Birthday Presence

Earlier this year, for the first time in my life, I celebrated my birthday without the woman who birthed me.  

No hug. No kiss. No early morning phone call with a beautifully strained rendition of the birthday song. 

Today is my mom’s birthday, the first since she passed.  No birthday dinner at Salute. No crème brulee with “Happy 79^th Birthday!” written on it for dessert.

But I will have dinner with my dad tonight. And on my birthday, I received an early morning call from my dad and my aunt Jane. They both gave a strained rendition of the birthday song. It wasn’t easy on  the ears, but it made a tough day a lot easier. I am lucky to have them.

Someone else was there on my birthday and will be there tonight.

My wife, Amy. I don’t know what I would do without her. (Sometimes cliches are the best way to express a truth.) Sure, I would go on, I would live; but it would have been in a deep, dark hole.  

Her birthday was two days ago. I always thought it was interesting and maybe a little weird but also very meaningful that my mother and my wife had birthdays so close together. I believe in the power of symbols and symbolism. I didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something. I don’t believe in Zodiac signs and the accompanying personal attributes, but I don’t dismiss them entirely because what the hell do I know? Maybe there’s something to it. The time of the year in which we are born probably has some impact on who we are, and there are a lot of similarities between my mother and my wife. My mother was an educator in an urban district. My wife is an educator in an urban district. My mother and wife spent most of their lives in Connecticut. They were both raised Catholic. They both love animals and traveling and reading and watching tv/movies. They are both generous and loving. The list is long. 

I think that our parents, for better or worse, have an enormous impact on who we are, but also on who we seek as partners. One of the things that I appreciate most about my wife is that she’s willing to tell me things I may not want to hear. I may not necessarily appreciate it in the moment, but eventually I come to accept the wisdom shared and the courage needed to share it. It’s hard to tell the person you love something that may upset them or challenge them. But true love requires it at times. Blind, unquestioning support isn’t true love. Good mothers know that. My mother knew that. She had to tell me things I didn’t want to hear quite often, actually. Sometimes it took me a long time, years even, to appreciate what she said. There were times when she maybe could have said it in a different way, but she was a high school teacher in Hartford raising two boys, so her approach was generally tough and direct. Sometimes I responded defensively.

How we treat our partners and how a parent treats a child will (should) differ, so my wife has a different approach with me. Also, she worked with pre-schoolers, and in general her approach is more sensitive and patient. Of course, sometimes I respond defensively with that approach, too, so clearly the problem is me. But regardless of the approach, the fact is, my mother and my wife are willing to tell it like it is. To tell me like it is.

When she was about 70 years old, my mom had surgery and she needed a wheelchair afterwards. This was a huge shift in her life. At the time, I just knew that she would never walk again. Most people, including my mom, probably knew that, too, but she desperately wanted to believe she would. She expressed that hope for years afterwards. It never happened. My pessimism won out. How smart of me. Clearly, the lesson there was to always be pessimistic.

Although I had certainly experienced many moments of sadness and melancholy regarding my mom’s condition ever since she told me she had Parkinson’s when I was 16, this was a turning point. For so many years, the main symptoms of Parkinson’s were trembling and stiffness, hardly noticeable for the most part. Around the time she turned 70, she was still walking, and cooking family meals, but she was bent over almost 90 degrees and moving very slowly. It was now obvious that she had a degenerative disease. That word “degenerative” was starting to really sink in.

Probably the worst part of growing up is watching age take its toll on your parents. It was very difficult to see my mom in a wheelchair, with the feeling/knowledge that she wouldn’t walk again. Also, at this point in her life, any time she’d have surgery or some medical incident that required a hospital stay, her Parkinson’s medications would be out of whack, which would cause a variety of negative effects to her mental and physical condition. There were moments where she was so far removed from the person I knew that my brain could hardly process it. I also think this was when she started suffering from depression, or it was already there and it went to the next level.

When my mom was home, Amy and I visited for dinner about every other week. Through childhood and high school, I considered my relationship with my parents to be very close, but I was never much in the way of extensive conversations with them. I was the typical teen boy, sitting at the dinner table, shoving food down my mouth as quickly as possible, and answering my mom’s questions with “yeah”. After I graduated college and eventually moved out of their house, even though we saw each other less, we became closer. Maybe because we saw each other less? Anyways, our conversations were a little more robust.

But as my mom’s condition worsened, the dinner conversations at my parents’ house became more difficult for me. It was as if I had reverted to my teen self. Withdrawn. Sullen. I wanted to be there with them, with her. I needed to be there, but it was difficult.

One time when she was still in the hospital or nursing home, we celebrated her birthday, or one of my niece’s birthdays. I’m feeling the effects of aging, too, so I can’t remember exactly, but the whole family was there. We had pizza and cake at the lounge area. At one point, I got up from the table, and my mom said something to Amy about “cheering me up” or something like that. She’s in a wheelchair with a progressive neurological disease, worried about me. She could tell how I was feeling, how down I was. I didn’t want to feel that way, but I couldn’t help it. And for several months, probably longer, dinners with my mom were mostly quiet. On my end at least. Amy and my parents would talk. I didn’t realize it at the time, lost in my thoughts, but I’m sure it was awkward for everyone. And I’m sure it hurt my mom to some degree.  

Sometimes with sadness, a lot of the actual emotion is self-pity. Not all the time, not even most of the time for most people, but some of the time. Even then, it’s not necessarily the dominant emotion, but it’s there, especially with the sadness that comes with seeing a loved one who is ill or dying. You lost or are losing someone you care for, and part of you can’t help but ask, “Why is this happening to me? Why is my mother dying? Why do I have to experience this pain?” Then there’s the guilt from feeling that way.

Grief is a son of a bitch.

Watching my mother suffer (quietly, never complaining) and her body deteriorate was torturous. In her presence, it was about all I could think about and I never knew what to say.

