Rest in Peace, Little Angel

Since Noelle's husband Ray and cat Prince Shadow died within weeks of each other in 2010, Noelle has had a difficult time of it until she adopted two darling orange tabby kittens, male and female (which necessitated a trip to the vet so as not to have a whole family of darling tabby kittens). She called them Angel and Tiger.

Unfortunately, this morning she called to say that Angel, barely a year old, had died. Of what we don't know. I don't even have a picture of Angel, but she looks somewhat like the kitten above. Apparently, Tiger is frantic -- does not understand why his twin is not moving.

Please pray for Noelle. It is hard to go through this kind of loss again so soon. She is taking it in stride, but except for the kittens (and, of course, family -- although not close by), she is pretty much alone.

Cats, at least, for my family, are an essential part of our lives. I realized this quite deeply this weekend. I have been sick in bed -- cannot remember when I have been this sick -- for four days (aftermath of a pertussis vaccination), and my cat Murjan has not left my side!

Feral at Heart

Rescuing feral cats has been a long-time avocation for me. Wherever I go, cats without homes seem to find me.

When I lived on the Arroyo Seco River, I rescued 15-20 cats. The local vet was very helpful in neutering them, and then I returned them to the outdoors. They knew they could always find food outside my door, and if they were cold, they knew how to ask to come in and sleep on the bed. One poor little kitten became trapped in the high branches of a tall tree and could not come down. He cried for four hours before I realized that there was no way he would make it down. So, I got out the ladder, climbed up to the top of it, than scrambled through the branches (thank goodness for all my childhood days climbing the apple trees on our farm) to reach the kitten and bring him down. As soon as he was close enough, he sprang from my grasp onto the ground and scurried away. A few days later, he appeared to be limping. I don't think there was any relationship between the jump to the ground and the limp, but I figured I had better take him into the vet. The neighbor's young daughter helped me corner him (a pretty dangerous thing to do, but the only way to catch him), and 50 bites later and a pure white coat tainted red from my blood, he and I were on the way to the vet. I ended up adopting that particular cat; it took me three months of getting closer and closer to him as he ate before he let me touch him. However, after he moved in with me, he would often push the laptop off my lap, curl up, and sleep.

When I lived in Jordan, I was affectionately known as the Cat Lady of Amman. I rescued more than two dozen cats there. Six of them I took in. The others I found homes for or placed at the no-kill shelter for others to adopt. Most of them were adopted out. One became a shelter favorite and spent her time running around freely with the staff.

One of the Ammani cats, Intrepid, seemed to tame quite easily. We brought him home with us when we returned to California.  A friend who works for the SPCA insists that feral cats are always feral, but when I tell him about the cats I have tamed and how they curl up and sleep beside me and on me, he hesitates to insist that he is right and I am not. This past week, however, I had to admit that perhaps a feral cat hangs on to just a piece of the wildness. Because another feral cat we adopted, Simone, bit the city vet, we cannot take her there any more. Fortunately, not long ago a retired vet moved into San Ignatio, and realizing that we are far from vet help, she has been coming to people's houses to help with their animals. So, she came for an update on cat care at our house. Deciding that it was time to trim nails, she asked me to hold Murjan (a domestic cat), who, like the good little doggy he acts like, held out one paw after another for trimming, purring and snuggling. "Why can't all cats be like Murjan?" the vet asked me after having to sedate Intrepid and Simone.

Intrepid was the problem, though. Drugged and dozing, somewhere near the end of the clipping process, he suddenly realized he was being restrained and his feral instincts leaped to the fore. Ripping through my flesh, he clawed himself out of my arms. I now have one long 6-inch-long scratch that is turning into quite a remarkable scar, many smaller scratches, and two deep gashes that would have required stitches had I gone to the ER. Instead, because it was a Sunday evening, I let the vet patch me up -- she did a pretty good job -- and went to the local medical clinic when it opened in the morning. The doc thought the vet had done well, said it was too late for stitches, and gave me antibiotics.

Oh, the joys of a tamed, er, feral, cat!

Gram

The strangest thing happened last Friday. This Friday flashback post, which I was far from finishing and had stopped writing because the meme is no longer active, showed up on my blog. I took it down since it was just a draft but figured perhaps I should finish it, considering that there had even been a comment made on that nearly empty post. So, here goes:

When Shane (child #3) was born, we were living outside Boston, about 100 miles from my maternal grandmother -- the closest we ever came to living anywhere near her rural New Hampshire neighborhood. Now Gram was a little more than a typical grandmother to me. She was THE family matriarch. Everyone listened to her and did her bidding. I never heard her raise her voice to anyone, yet everyone promptly carried out her every command.

