Mother Knows Best

Patience isn't his strong suit but to his credit, it took nine calls before Michael finally lost it.

“I don't have time to measure the f**king blinds!” I heard him howl at his mother, “For God's sake, will you leave me alone! GOD DAYUM!” And with that he slammed the receiver down so loudly it woke all the dogs and made me jump.

The telephone rang again immediately.

“Dear Barbara,” his mother said icily, “Please tell my son if he ever raises his voice to me again,I shall not forgive him and will happily let him rot.”

“Dorothy, I can't......” I began and she cut me off with surgical precision.

“And please tell him that NICE people do not use coarse language under any circumstances!

ESPECIALLY his kind of coarse language and ESPECIALLY to their mothers! I simply will NOT tolerate it!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michael in the doorway, flushed, breathing like a bull and heading in my direction.

“Yes'm,” I told Dorothy hurriedly, “I'll surely tell him, gotta go now, have a nice day....” and before he could get to my desk, I hung up the telephone.

“WHAT?” he snapped at me.

“Telemarketer,” I said at once, pleased with my own quick thinking and trying my very hardest not to laugh, “Life insurance or some such.” He didn't believe me for a second, of course, but we've been friends for a long time and we both tacitly agreed to let it go.

There's nothing quite like a family feud to push a person right to the edge and then, often with the most naive of intentions, give them an unthinking shove. With the business on life support, the mountainous debt growing daily, the house itself on the brink of collapse, and Michael's sight more precarious than ever, Dorothy's obsession with venetian blinds for the living room isn't currently on the radar nor is it likely to be.

What an amazing gift families have for not seeing what doesn't suit them.

Summer Fog

The fog was a massive, moving white wall, billowing and swirling inexorably toward us. It enveloped the lighthouse and flowed through the passage, swallowing everything in its path, even the sun. Ruthie and I scrambled madly for the wharf but the rolling fog was faster and we were trapped before we got half way.

“Well, hell,” Ruthie muttered, her voice so oddly disembodied that she might've been as close as six inches or as far as six feet, “If that don't beat all.”

Seconds before there had been gulls screeching overhead, waves washing up on the rocks and the sound of the ferry engine making its usual crossing. Now all we could hear was the muted foghorn, calling out a warning in its gruff bass voice. It was a familiar sound but mournful somehow and not much use to a pair of children stuck in a fog bank on a rocky beach.

“Reach out yer hand,” Ruthie called, “Reach out and hold it out.”

We hadn't been that far apart when the fog had come in so it seemed reasonable that we could find each other but it was like reaching into cotton candy. I stretched out my arm only to see it eerily disappear at the wrist.

“Feel around,” Ruthie ordered impatiently, “Like you was tryin' to find somethin' over yer head. Can you whistle?”

I protested that she knew perfectly well I couldn't whistle. She'd tried to teach me for years.

“Sing then!” she snapped, “Loud!”

After several rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”, her fingers finally latched onto mine. We were both cold and soaked to the skin but we weren't alone and there was no need to be afraid. We sat on the rocks in the chowder-like fog and waited it out while the foghorn continued to blare. Eventually the sound grew sharper. Not long after, we heard a muffled engine noise and then the cries of the gulls.  As if someone waved away the mist, the wharf and the factory came into view, then the canteen and then we could see all the way to the end of the passage. The thick, white wall rolled away toward the open water and the sun fought its way through the leftover clouds, revealing a bright, blue summer sky. 

We could hear my grandmother calling our names - I remember feeling relieved that she sounded more alarmed than annoyed - so we scaled the embankment in double time, slipped beneath the guard rail and headed home.  Nana smiled at the sight of us, skinned knees, dirty faces and all, and shooed us into the house for cookies and milk and dry clothes. 

Folks talked about that fog all the rest of the summer, like it was alive almost.  By July, it had been 2o miles across and lasted for three days.  By August,  the whole crew of a whale watching boat had been swallowed up, tourists and all, never to be seen again.  

