“The connections we make in the course of a life–maybe that’s what heaven is…” Fred Rogers

Hello, friends. As they say in the South, “It’s been a hot minute.” I think this phrase can refer to a plethora of things…in my case, it’s writing, and anyone other than my handful of loyal folks reading my writing. And this minute finds me drinking “Devil Dog,” an oatmeal stout put out by Roak Brewing Co. in Detroit. I stole it from my husband’s birthday gift beer collection, but no biggie. It’s not his favorite style. It’s good, though. Chocolatey-malty, nutty. Here’s hoping my belly won’t protest, after mixing it with the 800 mg ibuprofen ingested a few hours ago. I’ve been worried out of my mind for my eldest son and a medical emergency involving bowels, but in reality I’ll be the one to probably need a new stomach lining in the near future. Ah, well. I hope you’re not squeamish with bodily functions, before reading further…

About that writing. I decided to take a break from my failing fictional attempts and come here instead. You know that advice, focus on others to get your head out of your ass? There is something to that. And for better or for worse I’ve witnessed a friend go to hell and return, to help me remember what to concentrate on. Occasionally we really need the reminder. So, thank you, Roy. And buckle up, readers. With his stated permission, I’m going to tell (some of) his story, in a few segments. I’ll start with some recent events and go backward, then circle back again. I hope I can do it (and him) justice.

Roy P. Thompson lives in an adorable gingerbread-like house a few hundred feet away from me. Husband John and I met him when we built our own home back in the nineties. I got to know him even more when I realized we were attending the same church, and we were both active there in different aspects. A lifelong bachelor, Roy was a greeter, a scripture reader, a Eucharistic minister, a leader of the church’s men group. And a tireless helper. I saw him as the model of what the catholic church supposedly sought from us: good works in every form. He spent countless hours tending to ill or compromised parishioners, whether it was driving them around or helping them settle affairs. We even carpooled together to attend volunteer hospice classes…which I recommend everyone take. You think you know a lot about death and dying–until you show up at a house and the wife tells you where the diapers and wipes are if her husband soils himself. I choked back the words, “I, uh…we’re not trained to do that…” as the exhausted woman slipped out the door for a one hour reprieve and I fervently prayed her partner had a bout of constipation. Much as we respected the organization, the association with hospice was short-lived for both of us. As fate would have it, he would come in contact with them later for very different reasons.

I truly enjoyed (and still do) Roy’s witty intelligence and company, and admired his selfless dedication to those in need. He also became a lifesaver when I needed a solution to early morning care for my then-elementary-aged kids. There was about a one hour gap between my having to leave for work and the school bus arriving, and I didn’t want them to be alone. I asked him if he’d be willing to pop over and chaperone. Thankfully, he said yes, and I think it was one of those win-win situations. Not having his own kids, he liked the boys and vice-versa. He has watched them grow up, been a part of their celebrations, and a cheerleader to all.

The years flew by, as they will. We did what caring neighbors do: got the mail and watered plants on vacations, spent a few holiday dinners together, laughed and cried at shared grief, and I always had a willing recipient for my baking and cooking extras. Along the way Roy received a rare cancer diagnosis by the name of Waldenstrom’s (seventeen years ago, believe it or not…but more on that later). Although he had many associated challenges involved with a terminal disease, in general he was doing okay.

Until a few months ago.

For some time, Roy’s belly had expanded unnaturally, to the point he was in a constant state of feeling like his innards were going to spill out. He was in pain and embarrassed at his physical appearance. Doctors were typically dismissive, and this past summer as I was taking him to the first of a few ER visits, I said: “Roy, some type of surgical intervention has to be done. This is cruel, for you to be in this kind of agony.” And he’d say he was a hot potato. Nobody wanted to deal with the liability of treating or operating on him, because he’s in the end stages of his condition. And he was literally praying for every day to BE the end. I felt terrible hearing this, but who could blame him? These are the times when you question who’s in charge of the universe. Here is a guy who, while far from perfect, had devoted himself to helping others, and this is the reward? Years of discomfort, uncertainty, deep loss, loneliness? But, I digress. More on spiritual conundrums later…

Finally, he had an appointment with our mutual neighbor Pamela Klint, a physician assistant. She took one look at his “hiatal hernia,” gasped, “Oh, no, Roy,” and made the surgical intervention happen. Thank God.

