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. 

The Many Faces of Heroism

Superhero movies have become a dominant fixture of American culture in the past 20 years. As the world makes less and less sense, and as the dangers in the world take on more and more complex forms, we tend to look for simple solutions and heroes who can punch the evil away. Iron Man can defeat terrorists and aliens with his incredible technology! Captain America can defeat Nazis and aliens with his pure heart, incredible courage, and steroids! The Hulk can smash evil Norse gods and aliens with his bare hands! If only life were so simple. At least we don't have aliens. 

Instead, we have invisible viruses. We have degenerative diseases. We have systemic racism. And although our technology has reached an almost miraculous level, we haven’t found the solution to these problems, and no matter how much we hope for it, the Hulk isn’t coming to smash them away. 

In real life, heroism doesn’t look like The Avengers. Sure, sometimes a person does a heroic act like pulling a baby out of a burning building or taking down a mass shooter before he can kill more. But for the most part, in real life, heroic acts are smaller gestures that express the beauty and the intense goodness that exist within life all around us, coexisting with all the ugliness and negativity. Extending a helping hand, supporting a friend in need, speaking out for those with no voice, pushing on in the face of adversity. These heroic acts often aren’t considered heroic. Maybe they aren't equivalent to saving the entire planet from destruction, but they are real, human moments of heroism in the face of the most uncaring, inescapable, undefeated villain the real world has to offer: death.

Unfortunately, that villain got its sickly paws on Chadwick Boseman, who became a literal superhero, the Black Panther, and helped ignite a worldwide phenomenon. All while battling colon cancer. It is almost inconceivable to think of what he accomplished after getting the diagnosis, receiving chemo treatments, and ultimately knowing he would soon die. 

It’s honestly so inconceivable that it moves beyond inspirational. Nobody should feel like they need to accomplish so much while going through something like that. It's ok to rest! The fact that he did what he did is commendable and amazing, but too often we use the unique, incredible accomplishments of one person to shame others. If he was the Black Panther and made Avengers Infinity War and End Game and did all the red carpet appearances and interviews and met with sick kids and loved his family and gave black people around the world a moment of happiness and gave black children representation in an area where it was severely lacking, all while fighting cancer...HOW DARE YOU TAKE A DAY OFF FROM WORK BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT THE SNIFFLES! How dare you feel sorry for yourself even for one second just because you have a disease or disability! 

As a culture and society, we feel pressure to not only praise this great man for doing great things in the face of adversity, we have to use his death as a lesson. We often call people living with deadly diseases "heroes," and rightly so, but sometimes it seems like that we do it just to make ourselves feel better. To ease our own fears. We don’t want cancer, so someone who has it and perseveres is a hero. But we don’t truly consider what that means or what that person is actually going through. They're not even their own person anymore, they become a character in a story. They’re not a regular person with everyday issues and fears: they are CANCER WARRIORS! 

There is good intent behind this characterization. People fighting cancer are fighting a heroic battle, to save their very lives. They should be praised. But this characterization can dehumanize people, or glorify people at the expense of others. This person won his battle against cancer! Well, this other person lost his battle against cancer. Does that mean one was stronger than the other? Did one simply fight harder? Maybe both fought equally as hard, but one had better treatment. Maybe the one who died actually fought harder. Maybe it was all just pure, shitty luck. 

Chadwick Boseman didn't "lose" a battle against cancer. He died from a horrible disease. And before that, he lived as well as he could. But not everyone can do what Chadwick Boseman did--embody the literal role of a superhero and inspire millions of people across the globe while fighting cancer--and they shouldn't feel bad about it. Courage looks different on each person depending on their circumstances. Heroism looks different on different people. For some people, simply getting out of the house is heroic. 

Recently, my mom went into the hospital. She’s been in and out (mostly out, thankfully) for the past 2.5 years. Parkinson's and Parkinson's related dementia has taken its toll on her (and us) but once again, it has not broken her. After being in there for about a week, with no visitors allowed, she came home and was ready to live. It was her 75th birthday a few days after she got home, and she insisted on going out to eat. Every time she has gotten out of the hospital, she has wanted to go out soon after. She is more willing and less hesitant than me. I can't help thinking of everything that can go wrong, whether it’s a good idea, what about Covid or this or that…but she's adamant. She wants to go out. So we put our masks on and ate on an outside patio.

Through it all, she hasn’t given up on life. There are probably moments when she wants to. Just like in the superhero movies, there's always a moment when the hero is ready to call it quits. They are defeated. They are exhausted. Batman retires and hangs up the cape. The Black Panther gets tossed over a cliff and falls into a coma.

