A Piece of My Heart

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Our oldest cat Paws died tonight. She had been failing for weeks, so I knew her days were numbered. Watching her grow weaker every day and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable was agonizing. I didn’t want her to suffer, but at the same time I didn’t want to let her go. Every day that she stayed with me was a gift and during her last two days I was able to be near her, comfort her, and let her know how much she meant to me.

Paws was part of our lives for 14 years and 7 months. She was born under my son A’s bed, the offspring of a pregnant barn cat that we adopted. Paws initially went to the home of one of my son B’s friends, but she was returned to us when the family discovered their live in babysitter/cousin was allergic to cats. Paws’ mother Phantom and her brother Goliath had bonded by the time Paws came back to us, so she was always an outcast. Goliath was the big lovable one and Phantom was my lap cat. Paws was the one we hardly noticed. She was quiet, independent, and didn’t seek our attention. After the others died, Paws was basically an only cat even though we had seven other cats. Our younger cats were kept upstairs because they harassed Paws and our two older dogs dislike cats. Paws was much older and not very active, so she could coexist with the dogs and could easily be separated from them.

My life with Paws fell into a pattern. Every morning she would greet me, meowing a hello and beckoning me to her food dish or water bowl. When I sat down at the computer after breakfast Paws would come to me to have her head scratched and then she would share my chair with me. When she wasn’t next to me she would sit in the “old lady chair” in the living room, on the floor in a patch of sunlight, or on the round table next to the window where she had a good view of the front yard. If there was a thunderstorm, she would sleep under our bed because storms scared her. Most nights she slept in her chair in the living room and if she got bored, she would scratch at the bedroom door.

Paws died in the same room where her mother died next to the room were she was born. I wish she could have been with us for many more years, but I take comfort in the fact that she had a good life. The house is empty without her. I know as the days pass I will look for her in her old familiar places and maybe, before I remember that she is gone, I will catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. She will always be with me.

“Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.” ~Irving Townsend
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Gloom & Doom

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My daughter has a nickname for me: "Debbie Downer". Debbie was a fictional character on Saturday Night Live. The character developed into a slang phrase referring to anyone who spreads bad news and negative feelings, thus bringing down the mood of everyone around them. My Uncle Phil's wife, Aunt Francis, was the original Debbie Downer. My mother called her "the voice of gloom". The only time Aunt Francis ever called our family was to tell us that someone had died or some other bad thing had occurred.

I don't view myself as a Debbie Downer, but sometimes I hear about something that really bothers me or circumstances arise that so overwhelm me with negative feelings that I need to share with someone. Sharing often makes me feel better, but unfortunately, it also has the effect of ruining someone else's day.

The past few days have been rainy and gloomy. The constant rain and the inability to enjoy my garden have caused me to dwell on several situations over which I have no control. First, the baby elephant at the Louisville Zoo died. Scotty was a favorite of staff and visitors, and I remember taking pictures of him the last time I visited the zoo. Knowing that this oversize baby is gone make me extremely sad.

Second, shelters have been killing animals without giving them time to be adopted or rescued. Spring is puppy and kitten season which means shelters are overflowing with unwanted babies, pregnant animals, and animals with babies. My anger and frustration with ignorant, irresponsible humans is boundless. People are dumping animals using every lame excuse and several shelters have flooded which has caused overcrowding in other shelters and overburdened rescues. One rescue, that has helped a previously high kill shelter become low kill, may have to close due to financial difficulties. When I try to talk to family members about all the needless suffering and situations over which I have no control, they tell me they don't want to hear about it.

Probably the real reason I feel down is that Paws, my 13 year old cat, is fading away before my eyes and there is nothing I can do about it. During the past several weeks Paws has lost half her body weight. She has gone from being strong and robust to frail and skeletal. Her voice, which used to be loud and conversational, is soft and weak. I force feed Paws several times a day to keep her from dehydrating and I go to bed ever night fearing that she will be dead in the morning. It hurts me to look at what she has become, but it hurts me more to think about losing her.

I don't want to be a Debbie Downer. I want to focus on what is good in life and the things that make me happy, but even on the sunny days when all is well with the world, there is always a cloud nearby waiting to cast a shadow. If listening to another person eases a pain or lessens a burden, my ears and shoulders are waiting. I would like to think others would be willing to do the same for me.

“Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow” ~Swedish Proverb

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Beginnings and Endings

cemetaries

Miss Wilson

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When I moved to Louisville in 1978, I had no job, no friends, and no car. When finding employment proved to be impossible and being isolated in a small apartment while my husband attended classes was more than I could bear, I decided to volunteer at the art library at the Speed Museum. The museum was adjacent to the law school at the University of Louisville and every Tuesday and Thursday I would ride to and from the museum with my husband. While performing research, dry mounting photos, and updating files I became acquainted with another volunteer, Elizabeth Wilson. Miss Wilson was petite and pleasantly plumb. She had a sweet round face, a full head of white hair, and was many years my senior. She was also one of the most interesting and knowledgeable people I had ever met. Despite the difference in our ages, we soon became friends. We talked for hours while working in the library and began to have lunch together. For some reason Miss Wilson enjoyed my company and my husband and I began spending time with her outside the museum.