However…it was a downhill nightmare (until a week ago) ever since. He had the hernia repaired, but with it came the unexpected event of swelling so extensive he couldn’t urinate. As in, totally blocked. I was appalled they had merely kept him overnight after the surgery, and sent him home, with twice weekly nurse visits. So we went to the ER, where they put a catheter in and pretty much said it was a post-op side effect. The next day was January 14th, Roy’s 73rd birthday. I brought him some cake and of course, wanted to check to see how he was doing. He opened the door. Unsteady and a wild, panic-stricken look about him, he hobbled around with a wide stance, his legs splayed as if he’d ridden a horse too long.

“Ellen, I’m not better. The swelling has doubled. I now have twin cantaloupes where my balls used to be.”

Me: “Oh, no.”

“I want you to look. I’m not trying to be weird or inappropriate. Just take a quick look and tell me if you’ve ever seen such a frightful sight.”

This was a man I’ve known for more than twenty-five years, a man I would trust with my life, but I’m not of fan of looking at anyone’s nuts, even on a good day. But he is sick and scared, and I feel awful for him. I say, “Just tell me if it’s worse than yesterday.”

“It’s worse. You can see, I can’t even walk, that’s how monstrously huge and grotesque they are.”

This really isn’t an odd of an exchange as it sounds. Funny, yes, because we have to laugh. Due to the predator-like nature of his cancer, which is slowly attacking his internal organs, Roy and I have had dozens of conversations centered mainly on urinating, defecating, and now, his malfunctioning package. That’s what chronic illness does to you. It reduces you down to where you’re nothing but your deficient parts. If you’re not laughing, you’re definitely crying. And that’s okay too, I tell him.

Back to the scene…

“Okay,” I say. “I find it hard to believe this is normal “post-op” swelling. You said your (home health care) nurse is supposed to come later. See what she says and call me. We’ll take you back to the hospital if you want.”

As it turned out, the nurse didn’t show because they don’t work on MLK’s birthday. So…on the snowiest, iciest day of the year, Roy donned a robe that made him look like the Star Wars villain Darth Sidious (he was about as furious as him by that point), climbed precariously into our car trying to balance a catheter bag and horrifically painful, oversized testicles… and off we went to the ER yet again.

Stay tuned, ya’ll, this saga is to be continued….

Hello, friends. Today’s post is accompanied by a beer my son brewed, called “Pep Talk.” It’s a tasty lager, put out by his employer Bearded Iris Brewery in Nashville.

Do you remember that song, “Love Hurts,” by Nazareth? I was only eleven when it was a hit, but we had a real jukebox in our basement at the time. My dad had fixed the thing so you didn’t have to deposit money, and this song was on repeat. I loved it, even though I didn’t really understand how “Love Hurts” could be true.

Ah, youth.

If anyone ever needed a pep talk, it’s probably me right now. Not to be overly dramatic, but I feel like Matt Damon’s character in “Saving Private Ryan,” when he grabs his startled wife by the arms and tearfully demands, “Tell me. Was I a good man? Did I lead a good life?” It’s as if one act has cancelled out anything decent I ever did before it, and it wasn’t even illegal. Just soul-crushing, is all.

Please don’t flood me with messages telling me that “Oh, Ellen, you must know you are a wonderful person!” Thank you, but it won’t help, because right now I don’t believe it. I’m only writing about this awfulness so I can process the emotions somehow.