"Come Labor Day," Nana remarked wryly, "I expect it'll have grown legs, learned to talk and turned radioactive."

And so a one time, freak oddity of weather that lasted minutes and did no damage became a legend.  It was just more fun that way.

You Can't Save Them All

I have lived with, cared for, loved and advocated for animals for as long as I can remember yet I'm no fan of no-kill shelters or the save-everything-just-because-we-can movement. I don't think it's responsible or humane to be building wheelchairs for every blind, obese, mange infested, heartworm positive, paralyzed old basset hound or keeping alive an insulin dependent, 24 year old , three quarters feral stray cat with leukemia and two broken legs and a shattered jaw. There comes a point when it's more important to alleviate pain and suffering than “rescue” and for every broken, emaciated, brutalized and abused animal in a shelter cage, that's one less cage for a young, healthy kitten or puppy. It's heartbreaking and gut wrenching and it'll give you nightmares, but not every animal ought to be saved just because the technology is available. Resources are precious and limited. We need to use them wisely, based on what's best for the animal, not the tender heartedness of our emotions. Lives are going to be lost and sometimes all we can offer is mercy and a peaceful exit. It's not something we must do out of just kindness or compassion or economic necessity or realistic rescue policies. It's something we must do because we are moral creatures with a moral obligation to those who have no voice. It's a truly hateful and poisonous, bitter fact but they can't all be saved.

These are the things going through my mind as I watch and photograph the 20 or 30 newest kittens (and these are only the ones who are out in the open) clustered on the porch of the wretched house on Elizabeth Street. Some are clearly injured, some are missing jagged patches of fur, some are emaciated and half feral. All are grievously ill, their eyes malformed and misshapen, some matted shut with the telltale greenish mucus of distemper, others blind with infection and deformities. Kitten season had just begun the last time I was here and tragically, it's now a thousand times worse.

It helps not at all to know that the man who lives here has no idea he's doing more harm than good. Even if I could put the suffering kittens aside for the moment, the health risk to the neighborhood is real and immediate. Without resources for this kind of situation, there isn't any option except parish animal control and I have no doubt that making that call will be signing the death warrant of every cat and kitten they can grab or trap. Knowing that it's the humane and merciful thing to do doesn't help. I don't want a mass euthanasia on my conscience. I'm not sure I'd ever get over it.

I reach out to anyone and everyone I can think of but in the end, I have to face a harsh reality.

No one except the parish has the resources or the authority to intervene. All these innocent animals will die. It's just a matter of how and how long it takes.

I make the call.

Sweat, Stagger, Stroke

The sky is glaringly blue and filled with fluffy, drifting clouds. Except for the wilting heat, there's no sign of a storm but the old pit bull is restless. He whines and pushes against me until he's securely wedged under my desk, his liquid brown eyes anxious with with anticipation, his considerable bulk trembling. A half hour later, the sky is black, the wind is high and the rain is pounding on the roof like a handful of hammers. There's little I can do to comfort the old dog. He cringes with each crack of lightning and tries desperately to burrow into the floor with every crash of thunder. After several minutes, I ease down under the desk with him and wrap my arms around him, holding tightly and trying to reassure him.

Another half hour and the skies are back to blue. The old dog emerges from his hiding place and shakes off his fear, nudging me fiercely to go outside and alternately bestowing head butts and sloppy kisses. He holds no grudge against the storm and it makes me wish that humans were as easily forgetful or half as resilient.

That evening I'm sitting in a bar and watching a band so bad it's painful. It's loud, it's raucous, and about as harmonic as nails on a chalkboard. The lead guitarist, who I fear will never know the benefits of sobriety, has a distinct and very noticeable tremor in one hand, his fingers waver in front of but often do not touch the guitar strings. He leaves the stage with one foot dragging clumsily and the right side of his body badly skewed and off kilter as he tries to compensate. He's drenched with sweat and there's a sour smell as he passes me. When he glances my way, I see his eyes are twitchy and his face is in ruins. I doubt he even sees me. I'm not sure he sees anyone.