There are moments when we all want to give up. And some people do. That's not a sign of weakness. There's only so much pain and anguish one can bear. Honestly, sometimes giving up is a rational response. 

And that’s exactly why not giving up is so heroic. Life is fucking hard! Those who keep going in the face of adversity and death are so admirable because it's not a logical, rational response. You're going to die anyways, why fight it? 

Because what else is there? Life is fighting death. That’s the whole thing! 

In Boseman's situation, a rational response to finding out he had colon cancer would have been to stop working. Stop visiting sick kids. Stop doing talk shows and meeting fans. At the very least, tell people why you’re losing weight and looking frail so you don't get attacked on social media! Instead, he just took it all upon himself. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him, or just didn’t want the parasitic entertainment industry sucking his life dry for “heartwarming” interviews. Maybe he was just a private person, but I truly think he understood that he had become a symbol, and he wanted to represent a sense of power and nobility and grace, and joy, without the element of pity. 

People thought he looked tired doing the Wakanda Forever pose for everyone who requested it, but maybe that was the only thing keeping him going. 

He didn’t ask for pity or praise for dealing with his sickness. My mom never has, either. (My dad hasn't either, for that matter, and what he does on the daily basis is heroic, too.) All she wants is to feel normal. To live her life without the crushing weight of her disease, even for a few moments. 

So she asked us to take her out to dinner.

And yes, in the face of Parkinson’s and dementia and Covid, that is heroic as hell. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

My mom is going to have surgery and radiation to remove cancer from her breast tomorrow. The procedure will be done at St. Francis Hospital in Hartford, the hospital in which I was born. I don't want to think of the cruel irony that could possibly play out.

Yet here I am, thinking about it.

Her older sister has battled breast cancer twice, the first time when she was in her 50s. My mom considers herself lucky because she didn't get it until her 70s. Yeah, besides that whole Parkinson's thing for the last 20 years, pretty lucky!

My mom doesn't want and never asks for pity or sorrow, and I certainly won't. That's not what this is about. When I write about my mom, it's never about that. It's more about taking every opportunity to discuss and talk about the love and admiration I have for her. I didn't vocally express my love for my parents for a long time, and I want to make sure to do that as much as possible now.

And sometimes I simply need to vent about the constant shit that the universe rains down on good people, over and over. My mom's Parkinson's diagnosis 20 years ago contributed to my loss of faith and belief in God; the last 20 years has provided a daily reminder that there is no all-knowing, all-seeing, compassionate, omnipresent being. Her latest diagnosis assures me that even if there were a god, he/she/it is a fucking twisted asshole.

One of the things that gets me, besides the general cruelty of putting such a caring, giving, kind woman through all of this, is that she still goes to church. For me, her Parkinson's and cancer are clear evidence that god doesn't exist, or at the very least, that god doesn''t care about anyone. I realize I'm just projecting my thoughts and beliefs on her; maybe my closeness to the situation is not letting me see any other perspective. I also realize that for some people, these obstacles or challenges or shitty situations make their faith even stronger. I don't personally get that, but I know it happens, and I respect it. One could argue that she has lived a relatively healthy life since her Parkinson's diagnosis and that's something to be thankful for; I might even agree with that. At the same time, Parkinson's is is an awful, painful, incurable disease that gets worse over time, so what's there to be thankful for?

Breast cancer on top of that just ain't right. There's no "greater plan" that can include that. Don't give me that "it's a test" shit, either; she's passed any possible test with flying colors in her 71 years.

I try not to get sad when thinking of my mom, but it can be difficult. I hate seeing her bent frame. She always had good posture and made sure my brother and I sat up straight at the dinner table. I hate seeing her hands tremble. She used to paint beautiful ceramic figurines. One year she gave me a ceramic Gizmo (from Gremlins) that played music when you turned the knob on the bottom

I'm fighting tears as I write this. Some of my sadness is probably out of self-pity. I think about how I've lived with her having Parkinson's longer than I lived with her not having it, and I think about how I will have more memories of her with the disease than without.

That's probably fucked up, right? I think all of these thoughts are pretty fucked up. But they are frequent. Too often, I think about the future and what the hell I'm gonna do without her in my life. That doesn't go too well.

I realize I'm being overly sensitive about it. I should just appreciate the time I have with her. A lot of my friends' parents have gone through similar things. Some of my friends have even lost a parent, or both parents. I know I shouldn't complain or be sad when she is still here, and still herself. But I will complain goddammit because my mom doesn't deserve this shit.

The only possible benefit of seeing my mom go through all of this is that her strength and resilience are on ready display. My mom isn't defined by Parkinson's but her perseverance and determination in the face of it does define her. She is facing the cancer the same way. I'm making a much bigger deal about it here than she ever has or will.

