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.

Day is Done

It seems somehow appropriate to write this blog post on Good Friday, a day of mourning but looking to the future Light. Last week, my husband and I went out to Ohio for my brother's Celebration of Life, and for the party at the house after that. There was much planning involved - a eulogy to write, a dress to buy, a wreath to make for my sister-in-law that would celebrate the Resurrection as well as Easter and would also memorialize my deceased brother. Deceased. What a final word. Many members of my mother's side of the family, cousins now (all the aunts and uncles are long gone), gathered at my brother's house the night before to visit with his wife and sons. It was a good gathering. Some of the cousins haven't seen each other since my mother's burial of ashes in NE Ohio two and a half years ago. My brother is now the second of the group of cousins to depart this Earth. The next morning, my husband and I headed out early to the funeral home to help set up the display of my brother's favorite and/or daily items: His helmet from Vietnam. His dog tags. Several SeaBee caps. The trophy and lifetime achievement awards from his place of business. His laptop. His lunch cooler. His travel mug. The only thing missing was Jim. Soon after the final touches were put on the photo displays and the two black-draped tables of his stuff, visitors began to file in. And file in. And file in. The ushers had to keep adding chairs, open up the doors, and find ways to expand space for all the people who came to say goodbye to their co-worker, their buddy, their friend. I had practiced my eulogy five times so that I could get through it without crying. I made it to the last line...but my dear nephews, his three sons, could not hold in their grief. My brother was a beloved father, husband, son, brother, uncle, cousin...The music, flowers, and speakers were all beautiful. And then came the full military honors. I had never seen this ceremony in its fullness prior to my brother's Celebration of Life. It involved an Honor Guard in dress blues (Navy), an officer in dress white, and a chaplain in fatigues. They unfolded the flag that sat on the table with my brother's ashes, held it up (it was very large), and out in the parking lot, three rifles fired three volleys. Someone played Taps on a bugle. At that point I just broke down. As I wrote in my eulogy, "As one of your sons remarked to me recently, you left a part of yourself there. The boy had become a man, the man went to war, and the man came home, a wounded warrior. It took years for you to process all that you had experienced there, and you processed it right up to the very end of your life." After the final notes of Taps died away outside, the honor guard refolded the flag, ceremoniously presented it to the officer, who knelt on one knee and presented both the flag and the shell casings of the spent rounds to my sister-in-law. It was the most moving tribute I have ever seen. The whole ceremony and service lasted 90 minutes. After that, we all piled into our cars and headed back to my brother's house for the party...a true Irish wake. Memories were shared; kegs were tapped, tons of City Barbecue were eaten. And all around the house were photos, memorabilia, the beautiful flowers, the many cards and tributes to a life well-lived. The wreath I made for my sister-in-law was among the display items at the Celebration, and now hangs on her door at home. I chose to make the wreath for her as a quiet symbol of eternity - the circle, with purple ribbons for Easter, for the Resurrection. My brother's body is gone now, but his spirit remains...perhaps with us for a time, perhaps already gone to Heaven to take care of his long-gone dog, Sage (which is what his four-year-old granddaughter was told.) I'll end this with the final words of my eulogy for Jim: "We love you, brother. I hope that as you enter now into the Lord’s Army, you lay down your arms, and enter into an embrace with God the Father and find comfort and peace, freedom from pain, freedom from sickness, freedom from sorrow. God is the ultimate Healer, and you are now in the deep, eternal embrace of the Savior. Rest well, my brother. We will see you in the great Bye and Bye."

The Lone Silver Wolf

Tomorrow I am leaving for Ohio again, this time for the last time of this six-month journey of saying good-bye to my brother. Yesterday I was filled with grief. Nothing would make me feel better, until I spent several hours in my little home studio and made a few small paintings. One of them, "Ghost Pack," was a bit unusual in terms of symbolism. Maybe I didn't know I was processing my grief. After all, what does the image of a wolf have to do with losing a brother?

Today the meaning came to me. I remembered a story about Barrington Bunny from a book called "The Way of the Wolf," by Martin Bell, that came out in the 70s. Today I looked it up, and there it was...the lone, silver wolf, by the forest's edge, looking out for the little guy. Looking out for someone he loved. The lone silver wolf would not leave a friend alone in the snow... The story of Barrington Bunny may be found here: http://www.angelfire.com/music/lefantome/bunny.html.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.