Gram had a kind heart. She would help anyone in need. In fact, during the Great Depression she made sure that many people had food by hiring folks to work on her farm even though she did not really need all the help that she hired. She was never wealthy, but she always had enough. After her farm years, she moved to the city and spent the rest of her life working as a sewer in the textile mills. She was good, and she was fast. So, she made enough money for life's necessities, and she did a good job of saving as well. My grandfather worked there with her.

When my grandfather died at the beginning of my senior year in high school, Gram felt alone. She asked that I, as oldest grandchild, move in with her. I did, and I came to know her as more than a grandmother. She was a mother to me, too. She expected me to do a lot of work, but she never raised her voice to me, and she struck me -- a kind attitude that I had not experienced with my own mother. Perhaps that year alone was what gave me an alternative experience when it came to raising my own children.

I learned many things from Gram, one of the most important being to give without expecting anything in return. One time when I was desperate for tuition money in college, she sent me what I needed and said, "Don't pay it back; pass it on to someone else who needs it." I have done that all  my life, and that is what I do with my children. I help them when they need help if I can, and I ask them only to pass it on to some one else who needs help when and if they can, and they do.

Another thing I learned from Gram was the used of Dentyne gum -- beyond just the breath freshening and teeth whitening. She would send me a package each month I was in college, wrapped inside a letter. Tucked inside the gum wrapper, between the wrapping and the gum, was a flattened $20 bill. That money, worth more in the late 1960s, often meant the difference between eating a meal and going to bed hungry. (I was a full scholarship student but one still had to acquire books, paper, clothes, and food.) Likewise, when Donnie and Shane were hiking the Appalachian Trail, I would send a package of Dentyne gum in the care packages of trail food that I mailed periodically to post offices in towns along the trail. Donnie was a spendthrift, but Shane was thrifty. He also knew the secret of the Dentyne gum. Once alone, he would pull out the $20 bill and when matters were desperate, he would happen to "find" a lost $20 bill on the trail. Donnie never caught on although you would think that he would wonder why Shane was so lucky at finding money so often just when they needed it.

And that takes me back to Shane's birth. He was such a healthy baby, and I was in such good shape from being an Army officer at the time, that the doctor sent both of us home just hours after his birth. Gran was shocked. In her day, women stayed in bed weeks after childbirth and spent most of their energy "dangling" (their legs from the bed to keep the circulation going). She could not understand how I could be home, tending to three small children, including a new baby, less than 24 hours after childbirth. (I was actually fine -- fit as a fiddle, having passed my annual PT test just a few days before Shane was born.) So, Gram moved in with me for a month to help, saying that her job was to do the housework and feeding and my job was to play with the baby. What a blessing! She knew just exactly what I needed to get Shane off to a wonderful start in life and keep the rest of the family happy.

Such was Gram! She, unfortunately, died of a minor illness at the age of 84 when given a transfusion infected with AIDS (before the disease was known to have infected blood supplies). Nonetheless, she outlived her father by two years (he died at 82 from falling down the stairs after the first visit in his life to a dentist -- he felt that dentists were unecessary evils but had been talked into a trip there). I am pleased that all my children did get to know her before she moved on to another level of life.

When a Good Guy Wins

Last year at this time we were deep in negotiations to purchase our current home. HSBC bank had foreclosed more than six months earlier on the previous owner, and based on their behavior with us, we could see why the previous owners lost the house. Not only did the bank not budge an inch on anything, but they used what seemed to us to be deceptive ploys to bring in what would be small amounts of money for the bank but large amounts for us. For example, because we were using a VA loan and the VA almost always requires some repairs prior to approving a loan, the bank asked us to increase our offer by $5K. We did. Then the loan officer inspected and required $2600 in repairs, including removing some molding beneath the deck. The bank's contractor said it would cost $2600 to make the repairs, and the bank told us that before we could close, we would have to pay the bank's contractor to do the repairs. When we pointed out that we neither owned the home nor had any legal documentation that would require the bank to sell the house to us, we would be paying for repairs on someone else's home with no guarantee of having that home become ours. The bank refused to budge and said that if we did not pay, it would rescind its acceptance of our offer and put the house back on the market and keep our escrow.

We contacted a lawyer who said the requirement was likely subterfuge for the bank to wiggle out of an offer that it no longer liked because the market had significantly improved during the time that we had been negotiated and our house had increased in value by $65K. Sure enough, he was right. While we were still discussing the deck and under-deck repairs, the bank re-listed the property without identifying the address or location. However, they picture they used of the driveway had a small white car trucked parked on the street on the google map that they had used to download and post the picture. Donnie called up our house-to-be on google maps, and sure enough there was the little white truck! The lawyer dictated a letter in which we demanded our escrow back if the bank was unwilling to do the repairs.