“Christ, it's hot,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

No one answers. No one even notices. He shuffles unsteadily out to the sidewalk, alone and oblivious. His days of resilience are behind him.

Winning

At the third lunge, the cat loses patience and swats the tiny one like a gnat, sending him tumbling off the loveseat and onto the carpet where he lands with a soft, undignified thud. He gives me a pitiful, put upon look but I am unmoved and I could swear the little dachshund is snickering. The cat looks pleased with himself and lazily rearranges all of his fifteen pounds to take advantage of his newly acquired space.

Except for the fact that he has a dark side, I can't think why a tiny, seven pound dog needs to bully a cat twice his size and weight but it happens regularly. Not only that, he's a chaser and a dreadful yapper, perfectly willing to take on whatever strikes his fancy. This miniature, would be terrorist has brought fresh chaos to an already chaotic house and even though he never wins, he refuses to stop trying and each loss fuels his next effort. Despite my frayed nerves, I have to admire his confidence, his bravery, and his persistence. He knows no fear and hasn't the good sense to surrender.  It's more than I can say for myself.

If you live long enough, you learn a thing or two and one of the things I've learned is that there's a time to resist and a time to submit. The real trick is knowing which is which, preferably before too much damage is done. Preferably while you can still change course. Preferably before a cat knocks you ass over teakettle into next week.

I don't have much hope the tiny one will learn. It's only a few seconds before he jumps back onto the loveseat and prepares to pounce on the cat again. This time there's a brief scuffle before he's sent flying over the edge but sent flying he is. The cat, though, has had enough of this nonsense and for all his size and weight, he gracefully abandons the love seat and moves to a sunspot on the table by the window. He dismisses the dog with an over the shoulder double dare you kind of look and then curls up and goes to sleep. The tiny one crawls into my lap and then burrows up under my chin with a huge sigh, making it clear he thinks he's won.

You have to celebrate all your victories, even the small ones and sometimes even the false ones.

Empty Spaces

I've had several days to get used to the idea of Blue's death and the unfeeling reality that life goes on. I've been thinking that the empty spaces we're left with after a loss must serve a purpose. Reminders, maybe, raw places where memories are kept alive.

There has been an outpouring of love for her, a veritable avalanche of condolences, the likes of which I've never seen in this city. People that she knew well, people she touched only lightly or in passing, musicians she helped along the way, dog lovers, folks who knew her in the most superficial of ways but recognized her spirit, even strangers who didn't know her at all but who are touched by the loss of those who did. All reaching out to offer comfort, to share a story or a song, a memory or just a kind word. I see her love and kindness, her generosity and her struggle reflected over and over again. She gave of herself even when she was empty.

A great many of these condolences were based in faith but some bordered on evangelical rapture. These troubled me. Blue wasn't perfect and while I'm absolutely, unshakeably convinced that she died on good terms with God, I'm selfish enough to wish her here rather than there. Her death took away her pain and suffering but it was no damn blessing and I found myself wanting to rail at those who wished her a glorious journey, as if dying were just a whistle stop on a long train ride. She isn't dead yet! I wanted to scream. If you think a soul is worth more than a life, then change places with her and you go!

I wanted to scream but, of course, I didn't. There was no point in stirring up these earth bound soul savers. They meant well, at least I hoped they did, and Blue wouldn't have liked a fuss so I held my tongue and didn't even publicly disagree. Other people's flowery, iron clad faith is not my concern, I told myself, and there's more than one road to salvation. For all their Steeped in the Cross and Blood of the Lamb rhetoric, we all still travel alone. If there's a heaven, I'm willing to concede it's a different place, just not necessarily a better one. And, I have to think, you get there by grace not Bible thumping zealotry or religious mania.

The one Bible verse that did capture my attention and has stayed with me was one that Blue's granddaughter posted.  I think if anything sums up my dear friend, this would be it.  We were so blessed to have her.  We miss you, sweet girl.  Rest in peace.

