Beer or Vodka?

St. Louis was a city of, “firsts” for me.

My first grown up job, my first apartment, the first time I dated a musician, the first time a musician broke my heart, the first time I had to break someone else’s heart, my first dirty martini, and my first encounter with Faye White.

“Beer or Vodka?”

“Excuse me?” I answered.
“Beer or Vodka? What do you wanna drink? Beer or Vodka?”
I looked down at my shoes, hesitating with what to answer.
“Oh, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Faye White was 75 going on 31.

I asked her once why she didn’t have mirrors around her home.

“Because when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize that old lady,” she said.

Faye smoked like a chimney, cursed like a sailor, dressed like a debutant, and loved like an unorthodox Jesus.

Faye only bought clothes from the Neiman Marcus catalog, salespeople annoyed her.

Come to think of it, most people annoyed her.

Her house was like a museum.

She had a life-size Nutcracker in her family room, porcelain dolls from Switzerland and Germany in her living room, copper kettles hanging from her kitchen ceiling, and pictures of her pets covering the walls.

She didn’t believe in cooking, and used her oven to store pots and pans.
I think I get that from her.

“Why do you keep Twinkies by your door?” I asked her.

“Oh, they are for the raccoons. They like Twinkies. In fact, there is one little one that comes up to my door and just waits for me outside…holding her hands out. I named her Twinkie.”
I didn’t believe her until I actually saw the raccoon she named, Twinkie, sit outside her porch sliding door.

Everything about Faye was magical.

I had just moved to St. Louis in 2005, after graduating from Indiana University.

I had no idea what to do career wise, but decided it would be nice to have a puppy.

I went online to Puppies Next Day, and picked out a Malti-Poo puppy named, Delilah.
Delilah was winter white and could fit into a large coffee cup.
Her seller, Debbie, instantly emailed me back after I inquired about Delilah.
$700 dollars and a click later, Delilah was mine.

Debbie asked me to meet her in a Cracker Barrel parking lot, about an hour outside my parents St. Louis home, to make the exchange.

I couldn’t because of work, so I sent my dad and mom.

The first time I met Delilah, she was cowering in the back of her cage, too scared to come out.

When I finally did get her to come out, I realized something, something rather major.

“This isn’t Delilah,” I told my parents.
“What?”
“This isn’t the puppy I picked out. This isn’t Delilah.”

All it took was one lick, and one gaze into this fluff balls eyes, and I was in love.

I didn’t care that this puppy wasn’t the one I picked out, she was mine.

My mom and I decided to name this puppy Lily.

I’m not sure why I asked my mom for her input, but she said Lily.
What my mom wants, my mom usually gets.

24 Hours later, I noticed that Lily had a cough.

Being the overprotective and anxious person that I am, I immediately took her to the vet.

Lily’s 3 pound body was shaking as I placed her on the cold, metal table.

“Uh huh..hmmm…well…hmmm…ohhhh”
I tried to decipher the doctor’s reaction, but couldn’t make anything out.

 After a full examination of Lily, the Vet placed her in my arms, took her glasses off, and spoke slowly and softly.

 “Lily has kennel cough. She also has a heart murmur.”

“A heart murmur? What is that? Can that be fixed by a pill?”
“No. The kennel cough we can cure. The heart murmur requires heart surgery.”

I wasn’t living off the streets, but wasn’t swimming in green either.

I was a college graduate, living with my parents, serving to pay the bills and had just spent everything I had in savings on a new pet.

“Surgery?  Really?”

After that visit, I would visit multiple other Veterinarians in the area, praying for a different diagnosis.

My heart broke a little bit more every time I heard the word, heart murmur.

In the meantime, I called Debbie back to let her know about what I found wrong with Lily.

She said that if I had found anything genetically wrong with Lily within 48 hours, she would return my money.

I never heard back from Debbie.
I called, my mom called, my dad called…nothing.
No email, no voicemail..nothing.

I found out a little bit later that Debbie had ended up being a broker for a puppy mill.

Lily was not born into a caring, warm, and loving environment like the listing online said.

Lily was born into a puppy mill, and born with a bad heart.

Since I didn’t have the money for heart surgery, I decided to give Lily the best life possible.