At that point, Jack, the loan officer for VA, called and asked if we wanted the house if the deck issue could be worked out. When we affirmed, he offered to split the cost of the $2600 between himself and the bank's real estate agent. (Our biggest mistake was to call the real estate agent listed on the for-sale sign; she worked for the bank.) His suggestion took away the danger of losing the house while paying for repairs unless the bank wanted to financially harm its own real estate agent. We agreed, which I am sure put the dishonest real estate agent in a difficult position. The bank wanted the property back, but if she paid the repairs, it would not be able to take it back. Of course, both Jack and she made decent commissions on the house, but in each case it was $1300 less than they would otherwise have earned.

Jack was a gentleman, but the real estate agent took one final swipe at us. The bank's contractor had disassembled the affected part of the deck and removed the mold but had not replace any of the bad wood when the day came for closing. The real estate agent looked at us triumphantly as we looked forlornly at the gaping hole in our deck and said that we had two choices: close "as is" at that moment or wait for the contractor to finish the deck, in which case our offer would be turned down and the house put back on the market and our escrow retained. (Same old story; same old subterfuge.) It was well planned. The closing was on a Sunday, and there was no way to contact our lawyer to see if the bank could get away with that. A handyman friend who planned to paint the house and do other minor repairs had come with us, and he said his brother could finish the deck for $300 and that we should take the house as is because its value was higher than we were paying. So, we did.

We have always been grateful to Jack for coming up with this out-of-the-box solution and for his kindness in paying in our stead. There was no way in which to repay this kindness except with words (and, of course, references). Recently, however, we have been bombarded with all kinds of loan companies wanting to refinance our house for a significantly lower interest rate. Apparently, VA rates have dropped. So, of course, we thought about Jack, sent him copies of the offers, and asked for his advice. He said that most of these really low rates are come-ons with impossible strings attached, with the result being that most people will not qualify for the lowest rate but a higher one. Given that rates are dropping, he did a calculation on what we could realistically do and determined that we could refinance for a somewhat lower rate and save $200 a month. Over thirty years, that would be a significant savings. So, we authorized him to proceed.

In doing a good deed last year, Jack lost $1300. This year, he will probably make ten times that much on the refinancing. Somehow, that tickles me!

Make Your Desire the Other Person's, Too

People quickly acquiesce when there are no other options. Getting your own way is usually as simple (and complex) as making your option the only one possible. I have watched two of my own children as middle schoolers do that quite effectively.

Each time we have moved into a new school district the tendency had been to place Noelle in special education because of her paraplegia. However, she preferred to be in regular education and was able to handle the academic work there quite well. When we moved to California from Washington in Noelle's eighth grade year, the school administration's proposal was once again to place her in special education.

When Noelle indicated her preference for regular education, the principal explained that all children who cannot walk had always been placed into special education, and, therefore, she would, too.

"Well, then," Noelle commented, "I wonder how you are going to handle the problem that comes with that placement."

When the principal asked what problem she was talking about, she said, "Clearly, I'm the one who has to go to the classroom every day, and I do not intend to go to that one." She was placed in regular education and was very happy there.

The principal met his match, as well, in her younger, gifted brother Shane, who was in her grade because he had skipped some earlier grades in school. The principal wanted to place Shane in the Gifted and Talented Education (GATE) program. however, Shane looked through the materials and found them unchallenging. He preferred to make his own program through the Independent Study program. Frustrated by Shane's lack of appreciation for the GATE program (and probably feeling the need to have another GATE student in the school program), the principal explained that being in the Independent Study program would bar Shane from school dances and other such activities. Shane replied that he preferred books to social activities and willingly accepted that restriction.

Seeing that his words had no effect, the principal said in a rather frustrated tone, "You don't understand! You have to have a behavior problem to get into the Independent Study program!"

Very calmly and pleasantly, Shane indicated that he would be willing to meet that entrance requirement, saying, "I could develop one if you would like." He was placed in Independent Study and was very happy there.

Noelle made her option. Obviously, no one could physically force her to go to a particular classroom on a daily basis and monitor her to be sure she stayed there all day. The alternatives to her choice were simply too cumbersome, impossible, or undesirable.

Shane also made his option the only choice. Of course, the principal did not want another child with a behavior problem. He could avoid that in only one way -- by meeting Shane's request.

These two children very much enjoyed their middle school years. Noelle learned far more in regular education than she would have learned in special education and passed the state exams just fine for regular education students. Shane immensely enjoyed his learning situation. His teacher had been a gifted education teacher in earlier years and was one of the few teachers who did not fear Shane's ability to inhale information and question assumptions. For math, the teacher asked Shane to work with a tutor from the local college because Shane learned too fast for the middle-school teachers to keep up with him. She learned incredible amounts of math that year, in addition to completing most of the high school program in other subjects -- all while being in a "punitive" program rather than the GATE program that, ironically, would have asked far less of him. It was, indeed, a good year.