Another thing that has been made evident since the day of my mom's Parkinson's diagnosis is my father's strong yet gentle and loving disposition. Dealing with Parkinson's symptoms and the steady stream of doctor's appointments and trial procedures can be almost as difficult on the sufferer's partner. I think about how I can barely handle my mom's sickness, then think about how my father has been by her side ever since, no questions asked, and I wonder if I will ever be half as strong. Now, dealing with this new diagnosis, I am even more amazed by his resiliency.

I am amazed by both of my parents. I know that any good in me comes from them. I feel their love and guidance every day. I see their love and their lessons brought to life in my brother's daughters. I try to emulate my parents' love for each other and their love for life. It takes a real love of life to continue vacationing and cooking and walking the dog and loving one another, unabated by a neurological disease. And I'm sure this latest diagnosis and procedure will be no different.

Ok. I'm not sure. That's the problem. How can you ever be sure? Sometimes I wish I had faith in something. That might be comforting. Actually, that was part of the problem. I thought a god figure was comforting until it was really needed. Then it provided no comfort.

Anyways, if people are so inclined to pray for my mom, that's cool. Anything to even slightly increase the chances of things turning out fine. Personally, I am trying to think positive thoughts and spread good vibes and just generally not freak out. I figure if I spit out any negative thoughts, that would leave only positive thoughts, so I apologize if anything here comes off harsh, but if I know anything, it's that life can be harsh and bleak and down right brutal.

Thankfully, my parents have showed me that we can make a choice to focus on the beauty of life. It's not an easy choice, because it's easy to be overwhelmed by life's brutal realities. My first tattoo reads "The struggle is the blessing..."  It is a sort of combination of the buddhist belief that life is suffering and the idea that the journey is more important than the destination. I believe that the struggle is the blessing, yet I need to constantly remind myself because that is counter-intuitive. How can struggle be a blessing? I view struggle as a sign that you are living, you are fighting for something. When you don't struggle, you have given up. My parents, and Jimmy Valvano of course, taught me to never give up.

The idea that "the struggle is a blessing" is also a reminder to appreciate the present, as well as the past. Oftentimes, we don't appreciate the effort we put in to achieving a goal because we are so focused on the goal itself. Then, when we reach that goal, we realize that the real glory, the blessing, was in the effort we put in. Sometimes, I think about the future and life without my mom, when I should really be appreciating the time I've had with her and the time I still have with her.

Overall, viewing the struggle as a blessing, and using mindfulness to focus on the present are my ways of keeping perspective during tough times. There's got to be a reason for all this, right? That's what I'm really searching for, and that's why I seek solace in certain philosophies. They try to give meaning to things that seem to have none. The same goes for religious people, albeit in a slightly different manner, so although I might seem like I'm bashing theists, I swear to...my mom that I'm not. We're all searching for meaning and comfort and happiness. There's nothing wrong with finding alternative ways of doing so.

Right now, the number one way for me to find meaning and comfort and happiness is knowing that my mom is all right. So make sure she's all right, universe (i.e., doctors and nurses taking care of her).

UPDATED 10/29/2016: Mom is doing well after surgery. She will do the radiation treatments in a few weeks when she has healed. So it goes.

I Love You All (Especially You, Mom and Dad)...Class Dismissed.

F Cancer, Shoutout to Boosie. And Bowie.

The prospect of immortality looms heavily over us all. Some of us live in fear of it, others embrace it. However we ultimately feel about it, death is necessary to appreciate life. That's something we usually say to comfort the bereaved, but cliches become cliches for a reason: there's a lot of truth in them. Death is not distinct from life, it is the logical next step on life's journey. It is the continuation of a cycle. 

Dealing with illness and death is usually a private affair, but social media has made it so every death becomes a contest to see who can mourn harder. This becomes obnoxious, but people need to grieve in their own way, and if that helps, by all means. Even when it comes to celebrities. Some people get upset when fans dare to mourn a celebrity they never actually met, but I think mourning a celebrity's death is natural. Certain artists or athletes or entertainers may have made an impact on your life, even if it's simply making a song or an album or a movie you enjoyed. When an artist dies, fans feel a loss, and that feeling is real.

So when the outpouring of support came after David Bowie's death, I wasn't surprised or bothered. I'm not the biggest Bowie fan, I like some songs and movies he's made (Labyrinth is an all time classic) but more than anything I always appreciated his art and him as an artist. 

Like everyone else, I listened to a lot of his most popular songs when the news broke that he succumbed to cancer. Eventually I came across the video for Lazarus, one of the last songs and videos he made. 

