Life Lessons

Jan 192022
 

She’s napping now. She looks so peaceful. She’ll wake up hungry soon. The new medicine does that to her. It also reduces pain and, we hope, whatever thing may be pressing against parts of her brain or her inner ear. Maybe fluid, maybe a growth. Her ailments are both known and unknown. The arthritis is obvious. The neurological issue is less clear-cut. Unfortunately, an MRI is out of the question, given her age and the fact that she is a dog.

Molly is sixteen-and-a-half, a still beautiful mix of Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and Bichon. She’s probably between eighty-eight and ninety-four in human years. Not quite Betty White but an old dog by any estimation. She’s also a friendly, funny creature who’s lately been my only companion.

It’s not like I didn’t know she would age. All pet owners understand they will likely outlive their beloved companions and nearly all of them push against it one way or another. There are a couple memes going around where an owner tells her pet she will do everything for the animal as long as it promises to live forever. One graphic shows an older gentleman stroking his purring cat while telling her she’s never going to die. When Death shows up to offer a polite correction, the old guy turns on him with a knife. Death throws up his hands and says “Okay, cool. Cool.”

If only it were that easy. I’d come out with guns blazing.

It’s hard to see a pet experiencing pain or confusion. Molly can’t explain what hurts and I can’t always make it better. Her left knee is unstable, the leg weak. Her back hurts. Her eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and neither is her hearing. She’s prone to ear infections. She gets anxious in the late afternoon. She whines.

And yet she adjusts. I wish I could adapt the way she does. She falls down; she gets up. She takes the stairs. She climbs up to the window and watches. Her walking pace is often brisk. She loves to explore. Yes, she naps more than she used to but less than other dogs her age. She still assumes the play position and bounces into the kitchen at mealtime. She accepts her medicine, especially if it comes wrapped in a dab of peanut butter. She likes to see other dogs and other people, who often come with treats.

The idea of losing her panics me. At some point, the inevitable will happen, and I won’t be able to chase it away, even if I try to arm myself to the teeth. I can’t prepare for it, not really. I can try not to obsess about it. Though I remain at the amateur level in terms of meditation or mindfulness, I keep trying.

Molly is an expert at living for the now. It’s not great when the now hurts, but as soon as it doesn’t, she’s all in. Maybe her will or her interest in whatever life has to offer keeps her going. Perhaps instinct kicks in. Animals may well have a mantra: “Look alive; it’s how you survive.”

Whatever her secret, I am more than happy to try and apply some of that to my own life. If she wants to nap, I’ll let her nap. If she wants to go out multiple times on this rare warm winter day, I’m more than happy to take her cue.

My Village

Dec 222021
 

So. December was a month, right? Just as you think maybe you have everything under control, wham! Something (or a series of somethings) comes around to smack you in the face.

The holidays are rarely easy for anyone, never mind the Hallmark-type ads that fill our screens. The stress of gift-buying, the desire to make everything as memorable as possible.

Still, many of us were planning to go all-out after a year and a half in isolation. And many of us still are, notwithstanding a variant of the small spiky enemy that continues to pummel us. I hope everyone remembers to exercise caution.

I got a lot done this month. I published a book and not one but two audio version of earlier books. Big accomplishment. And yet I’ve dragged through the weeks, burdened by lost light and lonely evenings. There’s a lot to miss in December. I was married in the middle of the month but the man I wed is no longer with us. My beloved sister died just after Thanksgiving two years ago. The pandemic makes getting to remaining scattered family challenging.

Oh, and over the past month or two I’ve seen three orthopedic surgeons for intractable pain in my shoulders. The verdict is in: Bone on bone, or what they call “end-stage arthritis.” I’ve had physical therapy, injections, acupuncture, massage, etc. Nothing to do for it but replace it. I still have nearly full use of the shoulders, discomfort notwithstanding. Eventually, I will not. Now gives me the best chance of full recovery. Or does it?

I scheduled surgery for the last week in January. Without the sister who always had my back and with all the attendant anxiety that such a surgery plus the pandemic plus December can bring. Five weeks in a sling, a one-armed woman in a two-story house with a lively elderly dog with stair issues. Sitcom material, right? Or not.

