I had just given birth to my third child and was training for a half-marathon when I had a heart attack. And as I lay in my hospital bed, I could hear the woman in the next room dying.
Don't tell me hard it was to get to work during "superstorm" Sandy, or how long you lived without power. The hurricane killed my father right before my eyes.
My 13-pound Bichon Frisé was my best friend, my loyal companion and my professional buoy. So why isn't there a blueprint for mourning a pet who loved me as much as any human did?
A North American transplant, I'd spent years trying unsuccessfully to master British restraint. Never did I feel more at home as an expat than at my first British funeral.