Miss Wilson was born in 1902 and was one of three sisters. Her father and a brother died when she was young and she was raised by her mother. All three sisters were talented and interesting. Miss Wilson often spoke about her childhood and her life. She was involved in the theater when she was young and she was the coordinator of the Louisville Service Club during World War II. She lived in Germany after the war working with the United Service Organization. Miss Wilson is mentioned in the encyclopedia of Louisville and the Elizabeth A. Wilson Papers are available in The Filson Historical Society Special Collections: http://kdl.kyvl.org/static/findaids/kyead/kyead_KUK-Knt001309.html

Miss Wilson was like a surrogate mother to me. She often praised me and encouraged my endeavors. She was kind and generous. She was a living archive and shared her time and interests with me and my family. Miss Wilson mentioned me and my husband in the annual Christmas letter she sent to friends. She and her sisters invited us into her sister’s home during the holidays and my children visited her in the nursing home after she fell and required temporary care. Unfortunately, as my children grew older and their activities and work overtook my life, my contact with Miss Wilson decreased. We still exchanged Christmas cards and notes, but we no longer spent time together. New friends partook of Miss Wilson’s knowledge and enthusiasm for life. I thought of her often, but, to my great regret, did not make an effort to renew our relationship.

Miss Wilson died January 28, 2000 at the age 97. At her funeral friends spoke of her most recent interests, including donating a doll that had been in her family for many years and learning gospel songs. Miss Wilson and her sisters had no children and she was survived by one cousin. Her friends were her extended family. I am honored to have been one of Miss Wilson’s many friends.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive. ~Anais Nin
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Camp

A Garden of Memories

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Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ~From the television show "The Wonder Years"

I always wanted to create a memory garden filled with plants, bushes, and flowers associated with special people and pets. A memory garden can honor a deceased loved one or recognize the living. It can also include mementos related to events, special occasions, or something in our lives we don’t want to forget. I don’t have an area in my yard that I can dedicate to this type of garden, so I have been planting “special” flowers and rose bushes here and there. In my front yard against the picket fence I planted a Constance Spry rose in remembrance of my Aunt Connie and every year I plant impatiens aka Patient Lucy in memory of my Aunt Lucy. My mother was one of three sisters and my father had four sisters. They were neighbors and grew up together. I planted a Seven Sisters rose bush in the berm near our pond to honor all of them. Although the majority of my memory plants were chosen to remember someone who is deceased, some of the plants in my garden recognize the living. I planted an Adam’s Needle next to the pond in honor of my oldest son.

Choosing the right plant for my memory garden isn’t always easy. Most of the time I try to find a namesake plant: a plant with a name similar to the person I am honoring. I searched many months to find a plant named Kelly to plant in memory of my oldest son’s deceased friend. Sometimes I choose plants that are related to a memory. My grapevine covered arbor is a daily reminder of my paternal grandfather Joseph who had his own grape arbor. Chinese lanterns grow in my front yard under an old tree just as similar plants grew in the backyard of my Uncle Johnny and Aunt Annie in New York. The lilac bush that blooms near my vegetable garden every May reminds me of my childhood in Rochester, New York, which is known as the lilac city. The lilacs in the yards of my childhood bloomed in May and I always thought they were a birthday gift to me.

Although those who are special to us always remain in our hearts and memories having visible reminders is a special joy. The johnny jump ups planted for Uncle Johnny and the Michaelmas Daisies planted for Uncle Mike, the lilac bush that blooms every May, and the Eternal Flame hostas planted on the graves of my pets are comforting to me. The problem with planting flowers or bushes in remembrance of a person is that there is always the chance that the plant won’t survive. This has happened to several of my memory plants. The rose bush “Mary Rose” that I planted in memory of my mother and her sister Rose, the Kelly plant I selected for Kelly, and an “Angel Face” tree rose planted for my Uncle Butch (aka Angelo) failed to thrive in my garden. The loss of a memory plant is always a reminder of the fragility of life.

Many gardens don’t survive their creators. Sometimes I wonder what will happen to my garden after I am gone. Will one of my children or the person who lives in my house pick up a shovel and hoe and continue my work? Will the plants I loved and tended be overtaken by weeds or perish due to lack of care? Will the ground grow fallow like it did in my grandfather’s vegetable garden? Some plants, like my grandfather’s grapevine, continue on their own unattended and become a living legacy. How will my children remember me? "Where my caravan has rested, flowers I leave you on the grass." ~Monica Dickens
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