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.

News One Never Wants to Hear

A few weeks ago, I received a chilling note from my sister-in-law, Erin, Willie's wife. The note began with the words, "I am sorry to tell you that your brother is likely to become a widower soon." That was certainly not your traditional greeting, and Erin had definitely grabbed my attention. I thought that perhaps Erin was being melodramatic, but, no, that was not the case. Erin went on to say that during a routine examination, the doctor had found a mass in her lung and wanted to see if he could remove it with surgery.

To make a long story short, he could not remove it. It was too close to the artery. He wondered what more there was, and what else was going on, but he was only a general surgeon. So, he sent Erin to an oncologist. Since then, we have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, hoping that the news, assumed to be bad, would be at least tolerable. Maybe it was not cancer but just a growth. Maybe it was something that could be shrunk with chemo.

On Friday, the news arrived: Stage IV lung cancer, both lungs. While it is not a death sentence, it is frighteningly close. Less than 10% survive. Still, obviously, one hopes to be in that 10%.

So now what? That decision has to be Erin's. The choices appear to be heavy chemo, light chemo, and nothing (just let nature take its course). Whatever she chooses, we, her family, will support.

Years ago, my former secretary was living near and working on a military installation close to the medical center to which I had rushed Doah when I stole him from the hospital in our home town. Having arrived in a distant city and needing to be near Doah, I took a job at the military installation, where my former secretary, Dee, was working. When the hospital released Doah, I needed a place to stay with him; the place I was in would not allow him. Most places did not want to deal with the special medical equipment that Doah needed. Dee learned about this and offered us a bedroom at her house. She was alone because her husband of many years had left her. She welcomed company. And so Doah and I got to know her children and grandchildren, and they got to know us. We became one large family and stayed in touch for years and years until Dee developed a brain tumor.

Like Erin, Dee learned about the tumor when it was already at stage IV. She made a very surprising decision. Rather than going immediately for treatment, she decided to take 6 weeks and visit all her relatives across the country, people she had not seen in years. Living in Massachusetts, she had quite a lot of territory to cover, having relatives in Virginia, Texas, and the Midwest. I was delighted that she included our family among her relatives. Her last stop was at our home in California. She stayed with us for a week, mostly reminiscing since she was too weak to do much sightseeing although we did make it to the wharf and a few other gentle spots. Upon return, her doctor operated on her brain tumor. Dee did not survive the surgery. Somehow, though, it was an amazing end to a life. How many of us get to say good-bye to all those we love? When Dee left my home, she was ready to leave this life, peaceful about whatever alternative presented itself from the brain surgery.

How we die is probably as important as how we live. At some point, we all have to face our own mortality. Clearly, it is not easy. Although we do not yet know what Erin will choose to do, or whether she will beat the odds (we certainly hope God will intervene; sometimes God does do that and has done that very frequently with our family), we want to send Willie and her on a directed spiritual retreat to help her make her choices in a peaceful, beach location and with the help of nuns trained in guiding people in such circumstances. How wonderful that such places exist!

Stay tuned! I will try to provide periodic updates. In the interim, as you feel moved to do, would you please pray for Erin and, if you can, light a candle for her? And if you have experienced this in your family, please share what you have done to support the person struggling with both the news and the medical condition.

An Amazingly Stupid Day

 

Yesterday turned out to be an amazingly stupid day.  It started out not bad. I had had an overnight guest and so ended up with a leisurely morning, taking her back home and going in to work late. 

Upon arrival, I was delighted that the construction folks popped into my new office, to which I moved right before Christmas, to see if they could put up some shelves to hold "stuff" that had been on one bookcase in my old office that I had to give up in the move because my new office would not hold that many bookcases. Of course, they could! A quick task, right?

No, not so. A couple of hours later they were still working on those shelves, and I had to attend a mandatory meeting in my conference room. Just in case, I took my purse with me. 

After the meeting, I had to help out some of the attendees and forgot about the purse. Then, all kinds of problems and promises (incoming new managers) grabbed my attention, and I worked until 10 p.m. 

As I got ready to go home, I realized I did not have my purse and could not get into the conference room. Everyone had departed, including the security folks with the master key. I called my operations folks, but, it being Friday night, they were probably out partying. At any rate, they did not answer. 

I thought I might have to spend the night there, but when I gave up and went into the parking lot to drive home (thank goodness, I did have my car keys, just not my license, money, and the like), I saw two police who monitor our building talking to each other at the far corner of the lot. I grabbed them and found out that yes, the police did have a master key! Voila! Problem solved.

Purse retrieved, home I came. I arrived just in time to catch the 11:30 Jay Leno show. It was good to laugh at someone other than myself for a change.

 (These are the events that one just accepts as a part of the very strange life we live on this earth!)