The Rainbow Bridge

This weekend I said goodbye to my beloved companion, Tobey. Tobey was my cat. Not just any cat, but The One True Cat. Like all of our pets, Tobey was a rescue animal. My eldest daughter Jessica fostered him as a kitten, then adopted him as he grew. When she met the man she would marry, Tobey wreaked havoc on their household for three days before they made the decision that he wasn't going to blend into the family in a good way. Tobey then went to live with my younger daughter, Amanda. She loved him, he loved her, and all was rosy until she ended up in the emergency room with a super-bad asthma attack. She was allergic to Tobey. Tobey came to live with us. It was love at first sight. Aside from the fact that he couldn't tolerate any other animals in the house, it was a perfect match. Tobey behaved much more like a dog than a cat, at times...he played fetch, was very social, and was quite possibly the most affectionate animal I have ever known. He continued playing whole-heartedly well into his senior years. We estimated that he was about fifteen years old this year. Because we are avid travelers, we had several friends and neighbors who took turns taking care of him while we were away. Tobey educated each and every one of them in the ways he liked to play. One of our neighbors, a retired social worker and the neighborhood Cat Lady, began creating intelligence tests that masqueraded as games. He would eagerly rise to each challenge she presented to him, often causing a lot of hilarity when we came home. Once when I arrived home from a trip, Tobey joined me in the bathroom, hopped in the tub, and looked at me expectantly. Then he blinked, looked at me with complete disgust, as if to say, "Get with the program! Don't you know what we're supposed to be playing now?" I'd call Joan, and ask her what exactly I was supposed to do with a cat in a bathtub. And she would tell me... Tobey had an amazing ability to look deep into our eyes and communicate...well, I'm not sure what, but it was incredibly deep. What he didn't communicate was that he was in pain. Mortal pain. Last week, he began throwing up. We were annoyed. Then he stopped eating. I took him to the vet. She drew blood, but his lab reports came back negative for diabetes, kidney disease, and hypothyroidism. She suggested a scan of his abdomen. Meanwhile, Tobey became very weak. The day of his scan, he wouldn't come out from under the love seat in the sun room, his favorite room. I crawled as far under as I could, stroked his head, and he meowed the weakest, most tired meow I've ever heard. I knew his time had come. Weeping, I asked my husband to take him to the vet clinic early... Tobey never came home. His scan showed a belly filled with cancer. The best thing for him was to end his life. My husband brought him home in a tiny kitty casket, wrapped in a blue blanket. He looked like he was sleeping, his body curled in a little ball, his paws crossed over his nose. A pose I have seen so many times. Joan came over to say goodbye. We sat with his little casket between us, stroking his soft, soft fur. My husband and I packed up our weekend bags and took Tobey with us to his final resting place, the Memorial Garden at our little camp in the Catskills. We drove three hours to get there. I sat in the passenger seat with the little coffin on my lap. Once we arrived, my husband dug a grave in the soft earth of the garden. We said a little prayer, placed the box in the ground, and covered him over in the earth. I put one of his favorite toys in his box, and put more toys and his brush (he loved to be brushed) on the rocks of his cairn. Then I put a candle my daughter had given me on the stone. It had been raining as we arrived, and the rain continued for three more days. That candle didn't go out for 52 hours. It burned night and day, clearly visible from the road when we took our walks in the rain, and didn't go out until the morning of our fourth day there. When it did finally sputter out, I took it as a sign that it was time to let Tobey go. Several friends wrote to me that Tobey had "crossed the rainbow bridge," a concept I had never heard. I asked Rob what it meant. His response: "Maybe he went to Canada?" (There is a Rainbow Bridge in Buffalo...) And so Tobey lies at rest in the garden that I have filled over the years with little wooden plaques bearing the names of family members who have passed. I filled the garden with impatiens, geraniums, begonias, iris, bleeding heart, star flower, and peonies. It already had the Harry Lauder Walking Stick Tree my in-laws had planted in memory of my father, and the climbing white rose bush that friends of the family bought to memorialize my mother-in-law. I added a wind chime that hangs in the ornamental cherry tree over Tobey's grave, a small cherub holding a bird in her hands next to the bird bath, and finally, a black steel bench that my husband assembled for folks to sit by the beautiful garden and meditate. Tobey is the only pet of many buried there that has his own wooden plaque. Tobey was a member of our family, a friend, a mentor, and a cat who thought he was a dog. As for that Rainbow Bridge, I finally know what it means. A number of dear friends and family members informed me that when our beloved animal companions leave us, they go to a place just this side of Heaven. There is sunshine, no pain, lots of food, toys galore, and no illness or death. There, they wait for their human companions to join them. Then, together, they cross the Rainbow Bridge, and enter into eternal life. Some of us have several pets waiting there for us. I hope Tobey is enjoying the view...