After a while of uncomfortable dinners, Amy finally addressed my near silence. She brought it up gently, saying something like I noticed you haven’t been saying much at dinners with your mom. I responded with something like, “that’s just our relationship,” and referenced my teen years. I tried to make it seem like not talking actually showed how strong our relationship was. I didn’t need to say anything, she knew how I felt. She knew how much I loved her. And maybe that was true. But it didn’t make the situation better. It didn’t make my mom, or me, happy. I think Amy brought it up a few times, and my response was always the same. I didn’t want to change anything. I didn’t think I needed to. She just didn’t understand.

Then she finally said, well, I think your mom would appreciate if you talked more. And I think it will help you. You don’t want to look back and regret not making the most out of these moments. You should try to be more present.  

Even after that, I was still stuck in my head for a while. I couldn’t help thinking about how much my mom had been through and that she would be gone soon. I didn’t know how to break through that thought process. I also wanted to inexplicably hang on to this idea that nobody knew my relationship with my mom better than I did and nobody could tell me how to interact with my mom.

But I also realized that Amy was saying all this out of love. She knew how I was suffering, even if I wouldn’t say it. She didn’t want me to live with the regret of not fully appreciating the moments I had with my mom. And I realized how difficult it must have been to say all that to me. Would I have been able to say the same thing to her if our positions were reversed? I hope so. Looking at it from that angle helped me finally see.

Living in the moment often requires blocking out the pain of the future. For so much of my life, I would always think of the inevitable end of something. So I maintained what I considered a healthy distance from everything. Sure, my team is winning, but they're going to eventually lose, so why care? (I'm sure that being a fan of the Dolphins and the Mets had something to do with that way of thinking, too.) Why give my all to a relationship when it’s just going to end eventually? Everything good will end, everyone will die. That is undoubtedly true. But so what? The future is not more important than the present. Bad things will happen, sure. But why experience the pain before it happens? Why mourn the living? I thought that way of thinking made me superior, it freed my mind. I could see through the bullshit, not like all of those ignorant, happy people! But in fact, it was a mentality that restricted rather than liberated. It denied the importance and the value of the present, when the present is all we have.

Your loved ones will die. It is a fact. But the pain of that loss will be there, waiting. You don’t need rush towards it. You don't need to focus on it while they’re still alive. There will be plenty of time to mourn.

Slowly but surely, I was more present at our dinners. I engaged in conversation. Making my mom laugh was a joy I hadn’t known in a while, and it became sort of a mission. I didn’t always succeed, and there were plenty of moments of sadness, but I didn’t let those moments overwhelm me and interfere with the connection I had with my mom.

I would never have been able to get through the sadness and self-pity to connect with my mom in her final years by myself. I would probably have never even thought I needed to. But I did need to. And I needed my wife, the love of my life, to tell me.

My mom spoke at my dad’s mother’s funeral. She thanked my grandmother, E-Mommy, for “teaching the man I love how to love.” That line broke me and completely ruined my own speech, which immediately followed hers (thanks, mom!) but it always stuck with me.

My mom taught me how to love, but my wife taught me how to love my mom when she needed it most. She taught me, or reminded me, the importance of being present, not just being “there,” for those we love.

I hope I have the courage and strength to say what needs to be said when it’s difficult and needed most. I hope to always be present for her.

I hope I am the man my parents taught me to be.

I love you, Amy. 

I love you, Mom.

Two Angels, Mom and Nola. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 
 

On Fathers and Father Figures

I never met my grandfathers. They both passed away before I was born. Although I never really felt it as a kid, as a man reflecting on my childhood, I feel like I missed out on something important growing up. Thankfully, I had my dad and many other father figures in my life, including my friends' fathers, who all helped guide me to be a better man and a better person. 

Karl Robertson was my friend Dave’s dad. He was also my senior league baseball coach. We won 2 championships with the CT Hispanic Yellow Pages (CHYPs!) in Hartford. His wife babysat me as a toddler. I went on their family vacations, and Dave came on ours. Mr. Robertson’s Swisher Sweet was the first cigar I ever tried (without his permission of course) and immediately spit out. His porn stash was the first porn I ever saw (without his permission of course). So yeah…he played an important role in my life. 

Mr. Robertson was the best type of coach. He was demanding but fair. He was knowledgeable without being showy. He had a firm moral conscious (yes, moral men can enjoy the beauty of the human form that some might call pornography) but he was never the type to preach, even though he was also a deacon at his church. Instead, he used humor and good-natured ribbing. He was hilarious. He would cut you down sarcastically just to bring you up. He was the type to drop wisdom on you in ways you wouldn't even realize until much later. 

I slept over at the Robertson’s house many times, and vice versa. One night, Dave and I were watching tv with his parents in their living room. I can see the 80s carpet with the red and black swirly design, I can smell the scent of Swisher Sweets permeating the air and the couch cushions. At one point, Mr. Robertson made a comment about something we saw on tv. He explained something, or added context, or just gave an interesting, relevant fact. The details aren't important. What he said afterwards is. His wife asked how he knew that. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "You go through life, and you learn some things." At the time, I didn't think much of it. I thought it was a non-sequitur, a funny response that technically answered the question, without giving any satisfaction. A philosopher’s response. His wife sighed and rolled her eyes, exasperated by his typical reply that ignored the specifics of her question.  

But it stuck with me for some reason. The response did something more important than simply explain how he knew a seemingly random piece of information. It was more than a tongue in cheek, sarcastic response that husbands have been giving wives since the very conception of husband and wife. 

It was a mission statement. It was a blueprint for growth. Maybe he didn't even intend it, but when I think about it now and when I thought about it for years after, that's how I viewed it. You go through life, and you learn some things. Because otherwise, you go through life and you don't learn shit. You believe whatever feels right. You don't question anything. You don't grow. You don't evolve. 