Eight days ago I asked my hubby to take our tuxedo cat, Shadow, back to the place we got her twenty-two months before. Specifically, the humane society twenty-five minutes away. Even just reading that makes me sad. I’m supposed to be the person ADOPTING animals from the place, not returning them to those cages of fright. I’m supposed to be the person helping them, not causing distress, and it’s breaking me in ways I didn’t even know existed. The difference between this and euthanizing is that at the very least, you know your pet is free of suffering when you make that final decision. In this case, it’s my decision that’s causing the suffering. Almost nothing is more upsetting to me than being a painful conduit for an innocent being. Even if it is the “right thing,” or whatever.

I mean, I guess it’s not surprising. In high school the guidance counselor asked me what my interests were, to help clue him in to my future endeavors. I shrugged and said something like, “Uh, I like writing and animals.” He undoubtedly looked at my substandard grades (EXCEPT for English, band, art, and home-ec), and probably thought, “What the fuck do I do with this kid?” And promptly enrolled me in an AGRICULTURE class, with eight smelly boys in overalls and cowboy boots caked with cowpies. I learned nothing, and got in trouble for skipping out on the field trip to the “kill facility.”

Also, there is the fact that the word “paws” is in my blog name, if that tells you anything. What it tells me is that I’m a fraud, and I’m saying all of this to convince you and myself I’m not.

So, sweet Shadow (and she really was. She loved people, playing with hair bands, and talking up a storm) was plagued with chronic anxiety, usually traced to separation fears, which resulted in chronic spraying. It wasn’t every day, but enough to be a real problem, as you might guess. “Spraying” is not just urine. It’s loaded with chemicals to give it a pungent odor, and trust me, it’s gross. And this proclivity was noted in her previous adoption papers as well, which I really was not given to read until AFTER we chose her. My bad. I wonder all the time at what trauma she experienced to produce this reaction, pre-adoption, but then again, sometimes we just don’t know what brain quirks might be contributing. Suffice it to say she was fully vetted, she was otherwise healthy, we tried everything, and still it went on.

It went on because we could not meet her needs, and I adopted her to meet MY needs. That’s the selfish bottom line. I hated being pet-less, hated coming home to no furry greeter, and because I couldn’t look ahead to how often I might be gone to go visit a new grandbaby or be camping, I’m right back to where I began. Empty spaces staring at me, even if those empty spaces do reek of her nauseating pee scents. I spent hundreds on products, pills, vet appointments and cleaners, but none of it mattered because I could not give her the one thing she wanted: our 24/7 presence.

Worse, she, too, is back to where she began. Scared, alone, confused as to how her life was upended, and how her humans let her down yet again. She doesn’t conceive that I “saved” her for almost two years. She just wants her heating pad back. And likely me, too, since she got her re-christened name from following me around constantly.

Having said all this and cried on and off for a week straight, I know re-homing her had to be done. Someone else out there is better equipped to give her what she deserves. Or if not new people, she’d be a great “office kitty,” or mascot, if you will. I outlined that argument in a full-on one page letter to the humane society, begging them to place her with care or keep her with them. I have no idea whether my words were even read, so I have to let go. I need to let go of the vision I had of people who surrender pets as uncaring and irresponsible, or else I have to include myself in there too. Guess I can add it to the list below of things I didn’t think I was.

Still. Even if I had managed to tape pee pads on every crevice of the house, (which I basically did), it wouldn’t have changed the fact she was trying to tell us she wasn’t happy. She was communicating and we were not listening; we just kept trying to “stop” the behavior.

So here we are. Three traits I always thought of myself as possessing, traits central to who I am, are now feeling obliterated: unselfishness, animal lover, good at listening. Boom, gone…just like her.

I know, as grown adults know, this too shall pass, that we did our best, that we loved her, that I need to forgive myself, and eventually it’ll get easier. Until then, my friends, cuddle your furbabies for me and blow some healing fairy dust my way…and hopefully the next Pep Talk brought to you via Bearded Iris will be exactly that…