Walking for Hope

Every year my daughter takes part in a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society, the Relay for Life. This year she invited me to participate in it with her. I had no idea of what to expect - I knew it had to do with walking, and with getting pledges for the amount of time walked. She put together a team for her Lions Club, and sent me an invitation to join the team. "Why not?" I thought. "How difficult can this be?" It turned out that taking part in that adventure was a very healing experience for me. I made the four-hour drive to Potsdam, NY where the event was to be held. There were many teams, mostly of college students, lined up to register for the event in the field house of the large, state university athletic facility. Each team was given a specific piece of the indoor track infield in which to set up a "base camp." Teams would walk from 8:00 p.m. Friday night until 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning, nonstop - hence the concept of a "relay." My daughter and I took two camp chairs, a small table, and the cardboard diorama my daughter made to go along with the Dr. Seuss theme of this year's event. Our little "encampment" was entirely surrounded by the members of several sororities and fraternities, who claimed their spaces with canopy tents, sleeping bags, pillows, stuffed animals, and all manner of interesting slumber-party type items. Other groups included athletic teams, an entire conglomeration of North Country firefighters of all ages, several service clubs, and various other committees, individuals, and alumni. It was colorful, to say the least! After opening ceremonies, we bought and decorated luminarias, paper bags that would hold tea light candles (battery operated) for the 10:00 p.m. ceremony honoring loved ones who had died of cancer. My daughter and I each made one in honor of my father (leukemia in '93) and my brother (lung cancer in '17). These were put aside while our teams began walking. First there was the Survivors' Lap, in which purple-shirted survivors took a lap with a special banner while relay members cheered from the sidelines. Then there was a Caregivers' Lap. My daughter urged me to take part in this - as a Hospice volunteer, I have helped care not only for my brother, but for five other cancer patients since beginning this work in September. I began the lap with a large group of others. When we rounded a corner, all of the firefighters were standing at attention, saluting us as we walked by. That was a hard moment not to cry. The firefighters have put their own lives on the line time and time again, ready at a moment's notice to help save lives. To have their respect was a humbling moment. After those two laps, all the teams began their relays. As people became tired, one or two members would go sit out a lap or two at their "base camps" while others took their places in the walk. There were special fundraising events throughout the evening: People could sign up to hula-hoop, and the firefighters held a very popular fundraiser involving donating money to walk a mile in their gear. Other groups sold wrist bands, hats, and other artifacts to add to the money raised for cancer research. There were musical groups performing, a DJ, and tons of free food - nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, veggie platters with humus...something for everyone. And lots and lots of coffee. At 10:00 we stopped walking for the remembrance ceremony. All of the luminarias were placed around the inside of the track. Lights were put out, and candles were not yet turned on while various survivors told their stories. Then, a silent lap was taken in the total darkness. Slowly, as each person was moved, the luminaries memorializing loved ones were lighted, until the entire track was lit by candlelight while music played. It was profoundly moving. There were tears, hugs, and an overall sense of camaraderie among everyone there. The firefighters put their helmets next to the luminarias memorializing their lost members. Eventually the lights came back on, the upbeat music returned, people donned their costumes and Seuss hats, and the party went on. My daughter and I left around 11:00, leaving the relay to the students on our team (we're too old for all-nighters any more.) The Lions Club earned a special award that night for fundraising. In all, the state university raised over $42,000 for cancer research. It was a challenge, both physically and emotionally, to take part in this large-group extravaganza. But it was totally worth it. The overriding message was, You are not alone. If you or a loved one are living with cancer, or have lost family and friends to cancer, you are not alone. These relays take place all over the country. Our loved ones live through our memories, and in our willingness to step out on behalf of those who do the research and caregiving to beat this disease. It is a walk for hope.