I don't know if he would have even remembered it, or if anyone else does. But it entered my brain and ricocheted around and hasn’t stopped since. I’m not saying that this one moment, this one statement, is the reason I am now a teacher. My parents both being teachers was likely more influential in that regard. But I don’t think it's a coincidence either. I think that every moment of my life pushed me in certain directions. My parents pushed me in a certain direction. All my father and mother figures pushed me in a certain direction. My teachers, my friends, my coworkers. My experiences. They all contributed to who I am and where I am now. They all taught me something.

You go through life, and you learn some things.

I hadn't thought about that phrase in a while. But when Dave told me his dad died it was the first thing that came to mind. Mr. Robertson went through life, and learned some things, and then he taught his children and me some things. And I am forever grateful. 

Joe Coute was another one of my male role models growing up, father to my friend Jeremy. He always loved sports, and even though he was legally blind, he would go to watch his son’s baseball games, and later, his grandchildren’s events. They lived close to Goodwin Park in Hartford. Jeremy and I would play basketball there often, then go back to his place for video games, after getting a Slurpee and a chili cheese dog at 7/11. (Coincidentally, I no longer eat red meat. Go figure.) One day, Mr. Coute went with us to the park and started dribbling around. He wanted to join in the game. I was confused and a little concerned. He was legally blind, after all. The first time someone passed him the ball, he caught it and spotted up behind the 3 point line. He lifted the ball above his head in the best Larry Bird impression, released the ball in a high arc, and hit nothing but net. That’s how I remember it anyways. Point is, he banged that 3. And then he banged half a dozen more. He was on fire. I was flabbergasted. Turns out, legally blind isn’t the same as completely blind. Turns out, you shouldn’t underestimate people based on a disability.

You go through life, and you learn some things.

See, Mr. Coute never let his disability become him, or become an excuse. Unfortunately, it got worse over time, but that didn’t diminish his passion for sports, or his family. And it certainly didn’t diminish his desire to give back and make the world a better place. He was an organ donor (as everyone should be!) and when he died, Jeremy and his family got a surprising call. Despite the fact that his eyes didn’t work properly in life, the hospital wanted to use his corneas of all things for another patient. He was giving someone the gift of sight, despite the fact that he lost his own. The beauty in irony is almost overwhelming at times. 

These were just two of my male role models growing up. Although I had two grandfather sized holes in my life, my life was full of loving adults, and caring men, including my uncles and of course, my father. Now I have a father-in-law as well, so I'm not lacking for father figures. One thing I learned from all these men was the importance of giving back. One uncle gave back by serving his country in the military. One uncle gave back by serving in the local and state government. My father gave back by coaching baseball and opening up his house (and cottage) to his sons’ friends. He also dedicated his life to his kids and his wife. And his pets. And golf, but hey, you gotta have a hobby.

I’ve written plenty about my parents, but I can never capture the entirety of what they’ve taught me and provided for me. I am beyond grateful to still have my dad. With the recent passing of my mom, I appreciate his presence even more. As her condition got progressively worse, and he became more and more dedicated to her well-being, my respect and admiration for him grew beyond what I could have ever imagined. Witnessing his actions, his commitment, taught me more about love and life than anything ever has. You go through life…all its struggles, all the joy and pain and misery and happiness and awkwardness and grossness and horror and beauty…and you learn some things.

Now I just have to keep applying those lessons. I'm trying. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Saint Ken

For his 79^th birthday, my aunt and I took my dad out to his favorite Mexican restaurant, Ocho Café in West Hartford. After we gorged ourselves on delicious tacos and enchiladas, the manager and a group of staff brought out a complimentary dessert and belted out their best heavily accented “happy birthday” rendition. My dad thanked the manager and told him how much he and my mom loved coming here. He then told the manager that my mom passed away a couple months ago. The manager replied, “we know, and we wanted to tell you that all of us here really admired the way you took care of her and brought her out to enjoy herself.”

My first thought, was, “How often did my parents come here?” My second thought was *cries loudly on the inside.*

When the nurse who was looking after my mom in the ICU heard that my mom was still living at home at the age of 78, with advanced Parkinson’s for many years and in a wheelchair for 5 years, she seemed shocked, and exclaimed, “You never see that. Usually, the husband puts them in a home.” Doctors had recommended he do just that several times over the past few years.

But see, my dad is not usual. In his mid and late 70s, before and after his own knee replacement surgery, he was helping my wheelchair-bound mom dress, use the toilet, go out to eat, visit family, and anything else she wanted or needed to do. Never mind the mental and spiritual toll of seeing your spouse in this condition, the physical toll alone is something most people would avoid.

At my mom’s funeral, I heard a lot of people say that my dad is a saint. Saint Ken. 

If people feel that way, I won’t refute it. Maybe it’s just my secular worldview, but I wouldn’t call him a saint. He’s not performing miracles. He’s a good man who is deeply committed to his loved ones, and he made a choice to remain committed until the very end. He wasn’t doing anything that “normal” humans aren’t capable of, even though most would never choose to; he was doing the hard work of loving and caring for someone with an illness into their final years. His wife needed him, and he was going to do everything he could possibly do to support her, and more importantly, give her life value.

My parents saw the value in all life. Recently, as the Covid pandemic raged around the globe, it was obvious that many people did not. When the stats showed that most people who died from Covid were over 65, pundits and politicians told us all we need to get back to work. Grandma and Grandpa dying is a worthy sacrifice if it increases the US GDP by half a percentage point!

I heard so many people just dismiss the elderly entirely. Dismiss life past a certain age. It messed me up because two of the people I care for most were deemed disposable. Then I thought, well shit. I’m 40. I guess I only have 25 meaningful years left.

The pandemic was not a fun time!

Our society prioritizes…idolizes…worships youth. While at the same time, our society hates kids. Duality! We prize beauty and vitality over wisdom and maturity. We pay any amount of money to look and feel young. To most people, “aging gracefully” means looking good by simulating youth. And if it’s not possible to look young, have the decency to never show your face in public. Or at least not during peak hours. Stick to the early bird specials. 

Did that mean that my parents, both in their 70s—one in a wheelchair with a degenerative neurological disease—were simply living ghosts? The Walking Dead, or The Rolling Dead? It was hard not to be angry all the time at a society that kept telling you your loved ones don’t matter.