I posted about it on Facebook, a piece of personal information of the sort I am usually reluctant to share. And my friends responded with offers to fly or drive in to cook or drive or watch over me and my dog.

Say what you will about Facebook; it has provided me with a robust and diverse community. Fully half of my 800 friends are writers, which in and of itself is pretty remarkable, and half of those are people I met on one site. Among them I have found people with similar quirks, habits, concerns, outlooks, and issues. Few of them live close by, which is tough. On the other hand, all of them are accessible one way or another.

The kindness reinforces my awareness that it–by which I mean survival in one form or another–takes a village. Easy to forget until you get older or more isolated or somehow disconnected. The young and the strong can perhaps go it alone. The rest of us have no choice but travel around, knock on doors, and ask for what we need. It would seem people are far more generous than we’ve been led to believe. At least that’s what I choose to believe, even on the days I despair for humankind.

Fate is not so accommodating. Covid threatens to blow all the good intentions and careful plans out of the water. This surgery may not take place right now, either by the hospital’s choice or by mine. I’m not about to ask anyone to pass through two major airports for a joint replacement.

But whenever it happens–and it will happen–I feel a little more confident asking for assistance. at some point, that may involve a paid helper. For now, it would seem that with a little effort on my part, I can locate the members of my makeshift village or even forge new friendships in order to both give and receive  give comfort and aid.That’s a worthwhile holiday gift to unwrap any way you look at it.

HOW YOU DOIN’?

Sep 092021
 

Last week, someone hacked my Facebook account. My clever friends knew not to answer the strange messages, which read, “Hello: How you doin?” as if a non-English speaker had been watching too many episodes of “Friends.” By the time we all reported the hacker, they had moved on.

Still, the message prompted a couple of thoughts. We ask each other how we’re doing all the time. But what is it we really want to know? Or rather, how much do we want to know?

Let’s face it; the question comes with built-in, often invisible boundaries. It’s a little bit more than “hello” or a passing nod. But how much more?

The short answer is context. When you ask, are you checking in after a specific event, i.e., your neighbor just had a baby, or your friend was in a fender-bender? Are you passing the time of day? Are you inquiring about someone you know well, know in passing, don’t know at all, or haven’t seen for a while? Do you expect an answer? Are you prepared for one?

I sometimes ask people how they’re doing. Not just to be polite: I ask people I care about, people who seem distressed, or people with whom I’d like to have a conversation. I don’t pose the question casually these days. Maybe because I’m aware that quite a few people are struggling with how they’re doing. We seem to be simultaneously starved for companionship and leery of anyone’s judgement. Most of us are feeling a lack. Plenty of us are anxious or grieving.

I’m especially sensitive to that idea when 9/11 swings around. This time of year, the question of how I’m doing comes back at me. Twenty years is a big anniversary for those of us whose personal loss combined with a national period of mourning. Nevertheless, between the passage of time and the many other momentous occasions we’ve collectively experienced, people will forget to ask during this week.

That’s fine with me. I’ve long ago relinquished the idea that my pain is lesser or greater than that of anyone else. The loss of my beloved husband in a terrorist attack will always be a major loss in my life. But other events large and small have also caused injury. My struggles with the older version of my body. My sister’s recent death. The level of misinformation and disinformation lodging itself into the cultural conversation. The rising hate and fear-fueled division. My own anxiety concerning current events and yes, my own resentment at how hard I have to work—how hard we all have to work—to see the good in the world.

But maybe the work is the point. Maybe having to be so damned resilient is how we become better people. Overcoming loneliness or depression or distress, looking out instead of in, facing the unknown, forcing ourselves out of our comfort zones even if the pandemic and the increasing number of weather events keeps us physically in place for a time. Insisting on hope, even in small doses.

So, to those of you who have written or texted or posted or called to or to ask how I’m doing or to tell me you are thinking of me: I’m doing better than okay, and I’m thinking of all of you as well.

You might also be interested:
https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/08/nyregion/9-11-new-york-remember.html

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