat next to her on the floor and rested her big chunky head on my feet at night.

It took me six months to teach her how to go up stairs, and six months how to go down. Her snoring shook me to sleep every night. She could smell a single piece of kibble across the room, like a shark with a drop of blood. And whenever you put your hand on her back to give her a rub, her stumpy, twisted tail would wiggle back and forth like a metronome. When she was finally deaf and blind, putting your hand in front of her nose, still made that little tail wiggle.

Whenever it came to the logistics of getting Alf to and from somewhere, it was always a spectacle. A grumpy, wonky dog, in a wheeled-bucket. It was stressful, a lot of the time. But when she could, my mum was always there to help. She made me feel like Alfie was never too much trouble and that she was always welcome—drool, bucket, fur, smells and all. That’s why I know she’s going to be an amazing grandmother.

People floated in and out of my life. Lots of them turned their noses up or struggled to see what I did in Alf, until one day, someone came along, who did. He's now my husband. And when we got married, I was blessed with in-laws who welcomed me and Alf into their lives with open arms. In the last few years, they’ve provided a retirement home experience for Alf—basically a canine Four Seasons. 

Alf has soothed my soul through heartbreak, loneliness and grief. She was my best friend and most stable part of my life during my turbulent twenties. Loyal to a fault. Even amongst the drama and energy of lust and loss. She never judged my bouts of self-pity and apathy. She was just always happy to be close by. Just a few moments sitting with Alf as she snored like a truck driver; her bowed legs, sagging nipples and scarred belly in a pile; was a constant reminder that she had survived far worse than I ever will. The day I found out my grandpa had passed away, I kept myself calm as I ferried home to Lamma knowing at the other end I'd have folds of blubber and fur and stink to bury my face into as I cried and cried.

It’s remarkable how much pain a dog can hide. The tumour that appeared as a little redness, ended up taking her whole eye. The little lump in her neck, quickly grew to the size of a fist. But that stumpy wagging tail still wagged. The smell of breakfast still made her jump to her feet. And she still blindly bumped her way to your ankles to just be close. But that didn’t tell the whole story. She was hanging in there for us. As they all do in the end.  

As I grew up, she grew old. 

‘Pet’ isn’t profound enough a word for the role this incredible creature has had in my life. She taught me more than I know and will forever be a part of who I am.

She left this world with a face full of delicious snacks and went to sleep peacefully in Erin and my mum’s arms, thanks to the compassionate and caring team at the SPCA.

My mother-in-law described Alfie as a bit of a litmus test for revealing a shallow side of people. There were those who saw past the disfigurement, noises and smells to her sweet personality—and those who never could. That’s the power of being different.

She was the first life that Erin and I were responsible for, together, and we’re better people for it.

I think about her chomping, snoring and snuffling in doggy heaven somewhere and feel so lucky that we got to be her family.

In keeping with the theme that when it rains, it pours—life threw another test our way this weekend, when Dad spent the better part of the weekend in the emergency department after chest pains revealed he has pulmonary embolisms in both of his lungs. It all happened so quick and at the same time in slow motion, and it was just f---ing awful. Scary. Emotional. Surreal. 

But, realising I wasn't in any condition to follow the ambulance to the hospital, I called my sister to calm me down (which she did with so much strength, suppressing her own fears), then my uncle and aunty who rallied around us, with my cousin racing round to help me pack a hospital bag, and offering us lifts and advice and support throughout the whole ordeal. It was so incredibly humbling and one of those moments when you realise what family really means. 

The doctors and nurses at Auckland Hospital were just amazing. So even with all of us harbouring some deep lurking fears, there is comfort in knowing he’s being taken care of by such an incredible team. We’re still waiting to see what could have caused it, but are counting our blessings left, right and centre that we were in the right place and time to catch it. I also have jokingly thanked Dad for test-driving the New Zealand emergency medical system for us, as I feel like I’ll definitely be in capable hands for Junebug’s debut!

With the drama of the weekend still feeling a little bit too fresh, this morning I had a routine antenatal appointment with one of the loveliest doctors I have ever met. I was totally floored by her warmth and compassion, and while no one can say anything that could change the uncertainty about Junebug, it lightened my spirit to feel listened to and understood. We’re going to be going for weekly check-ups and more regular scans. I’m a little bit obsessed with the size of my bump, and I constantly worry that it hasn’t grown.

I also have a totally irrational fear about polyhydramnios (too much amniotic fluid), ever since it was mentioned in Hong Kong as something that could happen around this stage of pregnancy with a baby who has skeletal dysplasia. It would be an indicator that Junebug’s having difficulty processing fluid, and so to keep an eye I’ll be heading along for a peek-a-boo scan by the end of the week. Not a growth scan, that’s still three weeks away, but another chance to see my little honeybun doing their thing.

Otherwise, the best advice I’ve read and been sent by those who’ve been through this before, is to enjoy the moment and celebrate the time we have. When it rains, it pours, but that doesn’t mean it won’t stop, or that we’ll be able to see the next black cloud on the horizon. So, day-by-day, moment by moment, we're focusing on what we have, not what we don’t. I’ve danced in the dark, gone to laughter yoga, posed as a life model for a friend who’s an artist, and taken Junebug out for coffee and walks and sunshine.

I read some great advice yesterday about how when confronted with a stressful or fearful situation, try to approach it with curiousity—like a child would. As I continue my daily digest of scientific articles, videos and philosophical conversations with Dad and Erin, I’m still feeling in awe of the tiny miracles around us all and grateful for everything that we do have.