But instead of getting angry…or, rather, in addition to getting angry…I realized that the most radical act in an uncaring society is to care, to value all life. I didn’t make that realization on my own. As the infamous DARE commercial once said, “I learned it from watching you, Dad.” (Ironically, I did not learn about drugs from my dad. Thanks, UConn! Go Huskies!)

My dad taught me, through his actions, to dare to find value in all life; dare to love people (and animals) that are sick, or even close to death, those deemed worthless.

In 2021, a few months after defeating cancer, my parents’ beloved good boy Cody died after a long, happy life. Long in dog years. It's never long enough. My parents always had a dog, and my dad always had a very strong bond with his dogs. He was especially close with Cody for many reasons. One reason was that Cody was there for him as my mom’s health deteriorated and she had to go in a wheelchair and she spent more and more time in the hospital. So it was a huge loss when Cody died. But as usual, he didn’t linger on the death and sadness; he started looking for another companion. There are no replacements for a lost pet, but you can begin a new relationship that can help you cope with the loss and that can grow into something just as meaningful.

So there was no doubt my parents would get another dog, and that it would be a rescue. I figured a puppy would be too much of a handful, but I didn't expect a shaggy, half blind, 8 year old dog named Hobbs. 

The more I think about it, the more it made sense. It wasn’t just about getting a new companion. He wanted to give another dog, neglected for most of its life, discarded by his owners, a chance at a good life.

I know a lot of people never consider adopting an older pet. For most people, the point is to have a pet for as long as possible. And for a bigger dog like Hobbs, 8 is not too far from his life expectancy. And he was mostly blind. So why go through all the trouble? What’s the point if the dog is going to die soon?

This mentality is common, but that doesn’t make it any less problematic. For one thing, it means that a lot of deserving older animals never get adopted and never have a chance for a decent life.  But I've also been thinking about what it means on a philosophical level. This refusal to adopt older animals reflects a lot about our feelings towards older people, and how we feel about the relation between time and life. 

When people think of age and life, most people value quantity over quality. They want to live a long life. Living longer means you won! But at the same time, as a society, we don’t value those people who live longer. We put them away in nursing homes or other facilities, which wouldn’t actually be too bad, if we properly funded those facilities. But once we place them there, if the healthcare services aren’t adequate, hey, that’s not our problem. We are young and full of life! Not like those old people. We’ll never be like those old people! Then when an old person dies, our fascination and respect for higher numbers comes back, and we say “oh they lived such a long life! 95 years…can’t ask for much more than that!” As a society, we have issues with age, is what I’m saying.

But my dad, and my mom, always valued quality over quantity. They cherished life, and they gave value to each other’s life and everyone they met. Every animal they met, too. Hobbs could have spent his last days or months in a kennel, waiting to die or be put down by strangers. Instead, he had a great last 9 months with my parents and their cat, Max.

Max, another rescue, another pet with an eye problem. My dad got Max about two years after my parents’ sweet cat Kay  passed away. It was soon after my mom had The Incident that kept her in the hospital and nursing home for a while. When she was in there, taking all types of new drugs—and often missing her regular Parkinson’s drugs because the nurses were not trained for that because of the lack of proper funding for the facilities that I mentioned earlier—she kept hallucinating and seeing cats in the room. She told everyone she was trying to save these cats and she even tried to recruit people who visited her to help her save the cats.

So, when she finally came home, guess who was waiting to meet her? Literally the cat of her dreams. Well, one of the cats from her dreams.

Then, Max almost immediately clawed her arm to shreds. But it was out of love! And they became inseparable friends. And my dad loves cats, too, so it wasn’t an entirely selfless act, but it was just another example of the thoughtfulness behind his actions.

After Hobbs died, the search for another companion began, and shortly after, Archie arrived from Louisiana. Now, outside of New Orleans, Louisiana is as backwoods as you can get, and their views on animals are a little different than in New England. The story goes, his owner kept him outside and at some point even the minimal effort to keep a dog alive was too much, so she decided she would shoot him and open up her schedule for more Dr. Phil reruns and Miller Lite. Thankfully he was rescued and eventually paired with my father. Another disregarded life my dad would take care of.

Archie arrived thin and scared, with fur falling off and his tail between his legs. He would slink away from most people and barely eat.

That lasted a few weeks. With the love and care of my dad, he was soon flourishing, greedily eating the crumbs off my mom’s lap, prancing over to meet me at the door when I visited. No surprise at all, really. Another soul saved by Saint Ken. 

  

Technically, anyone can do what he does. It’s a choice, followed by determination and commitment. Many people choose not to. They choose not to rescue animals when they are looking for pets, opting for the popular, specialized, expensive breeds. They choose not to take the older dogs, the disabled dogs, the difficult dogs. They choose not to stand by their wife as her body fails and her mind slowly deteriorates. They choose not to help their spouse eat and dress and wash, day in and day out. They choose not to sit by their spouse's hospital bed until the very moment that cherished life leaves her body in gasps and then whispers. They choose not to confront the most difficult aspects of life head on with kindness and humility.

And it’s not that he never lost patience. He just never let a bad or weak moment extend into a habit. It’s not that he never made a mistake. He just never gave up. He was inspired by my mother’s resilience and determination, but she was just as inspired by his. Her life was literally extended by his resilience and determination and support. 

Not only was it extended, it was enhanced. Even when she was confined to the wheelchair, her life was enriched because my parents chose to give value to life. I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I know it is not to simply live a long time. We, as individuals, as family and community members, give it meaning. For my dad, giving to others, helping others, gives meaning to his life. Whether it’s in his role as a husband, brother, father or grandfather, he is a provider, someone who can always be relied on. He was a coach and a father figure to countless kids, including all my friends and my brother’s friends. 