I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.

2^nd Timothy, 4:7

And Now She Can Rest

I've heard it said that apart from dying yourself, losing someone you love is the the thing we fear the most. My latest visit with Blue brings this home with a clarity I can't pretend away.

There's a storm brewing not far off. The clouds are turning the sky dark and tinged with yellow and I can feel the air getting heavier, the wind gathering in the distance. Bubba crawls into the recliner with me, whining anxiously, his entire body trembling. I comfort him as best I can while watching Blue try to sleep between the coughing spells that rack her small, emaciated body. How anyone this haggard - truth be told, this skeletal - can still be alive is beyond me. The sleeplessness of the night before shows clearly on her face and I'd be surprised if she weighs more than 75 or 80 pounds, maybe even less. At this stage of cancer, one bad night can do amazing damage. It's a hateful, vicious thing but she's becoming a shadow right in front of us and it's beyond unbearable to witness.

The coughing finally subsides and she sleeps, breathing raggedly but steadily. The storm breaks and I can hear rain on the roof.   Bubba, still fearful, burrows into the narrow space between the arm of the recliner and my side. I listen to the whirring of the box fan someone has propped up in a nearby chair, the even hum of the window unit battling the almost 100 degree heat outside, the rain, and the sound of Blue's daughter crying in the next room as she mindlessly folds clothes and clean sheets.

“It's not going to be much longer, is it,” she asks, as I get ready to leave, only it's not really a question.

“I don't know,” I tell her, feeling my heart seize with her pain and my own, hating this cancer with a passion I didn't know I had, hating whatever deity visited it even more.

“She's in God's hands,” I say and for a rare moment, it feels true and is almost comforting.

That was on Saturday.  At just after 5:30 on the following Monday morning, my friend Blue died.

If heaven exists, perhaps its street are lined with gold.  Perhaps there are choirs of angels on every corner.  But what I imagine is a place in the country where there are songbirds instead of sirens and 18 wheelers, a place where the old are made young, the sick are restored and friends and loved ones are re-united.  No one will be in pain, no one will suffer, every dog and cat we've ever loved will be waiting, there will be music, heavenly or otherwise, from dusk to dawn and Blue will be part of it.   

Because if heaven exists, then I know she's there.  And if she's there, it comforts me to know that she's watching over us all.

A Fine Line

It's a hot and humid almost-July afternoon when I get to Blue's. She's sitting upright with a notepad and a pen, making a to-do list with Bubba napping comfortably at her side. She looks even thinner than yesterday but she's alert and clear eyed and her voice is soft but strong. Except for the ever present oxygen tube and the tray of medications nearby and the hospital bed itself, I might just be dropping by for a casual visit with an old friend. For a brief and precious moment or two, that's exactly how it feels. My mind somehow forgets the cancer in much the same way I sometimes forget that dear friends are dead and not just not keeping in touch as well as they might. It's a fleeting thought and I'm brought back to reality when I hug her and can feel her bones through her paper-thin skin.

She reads me her list - bills to be paid, friends to be called, arrangements to be made – end of life things to be done and an accompanying timetable. There's no maybe about any of this, my mind reminds me, these are not just in case reminders. This, if you're lucky and loved, is how life wraps up, with enough time to prepare and sort things out, to get used to the idea, make your peace with it if you can and say your goodbyes. It's a kindness and yet an unbearable cruelty.

After a time, she sets her list aside, curls up on her side with her arms wrapped around Bubba and drifts off to sleep. At first, the steady drone of the window unit doesn't quite cover her uncertain breathing and I hesitate to leave but after several minutes, her sleep seems to turn peaceful and I slip out. The sun is setting behind me as I make my way home and the traffic is light. I find myself thinking about the choices we make and the courage it takes to make them, especially when it's bread and water and not a well stocked buffet.

Twelve step programs teach there's a difference between giving up and surrendering but it can be a fine line. Blue sees it clearly and for that, I'm grateful.