I was floored.

Bowie's eccentricities are well known. He's out there, and this video is no different. But holy shit, this song and video are powerful. It's literally a man on his death bed, contemplating his life and eventual transcendence to another plane of existence.

It's heartbreaking yet hopeful. This is a man who knows he is going to die and wants to do it on his own terms. As an artist, he wants to share that experience. He has taken his fans on all types of journeys throughout his career and he has allowed them to tag along on this, the final journey.

The melancholia is almost overwhelming. The horns pull your heart out of your chest, his voice (still strong but with a touch of frailty) and lyrics throw your still beating heart against a wall.

Look up here man I'm in danger. 
I've got nothing left to lose. 
...

This way or no way, 
you know I'll be free, 
just like that bluebird, 
now ain't that just like me, 
oh I'll be free...

It's an artist's goodbye, yet now that he is dead, it feels like a message from beyond the grave. The video is haunting: a beautifully strange depiction of a dying man floating above his bed; he spins in the air and falls back down; a ghost(?) lady underneath the bed reaches for him; his sickly body spasms while he writes something, possibly the lyrics to this song; and finally, he disappears into a giant armoire. It's spooky and weird and a perfect ending to an incredible career. This was a man who battled cancer for over a year and then fully embraced death, at peace with the full life he lived.

Boosie Badazz aka Lil Boosie, is an artist who has not embraced his mortality. He is not ready to die, and in a recent song, simply titled, "Cancer," he details his recent battle with kidney cancer, expressing the sadness and outright fear he feels.

Boosie has been a hero in Baton Rouge for over a decade. He was recently released from jail on a drug charge (after being found not guilty on a murder charge that would have sent him to death row) and within a year or so, he was diagnosed with kidney cancer. Life has a cruel sense of humor.

Much like Lazarus, the video features the artist on a bed with white sheets. Both videos feature representations of the supernatural: Lazarus has the ghost lady, Cancer prominently features a bible. Unlike Lazarus, there are no metaphors here. No mask, no floating, no bluebird; just Boosie in the hospital, with his family and his somehow still fresh Boosie fade.

The lyrics are as straight forward as the title. Boosie is known for keeping it real, a term that has become a mostly meaningless phrase in rap, yet there's no better way to describe his style. Blunt, direct and honest raps about his own reality. His fear and anger and sadness are all on the surface, as tangible as the giant gold Jesus piece he wears over his hospital scrubs.

The opening lines tell you everything you need to know about the song and about how Boosie approaches his art:

Coldest words I ever heard was

"Torrence Hatch, I'm sorry. You got cancer."

Just beat death, turned into "now I got cancer?"

His greatest asset is his voice, with which he is able to emote raw passion better than most rappers or actors. The slow, minimal beat allows his piercing, pain-filled voice to take center stage, and the hurt behind his words is intensified by that high pitched, nasally delivery.

Throughout the song, he examines how the cancer diagnosis has affected his psyche and his family. He talks about his three aunts that died from cancer. He calls cancer "this pussy ass disease." He asks how long he'll live once his kidney is removed. The chorus is simply asking God for answers. Listening to the song feels exactly like watching a close friend or family member dealing with a cancer diagnosis. 

Two great artists, dealing with death and cancer through their music in very different ways. Bowie knows he will die and wants to assure us (and maybe himself) that it's all right to let go; Boosie is unsure and fearful of his fate, but he wants us to know he won't give up yet.

And this is how Young Thug shows his support.

Their different approaches to death are emblematic of their different approaches to their music. Bowie makes art outside of his personal self. He becomes a character in his music and it's hard to know the real Bowie. It is all facade, all spectacle. This feels like one of his most personal songs, yet it still doesn't really examine personal emotions. The song is full of metaphor so we can apply it to him but also to life and death in general.

On the other hand, Boosie is an open book. He puts himself and his life into every verse. In Cancer, we hear and feel every single emotion Boosie is experiencing. It is very personal, and like only great artists can do, he somehow makes his personal experience universal. We are all connected to the human experience; when someone can so openly and vividly express their own experience, it draws us in.

These two songs are very somber obviously, but there is an underlying hopefulness. Boosie is not willing to let go of his life yet, and Bowie is aware his life is coming to an end and he accepts it. The openness, the frailty mixed with the strength, lets us see these legendary artists as humans who suffer just like the rest of us. We all face death one day, and watching these men do it so gracefully is inspirational. Sometimes we need to fight it, and at some point, we need to let go.

That's life. It's beautiful. So it goes. Etc.

Peace and love.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.