I’ve learned so much from my father throughout my entire life. He’s taught me some things directly, but mostly he teaches by example. For the last few years, he’s taught me one of the most important lessons of all: how to age gracefully. Although I don’t look forward to the golden years of knee replacement surgeries and arthritis, I can only hope to always emulate his approach to life. I hope to be able to provide my wife with the love and support and quality of life that he provided my mom. I hope to be a person that my family and friends can always rely on. I hope to always find value in life, despite any disability or illness or the proximity of death.

I often doubt my ability to do what he did for my mom. I hope I never have to prove myself. Maybe I am capable. Maybe we all are, and when we are faced with those situations, it really does come down to choice. Or maybe most people are simply incapable and he really is a saint. Regardless, I hope to live my life the way he has. I hope to give value to the lives of those I love. He didn’t pass on his good hair genes to either of his sons, but maybe he passed on the dedication and commitment and thoughtfulness genes. 

And since I still need the lessons, hopefully he can continue to teach me by example for many more years. At least until he's 95. That's a good, long life. Can't ask for much more than that! 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Eulogy for Mom

Funeral for Marie Farr Elterich

Friday, March 8, 2024

St. Mark The Evangelist Church, West Hartford, CT

In honor of my mom, please consider donating to the Michael J. Fox Foundation.

Eulogy by Geoff Elterich

Well this was one way to get me back in church, Mom...

Strength. Everyone talked about how strong my mother was. And everyone is right. I just wish she didn’t have to be so strong. She went through so much, even before she had Parkinson's. She was a Special Ed teacher, in Hartford, in the 80s and 90s. That’s tough. Then she fought Parkinson's for 27 years. Among other things. I had totally forgotten that she had breast cancer at one point. Around the same time, she had major surgery on her spine. Then later in that same year, she basically died.

But she came back. Miracle Marie.

 
And almost as soon as she got home, after being in a coma then being in the hospital for over a month, she wanted to go out to eat at the Corner Pug, because she wasn’t gonna let this thing make her miss out on living. Her life was not going to be defined by her illness. So we took her out. I was terrified the whole time, thinking something bad was gonna happen, but she just went along like no big deal. That’s how she was. It wasn’t good enough to just be alive, she wanted to keep living, and she wasn’t gonna let anything stop her. She wanted to make the most of her time here, doing the things she loved. Spending time with her family and friends. 

Her life, especially the last 7 years or so was really tough on a daily basis, but there were great moments, and that’s what living is about, creating and experiencing those moments that live on and make everything else worth it.
 
When a lot of people think of someone who is strong they often think of someone who doesn’t show emotions. But if you know my mom, you know that is far from the truth. She cried. A lot. She embraced her emotions, and that made her stronger.
 
And of course, my dad made her stronger. Ken. The Rock. The most beautiful yet saddest thing I've seen in my life is their relationship. That’s the paradox of life though, right? Beauty and cruelty both coexisting. But through it all they had each other.
 
And it wasn’t just my dad. My aunt Jane, Bob and Diana, Mike, our cousins. Our family is strength. and beyond that she had such a strong community behind her. You can really tell a lot about somebody by their friends, and her friends are so amazing. I know it was not easy at times to see her going through it. but friends visited the hospital, at home, took her out to eat or to a play. her friends still showed up. And that meant the world to me and the world to her and my dad.
 
She always wanted to create moments with the ones she loved. Moments to remember, moments to bond with each other. Hosting parties for family and friends, Birthday parties for me and mike, later for her granddaughters, who meant the world to her. Holidays, we all know how much she liked Christmas. Some might say a little too much. The santa figurines. The singing toys. Dad maybe we can get rid of all the singing toys now? 
 
My mom loved traveling, camping, going to the beach, creating moments.
 
She also loved quiet moments. She taught me the love of a good book and a cat on your lap. She taught me so much. She taught me how to teach, and how to advocate for students.
 
And almost a year ago to this day, she was at my wedding. Thanks for the anniversary gift mom. Gotta make it about her right?!? I know she was so happy the whole year leading up to it, and then she was crying through the whole thing. Tears of joy of course. Because she knew I was in good hands. And our mother son dance...I'm just so happy I got to create that moment for her because she created so many for me.
 
Mom. Mother. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Grandmother. Aunt. Teacher. Friend. Den mother. Leader. Fighter. Horrible singer. Let’s be real here. I can say it because I'm her son. But that didn’t stop her did it? She loved it. She once told me when it comes to singing “whatever you do, sing loud. May not be good. But they’ll hear you. And you'll know you gave it your best.” It took me a while to understand that, and to appreciate it. I couldn't help but to eventually admire it. 

But yeah, as a kid, Mom singing was the worst thing that could happen. But she loved it and wasn’t gonna let anyone stop her. She'd even force you to sing with her. She wanted to tap in to that communal spirit. Christmas carols around the block, songs before Christmas dinner. 

And the cruel irony is, when the Parkinson's got worse, it took her voice, it took her singing away. And as much as I hated her singing for so long, especially when she did it to wake me up for school, these last few years I wanted nothing more than to hear her sing again. So it goes.

 
And so to honor her legacy, I wanted to give her one last sing along. One last moment with my mom that can live on within all of us. This is one of her favorite songs and she wanted it sung at her funeral so, here you go mom. Will the Circle Be Unbroken.
 
I'm gonna do my best, so bear with me, but thankfully I have my rock, my strength. Another thing mom taught me was to choose your friends and your partner well. I think I did. Just so happens she's a teacher, and her birthday is two days apart from my mom's.
 
So we're gonna start it off and try to set the melody and pace, and I'd love it if you could all join in. Nice and loud so Mom can hear you.

Will the Circle Be Unbroken
 
I was standing by my window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw that hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

I said to that undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord, I hate to see her go

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. Bye, Mom. 

Cody, The Golden Boy, A Perfect Companion

The other day I walked into my parents' house, and for the first time in 13 years, I was not greeted by a playful bark, a wagging tail, and a joyful mass of golden fur pressing against my legs. That’s when it really hit me. Cody is gone.