I would even make special visits to Starbucks just for Lily. She had a thing for their whip cream, much like her owner.

One of the last Vets I saw, suggested me to contact Channel 2, a news station in St. Louis.
The doctor went on to tell me that this news station does public interest stories, and maybe my online experience could help others looking to buy a puppy from the internet. I could inform people on the do’s, and do not’s, of buying a pet online.

I contacted Channel 2 News, and within 24 hours, someone from the station called me back, asking to do a story on Lily and me.

On Christmas Eve morning, I received an early gift.

“Amy, wake up, wake up!”

My brother hadn’t waked me up this early since we were children.

I ignored him, pretending to stay asleep so he would go away.

“Amy, wake up! Your Vet is on the phone and wants to speak with you.”

Still half asleep, I answered the phone, “This is Amy.”

“Amy, a lady in Fairview Heights, Illinois, saw your story on the news and wants to pay for Lily’s surgery.”

The lady in Fairview Height, Illinois wanting to pay for Lily’s surgery, was Faye White.

I contacted Faye after Lily’s surgery, and asked her if Lily and I could meet her.
She said yes.

The 45 minute drive to Fairview Heights, Illinois, was full of unanswered questions.

What would Faye be like?
What would I say?

Should I bring her a gift?
Will I cry? Yes, I will cry. I always cry.

“Beer or Vodka?”

“Excuse me?”
“Beer or Vodka? What do you wanna drink? Beer or Vodka?”
I looked down at my shoes, hesitating with what to answer.
“Oh, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Faye White would become my best friend.

I always felt like an old soul, so it’s no wonder her and I connected on so many levels.
Her life was everything mine was not.
She was married numerous times.
She lived like a socialite, traveling in style all over the world.
She was fabulous.

Her last husband was a Son of a B****, her words, not mine.

When he died, he told her, “Faye, now I want you to buy a safe car when I pass.”
So, naturally Faye bought a corvette.

Faye and I would go out to dinner, drinking dirty martinis and eating filet mignon.

She told me when to break up with boyfriends who weren’t good for me. She told me when I needed to grow up. She wasn’t afraid to hurt me with the truth.

 Faye didn’t know I had an eating disorder.

When I got accepted into Mercy Ministries, I knew that I had to tell her the truth.
I wrote everything in a letter, describing my struggle with the disorder, and why I was going into treatment.

My mom told me about a conversation she had with Faye after I went into treatment,
“Well Mary,” Faye told my mom, “I started talking to God again.”

My struggles led Faye to her knees.

I needed Faye, and she needed me also.  

She had lost her mother and husband the year before I came around.

She was hopeless and lonely, till she changed the station from Channel 4 to Channel 2.

 During one of our visits, she said, “I never watch Channel 2, Amy. I randomly switched it one night, and that was the night I saw Lily and you on the station. I had lost everything to live for and wondered why I was alive. But, then I saw you. I knew I needed to help you. I found something to live for, you.”

I tear up just writing this.

Faye White died the month before I moved to Nashville, Tennessee.

It was as if she saying goodbye, letting me go, telling me that it was time to start a new chapter.
She moved on to Heaven, I moved to Music City.

Countless things remind me of Faye White.

The aquamarine ring I wear on my left middle finger.
Her life sized Nutcracker that now sits in my brother’s basement.
The Christmas carousel, which my parents put out during the holidays.  
The birthday cards she sent me, which rest in my right side dresser drawer.

Every day, I see her everywhere.

Faye got very sick the fall before I left for Nashville.

Every time I saw her, I would ask, “When are you going to get better?”
She would respond every time with the same answer, “Tuesday at Two.”
Her sarcasm led to the phrase that I will never forget.

Tuesday at Two.

Faye was never able to have children, however, her legacy will continue.

I have no doubt that Faye will be one of the first people I see in Heaven.
In my mind, she will be 31 years old, looking glamorous, holding a martini in one hand, smoking a cigarette in the other.

Lily and Faye both had damaged hearts in the beginning.

But in the end, both were restored.

Faye saved lily’s life, while Lily saved Faye’s faith.

“When do you think you will get better?”

Faye replied, “Tuesday at Two.”