Silent Night, Holy Night

And so the holidays came and went. My husband and I spent time with our daughters and their families, and travelled down to NYC and up to Orillia, Ontario to visit family and friends. As always, the ghosts of the past floated through...family and friends who had passed away, some during the holidays. Some of our friends passed away last year during this month, January. In fact, last year I lost four friends in one week, two on the same day. None of them knew each other. It was one of the most devastating weeks of my life. My husband and I were on vacation in Florida, enjoying the relative warmth and sunshine with family and friends who had made their move South years ago. Upon our return, I attended four funerals, stunned and numbed by the unexpectedness, the suddenness of their departure. Yesterday all of this came flooding back, as I began planning and packing for another upcoming trip south. Yesterday was also darkened by a loss of another kind, sustained by family members. I was struck by the unfairness of life. Yesterday, it just seemed as if all the wrong people were rewarded and all the right people were punished. Of course, I know that in reality, bad things happen to good people all the time, for no apparent reason. However, that does not dim the loss. As I dragged through the day, feeling the heavy weight of baggage both old and new, I felt like I was 100 years old. Where is the justice in all of this? I am a person of faith, and yet my prayers had not been answered. Of course, I know that God is not Santa Claus. He doesn't check his list for who's been naughty or nice. I've played by the rules. My family and friends have played by the rules. We've been good. Why was life turning out this way? Then, last night my husband and I did our first shift at the Hospice house since November. (The house was closed when we were supposed to work in December; the two then-current residents had died.) A friend asked if I was really up for working there last night, given my dark mood. Yes, I said, I need to go. When I'm down for the count, I know the value of serving. Of giving. Of leaving my personal pity party and sitting by the bedside of a dying woman, whose daughter is keeping vigil. And so we went. The evening went quickly, as instead of a quiet time spent while the resident slept, I was called upon to do quite a lot of patient care. Thank God the nurse on call came in, because I had forgotten how to do the most basic things. She patiently guided and watched me as I repositioned the resident, gave her the pre-measured medications, offered her sips of water, comforted her daughter, and sat by her bed keeping vigil after her family went home for the night. There's something about being present with a person on her final journey that erases all of the sadness, sorrow, and exhaustion of my own problems. Life looks pretty good when you're sitting with the dying. In an interesting twist, this lovely 90-year-young woman had the same name I have. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge looking at his own gravestone shortly before he had his epiphany and became a better person. Epiphany...according to the online British Dictionary, the secular definition is "A moment when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of, something that is very important to you." Its religious meaning is the recognition by the wise men that the baby Jesus was indeed the savior that had been foretold in the Old Testament scriptures. Here I was, not in a manger, or even an inn, but in the room of a dying woman, and I found peace with God. My epiphany. When our shift ended very late that night, I left a calmer, more centered person. As the night aide came on duty, I had laid hands on the resident, silently calling upon her spiritual Guide to bring her stillness and peace as she entered what might be her last night's sleep. My hope for all of you, my readers, is that you might also find your Guide, and that you might also be able to live with the injustices of life. We all hope for the best for our families and friends, but that doesn't always happen. But we can find the strength and the courage to be the best partners we can as they make their life journey. Happy New Year to all. May you find strength and peace in 2017.

I Remember Mama

December 7th is a major remembrance day, not only for me personally, but also for our country. It marks the 75th anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day. Eight battleships, three cruisers, three destroyers, and 188 US aircraft were destroyed. In all, 2403 Americans were killed and 1178 were wounded. It was a horrific loss. For me personally, the day marks many remembrances. 41 years ago on that date, I married my first husband. 38 years ago on December 7th, we moved our very young family to New York from southern Ohio. Two years ago on December 7th, my mother passed away while my husband and I were on the Danube in Vienna, beginning a river cruise of Austria. And tomorrow, December 7th, my husband and I are headed back to Ohio, to spend time with my brother who is not well. Tonight I performed a ritual of remembrance, starting with the sewing of Christmas gifts that I can't mention (brothers might be reading this), and ending with baking the cookies my mother used to make for us so many years ago. While I sewed away, dropping bobbins and jamming threads and scaring the cat with my rather loud commentary on the art of sewing, memories of home flooded back...There were four of us kids, our parents, and our grandmother (and another orange tabby cat) in the house. It was full of color and light, especially at this time of year. Flash back to the future: both parents are gone, Grandma is long gone, and the four of us "kids" (ages 72, 68, 66, and 60) are scattered to the four winds. But tomorrow we will load up the car with homemade gifts, homemade cookies, a cooler full of fruits and cheeses, and a blizzard bag (you never know, driving across the Great Lakes states) to our destination, my middle older brother's house in Columbus, Ohio. Some of us kids will be together again for a few days. Of course, the great wheel of time has rolled around, and we are now the grandparents, we are the oldest generation. We'll sit in the kitchen, with nieces and nephews and one grandniece, plus the brothers and their wives, and catch up. And remember Christmases of long ago, and remember those who have come before and are now passed away. Enough time has passed that I can remember Mama in the kitchen at this time of year without tears in my eyes (mostly). Two years ago, she was 96 and in relatively good health and mind, so my husband and I felt OK about taking a "Christmas on the Danube" tour. The first day we spent in Vienna, sampling a Kristkindlemarket and preparing for our voyage down the famed river. That first night, I couldn't sleep. As the boat began its nighttime voyage, sleep would not come. I stood at our large window and watched the river and the locks in the darkness as we passed through them. In my mind, I could hear strands of the beautiful Strauss waltz, "The Blue Danube." I imagined my parents waltzing to that music, which they both loved (my father was a fine dancer.) When I finally went back to bed to try to sleep, there was a knock on the door...back in New York, my dear mother had passed, just as the strands of Strauss faded away in my memory there in Austria. It was December 7th, that fateful date that has held so much loss for so many. There is so much to remember on this date. I remember Mama.