Cody was my parents’ dog, a Golden Retriever/Chow Chow mix, and he was beautiful. Long, soft golden hair, with curls around the ears, and a purple spotted tongue usually hanging out of his smiling mouth. He was exactly the type of dog you imagine when you want to get a dog. Loyal, loving, playful, chill, obedient, handsome, sweet, friendly, fluffy. A perfect companion.  

He was the first dog my parents got after I moved out, so I never lived with him, but he always made their house feel like it was still home. Soon after they got him, it was like he had always been a part of our family. He would get so excited when I visited, rushing to the door and positioning himself between my legs so I would rub his head and butt at the same time.

Last year, he was diagnosed with cancer. I was sure he was going to die, because it was 2020 and nothing good could possibly happen. I was preparing for the heartbreak, but I was really more concerned about my parents, especially my Dad. With the pandemic, my mom in a wheelchair and suffering from Parkinson’s, and a cold winter setting in, this was the last thing he needed. It was too cruel. But my dad didn’t give up, and neither did Cody. He underwent treatment for the cancer, and although it wasn’t easy—he lost some weight, he coughed stuff up—he made it.

It took a lot out of him, though, and he was almost 14 years old. His hind legs had been bothering him for a while, and by mid-May, they had completely given out. He couldn’t walk. He deserved comfort and peace. It was time to let him go. So my Dad, merciful as always, brought him to the vet and let him transition.

My family always had great dogs. Ramses, a Golden Retriever, died a couple years after I was born. All I remember is that he was a good boy. Tuffy, another Golden, was there for my entire childhood and helped shape who I am almost as much as my parents did. He was anything but “tuff”, by the way. A sweet, fluffy boy. A real good dog. We got Dakota soon after we moved to West Hartford, when I was living at home, going to high school, and my brother was away at college. I was in a new town, in a new school, by myself. And I was a teenager. It was a time of great change, and Dakota helped me through it. He was a giant white horse of a pooch who would chase deer all over the golf course. A handsome, independently minded, but needy and loving pooch. Another good boy. He was too much for his previous owners’ to handle, but perfect for us. 

While we had Dakota, my parents raised a Fidelco guide dog for a year. Rachel was a good dog. It was an interesting experience because we had to (try to) maintain an emotional distance since she wasn’t staying long. That didn’t stop us from loving her. When she was done with training, she provided her services to an elderly woman with bad sight. After many years, Rachel retired, and she actually came back to live with my parents. Sadly, she passed away soon after. That entire experience taught me a lot about the process of fostering and doing something for the greater good. And it really made me admire my parents. Not many people are willing to sacrifice their time and efforts for others. Although, they did get all the benefits of a kind, loving dog for a year, so they made out pretty well, too.

Dakota and Rachel, before she started working.

Cody and Rachel, after her retirement, with Sophie, my brother's dog. She was a good girl, too.

Then there was Cody. The sweetest dog. He did more in his life than most people. Literally. My dad brought him to nursing homes to volunteer as a comfort dog. And of course, he worked as an unofficial comfort pet at home, helping to get my parents through some tough years. He was a constant presence, always by my Dad’s side.

Even on vacation in Florida.

At the beginning of this year, as the fear of Cody dying from cancer started to subside, we were blindsided by the sudden sickness and death of our kitty, Nola. It was devastating. She was only 11 months old, but the impact she made on our lives was immeasurable. Not having any other pets to comfort us only made it worse. Thankfully, Cody was there whenever I visited my parents, or when they visited us. It was almost as if he stayed around to get my parents though the winter and to help me through Nola’s death. Even in the short moments I saw him, he brought such great comfort.

We also took some comfort in remembering the two encounters between Cody and Nola. He was the one dog she ever met, and no surprise, Cody was great with her. He let her get close and sniff, and he didn’t even mind when she stalked the floor by my mom, looking for scraps of food. Nola had never met any other animals, and very few people, but she met Cody, the best the world had to offer. 

One of my favorite pics. Their first meeting, during our Christmas celebration at our new house. 

It’s hard to believe that Cody and Nola are both gone. I don’t believe in an afterlife so I won't say, “they’re playing together in Heaven now,” or something like that. I have nothing against people who say or believe that. I wish I could believe it! It’s just not how I view the world, or how I envision death. But Cody and Nola will always be connected in my memories, and even though it is heartbreaking that they are only memories now, I’m happy they are together in my mind and in my heart. 

Cody also met our new kitties, Zoli and Bijoux. I'd like to think there was some kind of transference of energy from Nola to Cody to them. Like, she met him, then he met them, and there was a connection established through Cody, as if he was a conduit of life that let her spirit continue on in them. I'd like to think that. That's my vision of the afterlife.

Cody also met our dragon, Puff! And guess what? He was great with him, and the kitties, too. Because Cody was great with everybody, and everything. Old people, kids, other animals. He was just a real good boy.

Miss you buddy.

What a beautiful boy. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Aeris & Nola and the Cruel Tragedy of FIP

Aeris is a short film I recently watched from 2018. It is excellent...and it broke me. 

Less than 3 months ago, our precious kitten Nola passed away. My girlfriend and I were devastated. We still are. Our sweet Nola succumbed to Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP) a rare, fatal disease with no cure that almost exclusively affects kittens. It’s actually caused by a feline coronavirus. Yeah. Fucking coronavirus. I read a lot about the disease after her diagnosis, and continued to read about it after her death. It was so cruel it didn’t seem real. This disease we had never heard of, which affects less than 1 in 5000 cats, stole our baby’s life.

At some point in my reading, I learned of a short film about a young couple and their kitten with FIP. As I read the description of the film, I knew it would be heartbreaking to watch. I also knew I had to watch it. I told my girlfriend about it, and after putting it off for a while, we watched it the other day.

I was right. It was heartbreaking. But I was also right that we needed to watch it, and I’m glad we did.

