High Tide

May 092022
 

I cry easily, almost as easily as I did way back when. It’s a triggered response. Not everything makes me cry, but whatever does—an unbidden recollection, an unwelcome piece of information, a devastating image, a piece of music; really, anything that has to do with loss—and I am ready to weep. More than seventy years on this planet and I still can’t locate, much less disable, that switch. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The best I’ve been able to manage is a near immediate follow-up response that muffles the reaction and keeps the wave from becoming a tsunami, at least in public. I’m not entirely successful at stopping the churn, but I’ve learned to take it down to watery eyes and a choked voice.

April was a cold and rainy month; there were sorrows aplenty. I had shoulder surgery, a good thing but an event that rendered me temporarily more vulnerable and less independent, despite help from wonderful friends. The international and national news pulled me low. The unexpected death of my friend of forty-seven years was a gut punch (although the quiet and dignified way in which his wife, also a dear friend, has handled her loss is a lesson in living with sorrow that is both informational and inspirational). The steady decline of my beloved dog Molly is a daily challenge.

For the record, I laugh, out loud, both publicly and privately. Well, more a giggle or a chuckle, an occasional guffaw or snort. It helps. Singing and dancing are also good for the soul, especially for someone who spends as many hours alone as I do. Sometimes, in the company of friends, I marvel at how I can be so experienced in grief and loss, yet laugh so freely. I appreciate the contradiction, appreciate that something outside me can pull that sound out of me or that I can find it within me.

In the last few years, we’ve all experienced more pain than joy. I’m told that’s to be expected at this time of my life. I don’t like thinking that way. Instead, I remind myself that crying is a release, that my reaction is a sort of cleansing process, that it’s probably good for me (as long as it doesn’t go on forever, I suppose), that holding it in isn’t healthy, and that if my friends can’t handle it, I should get new ones. That I still have more joy to discover.

I hope so. My constant companion, has a host of neurological, cognitive, and physical issues that may not yet threaten her life but negatively affect her quality of life. Pharmaceuticals help, as does abundant patience on my part. Periodically, I’m asked by the vet to measure the ratio of joy and curiosity to pain and apathy in her life. I will likely have to decide when it’s time for her to go, with her help.

Cue the tears.

Meanwhile, in the here and now, Molly wakes from her long nap. She’s gotten up and trotted over, tail wagging and eyes bright as if to ask, “What’s happening?” or maybe “What’s to eat?”

I laugh out loud.

It Will Be Spring

Mar 112022
 

 

There’s a lot of hurt in the world right now—mental, physical, emotional. Between the havoc wreaked by the pandemic and the changing climate, and the dangerous machinations of another would-be tyrant with nuclear weapons, we face a period of instability that was unimaginable just, oh, six years ago.

Let’s face it; we’re in crisis mode. Tempers are frayed. Everyone is outraged or afraid—or both. Loss seems ever-present: loss of income, health, status, freedom, control. We’re all so angry, which is to say we’re feeling powerless or vulnerable, even if we can’t admit it.

Six years ago, I wasn’t considering a shoulder replacement (or maybe it was a “someday” sort of proposition). I couldn’t imagine that my sister would contract a fatal disease, and I wasn’t thinking about my faithful canine companion getting old.

I could spend the rest of this post bemoaning the state of affairs in the world, except for this: I need to acknowledge that despite everything that’s going wrong, spring will still appear in the next few weeks.

Spring is all about the new—new growth, new life, new freedom from coats, gloves, and bare branches. It serves as a metaphor for hope. While it may be challenging to spark joy in the darkest months of the year, halfway through March, I start to feel uplifted. Foolish perhaps but also necessary.

My neighbor reminds me that one last storm will hit us here on the mid-Atlantic coast this weekend. I remind him that we’ll have light extending into the evening when we turn the clocks ahead. Besides, the birds know what’s coming. We’re inundated with robins, cardinals, blue jays, and the ever-present mockingbird, along with a couple dozen other types who live in the woods behind my house. In just a few days, we move above freezing and we don’t look back.

I’m ready to embrace the season, even with one arm, and take in the promise it brings.

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.

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