Goodbye, Nushie Girl

On Monday, we rushed back from vacation to find that our 19-year-old kitty, Nushie, had obviously had a stroke. She seemed a bit wobbly and confused, but mostly content to have me back home and snuggling with her. So I decided against a midnight run to the strange, noisy ER. I knew there was not much there they would offer, besides supportive care, and I could do that at home without the stress of the trip. So we opted to wait until we could have our own vet look at her in the morning. But as daylight approached, she deteriorated. That morning - yesterday - it became obvious that we had to let her go. It all unfolded very quickly. She had been in my life longer than my husband. She and I had been through a lot together. And although she was relatively healthy for an old cat, she was obviously not completely comfortable, always seemingly teetering on the brink of a medical crisis. So last night, I was reflecting on my feelings, and trying to decide how much of what I was feeling was sadness, and how much was relief. I am sad, but that isn’t the whole of it. The following is what I was thinking last night, as I was picking up the pieces:

I’m putting things away tonight, putting them where they belong. Your microwave rice pad goes in your box in the laundry room. Your sheepskin goes on top of the dryer. Your special renal food goes in the cupboard. It’s not that I’m in denial. It’s just that tonight I am too tired to make new places for these things. So they go back where they have always been. I ask myself: If you are no longer here, do they belong anywhere? But Petey is looking for you, so I can say that I am leaving those things in place for him. He can smell where you were, and tonight he is doing some time in each of those places where he finds an echo of your presence.

And yet, some things I am allowing to change. I am no longer on the lookout for the other cats’ unfinished food, so you won’t be tempted to cheat on your renal diet. I no longer have to split your pills in half. I no longer need to leave bowls in eight or nine places, to make sure you drink enough water. And yet, I haven’t quite realized that you’re gone. So it’s as though this morning, we did nothing more than cure you of your ailments. The only thing that seems to have changed so far is that I can relax, and not constantly guard you anymore.

In the bathroom this evening, out of habit, I reached over to splash some water into the tub, because that was one of the places I knew you would always go for a drink. I stopped myself, thinking how silly that was.

And then I reach over and did it anyway, and decided that it was okay.

I no longer need to attend to those things - the pills, the food, the hovering - that defined you as old and infirm. But for a while, I will probably continue to splash some water in the tub, and heat up your rice pad, and put the sheepskin on the dryer. For a while, I will allow myself to indulge in doing those things that made you happy. And in that way, more than saying goodbye, I can celebrate with you your new wellness, and your new peace.

The disaster that didn't happen

I sent the note below to some girlfriends of mine. After reading it, if you haven't already done so, call and make an appointment for your overdue mammogram. Then forward this to your mother, sisters, BFFs, and anyone else whose next birthday means something special to you.


First of all, I don’t have breast cancer. But I did have a little scare, and it got my attention. For about three of the past five years, I’ve been called back for a “retake” of my mammogram. Some little spot or shade on the film was of concern. So last year, when Ann called me to say I needed a re-do, I never got around to it. She must have noticed, because after my mammogram last week, she called to tell me “You need to come in for a retake.” I sighed and said “Don’t we do this every year?” But then she said “Because of what they saw on the film, I’m also scheduling you for a follow-up ultrasound.” That got my attention, so I scheduled it for this morning.

Over the past week, I’ve been pretty busy, and have not had time to think about much of anything but getting my work load under control. When I did think about it, I reassured myself that the mammogram retake would be the same old deal it’s always been – some spot that would turn out to be nothing. But then there were those times that I would find myself reflecting on how radically my life could change over the next few days. Much of the time it was an intellectual exercise, a mental list of the things that I would no longer be able to take for granted: living to 104; seeing my niece and grandkids grow up; keeping the house; finishing my book; doing my pottery; cooking dinner; eating dinner. I saw it often enough in my oncology days, the way lives get turned upside down, and I did not want to experience it. But I seriously started to consider that I might have to face it. And there were those moments that I would actually feel panic about it. A bit of an over-reaction, perhaps, but I was glad not to have too much free time to dwell on it.

So today they had to do two retakes, and they still couldn’t find the spot that they were so worried about a week ago. They were concerned about that, so they decided to proceed with the ultrasound. There were, of course, problems with that, too. The ultrasound tech was fixating on one particular spot, and examining it from a number of different angles, which made me increasingly uneasy to say the least. She finally brought the doctor in, and he looked at it and said “Oh, yeah, that’s a lymph node. Normal. You’re fine.” I wondered if he had any idea what an emotional whiplash that could be – to be in fear of your life, and then have that removed with a casual wave of the hand.

They want to see me again in six months, just to be sure. It’s an appointment I plan to keep. I feel like I’ve had a reprieve. It’s not often in life that we’re in a position to appreciate the disaster that didn’t happen. But if you’re in the habit of putting off that dreaded mammogram, please don’t. Find time for it. And then be sure to invite me to your 104th birthday party, because I’m planning to be around for the occasion.

My Moai

I sent this out to some friends today. I hope anyone who reads this has experienced this blessing, as well.

______

On Splendid Table on NPR today, they interviewed Dan Buettner, author of The Blue Zones. It is a book about four different areas of the world where people live into their 100s. Some of it is the usual advice of which we’re all aware: get your rest, eat your veggies, stay active, etc. But the concept that particularly captured my attention was from one of the "Blue Zones" in Okinawa, Japan. There they have had a tradition of raising children within support groups called "moai." From a young age, children are put together in groups of five or so. As they grow up, these children, and later adults, are always there for each other, through success, failure, heartbreak, and all the rest that life tends to throw at us. The author talked about groups of women who "Even at age 100, they're all getting together in their moai … at 5 o'clock every day. They sit around, they drink a couple glasses of sake, they gossip, they talk about sex. If one doesn't show up to the afternoon gathering, the other four sort of hobble over to see if she's fallen down or if she needs help."

I immediately thought of our moai - our pack that has taken us through the past (gasp) thirty-some years of classes, dorms, apartments, boyfriends, break-ups, weddings, husbands, houses, kids, step-kids, jobs, and so many other frustrations and joys. I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t show up somewhere, either at a gathering, or if I just didn’t pop up on email for a while, you ladies would come looking for me. That’s a nice thing to know, and it gives me a lot of security and courage.

I try to eat right, get some fresh air, reduce stress, and do all the other things that one is supposed to do to increase the odds of living a long life. And I have my moai. That alone has got to be worth a few extra decades, doncha’ think?