A young man buys a kitten from a small pet store. “The runt of the litter,” the sketchy lady who owns the store tells him. He buys it as a gift for his girlfriend, who is allergic to cats. She is upset when she comes home and sees the kitten. He assures her it is hypoallergenic. Soon, she falls in love with the kitten. They both do. They name it Aeris. It’s a cute white cat with some grey marks. It’s lovable and playful, but doesn’t eat much. Then it has some accidents on the bed. They take it to the vet. The vet feels its belly and becomes concerned. She draws fluid from its belly. The fluid is yellow. The vet says she is worried that the kitten has FIP. She says the only treatment is euthanasia.

They can’t believe it. How could this be? She must be wrong. But the cat is definitely sick. The guy goes to the pet store and yells at the owner, who swears she’d never sell a sick kitten. They take the kitten to another vet, who tells them the first vet could’ve made a mistake. Maybe she drew fluid from its bladder and not its stomach. The fluid was probably just urine, he tells them. The cat seems happy, so everything’s probably fine. They are reassured. Hopeful.

But the kitten is still not eating. It’s lethargic. The young woman learns about some homeopathic treatment and tries it out. The kitten seems to respond positively.

But not for long. One morning the guy wakes up to hear the kitten meowing oddly. He finds it under the bed having a seizure. They freak out and rush to the vet, the one who said the cat was fine. He realizes the cat is most definitely not fine. Its organs are shutting down. It likely has FIP. The only option...euthanasia. They put their kitten down.

It’s a simple yet heartbreaking story, and although I cried through the whole thing, I also found it somewhat comforting. Besides a few different details, it basically depicted the exact experience that my girlfriend and I went through. We brought our kitten to the vet, thinking a little medicine or something would be all it needed. Our vet told us it was possible she had FIP, and that euthanasia might be the only option. We had never heard of FIP, and certainly never imagined losing our kitten before it turned a year old. She couldn’t have a fatal disease with no cure. Impossible.

The main difference between our stories is that in the movie, the kitten is sick from the first day, and it died 12 days after they got it. We had Nola for 9 months, and she was healthy for the vast majority of that time. One of the reasons FIP is so odious is that it can be in the system for months or even a couple years without any signs before turning fatal. I’m so thankful for that time, but that is partly why her illness was such a shock to us. She seemed fine for so long, and all of a sudden…she wasn’t. All because of a virus that she got months earlier, before we even met her.

Another big difference is that Aeris had fluid in her belly. Nola had fluid in her lungs. There are two types of FIP, wet or dry, both fatal. But they are more like two ends of the spectrum, because in some cases, a cat might have symptoms of both. The belly is more noticeable and often causes kittens to lose control of their bodily functions. The fluid in the chest obviously affects the breathing. But both types build up slowly, then reach a tipping point and get progressively worse very quickly. The symptoms start off vague, like eating and playing less, then become much more severe. It’s almost a good thing that the symptoms are not noticeable early on because early detection would not help treat it. So you would know the kitten is terminally ill for a longer period of time without being able to do anything about it. Looking back, we appreciate that we were blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen. She may have been sick for a month or more, but besides the last 10 days or so, she seemed like the healthiest, happiest cat in the world.

So it was a shock to us, and everything felt so surreal. I couldn’t even process what the vet told me when she mentioned “fatal disease” and “euthanasia.” For the rest of the night after that first vet visit, I was in a fog of disbelief and anger and fear.

Then, the next day, just like the couple in the movie, we had hope that our girl was going to be okay. At that point, it was still possible she had some other infection. Maybe it was just me trying to convince myself, but I was feeling positive. In the movie, they try homeopathic medicine to get the kitten to eat. We gave her the medicine from the vet to boost her appetite and treat her fever. We tried all different types of food and treats. She was lethargic and didn’t eat much, but there was no way she could be terminally ill. Something told me she would be fine.

After a few days, when she didn’t get any better and still didn’t eat, we looked into an experimental treatment for FIP. Our vet told us that this treatment has been showing “some promise” in curing FIP. But it is not FDA regulated or permitted for use by vets, and it’s only available on the black market. So there’s no way of knowing whether you’re getting what it claims to be or some knockoff. Plus, even if it is the real thing, it still has a very low success rate. Like, basically negligible. I researched it and even reached out to a group on Facebook. In my brief conversation with a representative of the group, it didn’t feel like they would be much help. They asked a bunch of questions and didn’t even mention the treatment. It felt more like a support group than a realistic solution. And our baby was starting to rapidly decline. There was no more hope.

When the girl uses the homeopathic medicine in the movie, it seems to have some positive effects. A part of me thought the kitten was going to make it, and that made me upset. I felt bad for being upset, but I couldn’t help it. For a moment, I thought this treatment would work, and the movie would turn into a commercial for this black market medicine. I got legitimately angry and worried. I felt like I was rooting for the kitten to die.

Grief is a fucked up thing, man.

Obviously, in real life I would want any cat to survive. But I couldn’t stand the thought of this fictional kitten surviving the same disease that killed our Nola.

Regardless, the medicine did not help Aeris. I was relieved, then immediately overcome with sadness. Now I desperately wanted this kitten to survive.

Seriously, grief is fucked up.

One thing we didn’t experience was the seizure. I really felt the characters’ heartache and concern and anxiety. In her final days, Nola was breathing hard, not eating, and clearly uncomfortable. We were so worried she would suffer a painful death, or something like a seizure. It was unbearable to even contemplate. Thankfully, when we brought her to the vet that final time and helped her transition, she seemed to be at peace. And unlike the couple in the movie, we had a couple days with her to say goodbye before we let her go. In some ways, I feel that made it harder; we got the extra time with her, but we knew her fate was sealed. Her imminent death was hanging over us. I’m still glad we got that extra time, though. It sucks either way, I suppose. Fuck FIP.

It was a traumatic experience and we’re still struggling with it. She was our baby, and we poured ourselves into loving and caring for her. And we felt so alone in dealing with this. We felt like the only people who had ever gone through it. So it was slightly reassuring to know that this is something that happens, and it happens to undeserving people and animals. It was not a bad dream. It was not a punishment. It was not a result of something we did wrong. It was simply a horrible disease that she most likely contracted from other kittens in the foster home that rescued her. Since we had never heard of FIP…and it’s so rare…and Nola was just a kitten…and she seemed so healthy throughout her life…it was impossible to accept. When we had to put her down, it was so hard to believe it was actually happening. But it did happen. As it happens to hundreds of other kittens and kitten parents.

It’s still fucking horrible, though.

We cremated Nola with her favorite blanket. Her ashes sit on our fireplace mantle in a small urn with one of my favorite pictures of her looking out at us. In the film, they bury Aeris at the girl’s parents’ farm. In the final scene, they are at the grave, crying and reminiscing. As the girl walks back towards the house, she sees a cat on the porch. A faint smile crosses her face. The movie ends.

Soon, we will pick up our new kitten. We are heartbroken, and we will always miss Nola. She will always be a part of us. It has been hard to even think about getting a new cat. We just want our Nola. But that’s not possible. We can’t go back. Time marches forward. Life goes on. Etc. etc. Moving forward is the only option, so we need to start a new journey with a new pet. We got a bearded dragon a month ago because we needed something to love and focus our attention on, but we weren’t ready for a cat. Puff has been great, and he’s helped us heal. Now, we are ready to love another kitten.

Well, not “read” exactly. But willing. It still hurts to think that the only reason we are getting this kitten is that we lost our baby. Na’s presence is still present, in our home and our hearts. It always will be, and we will always cherish her memory, but we can’t let the pain of her loss prevent us from being happy and loving another pet. To honor Nola and our experience with her, we are going to put that same amount of love and energy into caring for another kitten, another innocent little creature who needs us. Nola was so unique and amazing and nothing can replace her, but she showed us how much we love caring for a pet, and we want that again. We wish it was her, but it can’t be. So we have to believe that another kitten will bring a new, different-yet-equal love to our lives. This love doesn’t exist yet, so it’s hard to imagine. But our love for Nola didn’t exist before we got her, and eventually, it turned into a love that we couldn’t imagine life without.

It’s awful that this movie even had to exist, but I’m glad it does because I know that we are not alone in losing our beautiful baby to this awful disease. And after seeing what could have happened, I know that we did the right thing in letting her go before the pain really set in. We had to protect her, and we couldn’t bear her suffering any more.

I appreciate the filmmakers sharing their story. The film is based on the experience that the young man and woman in the film actually went through. As the guy said in an interview, despite her brief time with them Aeris quite literally changed their lives. He says that Aeris taught them how to love. My girlfriend and I feel similar about Nola. We had a deep love for each other before her, but she took that love to another level and showed us things about ourselves and each other that we would have never known otherwise. Her life, and her death, brought us closer together. It’s hard to explain what it was like going through this, but this film captures it well, and I’m grateful for that.

I also appreciate the vets who are upfront and honest, as difficult as that may be. I understand the urge to offer comfort and hope, but as pet owners, we deserve and need honesty more than anything. Don’t give me false hope, and don’t put an animal through pain and anguish just to make the owners feel better for a few days. As Kurt Vonnegut says, there are fates worse than death. As hard as it is to accept, sometimes death is a necessary release. We hated to let Nola go, but we are comforted by the fact that we helped to release her from her pain and transition to an eternal sleep, where she can rest peacefully in the sunbeams.

RIP Nola. RIP Aeris.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Requiem for Nola

 

You came into our lives

At a time of great chaos 

And pain

And brought us great peace 

And joy.

Rescued from a life astray

Placed into my hands

"Here is your kitten"

And there you were 

Ours.

Instantly.

Love at first purr.

The sweetest thing.

Pure.

Innocent. 

Beautiful.  

Your mere presence 

Brought a level of comfort

And connectedness

We didn’t know existed.

Your first night with us

The first night of our new lives

You slept 

Curled on my chest.

Never would I have guessed

Less than a year later

You’d give your last breath

Curled on my chest.

For 9 months

Like a child

Growing inside a womb

You thrived and grew

Inside our bubble

Inside our hearts

Into more than a pet

A companion

Imbued with the best of us

A living symbol

An embodiment

Of our love.

A fatal virus took you from us

As a fatal virus takes so much

From us all.

A cruel irony.

A cruel reminder

Of the temporary

Ephemeral

Fleeting nature

Of existence.

Of beauty.

I hope we brought you

The comfort and peace 

In death

That you brought us 

In life.

I hope that in your tragically short life

We gave you the joy

The complete sense of contentment

And sanctuary

That you gave us.

It just doesnt make sense.

I dont want your life

To be some lesson

I just want to hold you

Bury my face in your soft

Warm fur

And feel the harsh

Cold world 

Fade away.

I want to watch you

Stretch your black-striped legs

With your snow white paws

Over Amy’s shoulder.

I still feel you when I wake up

Snuggled against my thigh.

But you’re just a dream now

Slipping away

As I reach for your soft fur.

Were you ever really here?

Did something so good

So pure

So innocent

So beautiful

Really exist in this world?

Can a pet mean so much

And have such an impact

In such a short time?

Maybe your life 

Was always 

Just a dream

And I just

Don’t want to 

Wake up.

At a time of great loss

A time of great distance

You brought us closer together

You filled a void

You helped us get by

In a year 

When so many 

Did not.

You made our new house a home

And made our lives whole.

My little buddy.

Her little girl.

Our baby. 

Sweet Nola.

You shined like the sunbeams

That you always found

That always found you

Because light attracts light

And your light was the brightest.

In its absence 

A profound darkness.

The void that you filled

Has returned

Grown deeper

And left us broken

Yet somehow 

More together 

Than ever

Because we experienced

Your life

Your light

Together

As one.

Your beautiful spirit lives on 

In us

More than a memory

A fiber of our being.

You were our heart

And in our hearts

You will always remain

Our sweet Nola. 

-

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.