Collective and Cumulative Loss: The Long and Short Of It.

Dear Pepsi,

I miss you so much. I wish I could lay my head on your curled up body and talk to you about everything that is happening in our lives and the world. I used to joke that if President Obama knew you he would hire you as an advisor. In the dead of night while struggling with hard decisions, he could look deeply into your eyes and find the wisdom needed to make tough calls. I always wondered what was going on in that brain of yours. It seemed you were figuring out the cure for cancer or mapping the road to world peace. Let me in Peps, I just want to be in your head.

Brilliant Peps

Lately I have begun to sink into despair. Pandy had a few trips to the ER, which exhausted me and sent me into a downward spiral of worry. We took her off raw food given her immune system is suppressed and we want to eliminate reoccurring stomach bugs. She didn't want to eat one day and I honestly thought I would loose her. Thankfully she rebounded and seems fine. I put on medical gloves everyday when I give her chemo pills and pick up poop. Cancer has become a way of life, which brings back memories of the six weeks between your diagnosis and death. In the midst of living my three quarters life I am still stumped that you were gone so soon. I go to work, the grocery store, watch Netflix, sit on the front steps with Pearl and Pandy, and the three of us walk the neighborhood streets. I look normal; however, each time I grab your sisters' harness and leash off the hook in the half bath I pause to kiss your pink harness, close my eyes and inhale your smell. Basically I am a broken car that still drives.

Pandy and Pearl

I walked into work yesterday and stopped to chat with three colleagues. They asked how I was and I didn't other to shroud my feelings - I care but I don't care, I am alone but don't want to see anyone, I am functioning but my capacity has dwindled. I am sick of being on high alert and worrying about death. I don't want anything to happen to Pandy and I miss Pepsi every day. It is too much loss, I barely had time to grieve over my mom and then Frank died and Pepsi was diagnosed with cancer and died and now Pandy is sick. Then I started crying. They understood having loved and lost a dog or person. Last weekend I saw the movie The Promise about the slaughter of Armenian by the Turks during WWI as the Ottoman Empire was collapsing. The Turks still officially deny it happened or take any responsibility. My friend and colleague Jeanette is Armenian (you remember her Peps? She has Luke, the Rottie who you barked at like you were so tough). She told us how her family had similar experiences as depicted in the movie. She said her grandparents never talked about it, though she heard stories from other family members. Her grandmother's story makes your jaw drop and heart break in one movement. When I walked out of the theater I was struck by the many ways we have advanced over time, and yet regressed as if we have no capacity to learn or develop. How is it possible? Continued genocide, mass killings, ethnic, religious and racial violence. Senseless conflict. Dead bodies bombed, shot and marched to death. Buildings burned or blown to smithereens. Untold stories of loss traveling through generations creating a deafening silence and perpetual pain. Just because you don't talk about it doesn't mean it isn't carving out pieces of your heart.

Portrait of my Grandmother Bessie who came to America at 16 years old fleeing Anti Semitism

Loss is collective and cumulative. It is strikes us individually as well as part of a targeted group. My children's ancestors crossed the Atlantic in slave ships and were marched to gas ovens. The legacy lives on as black bodies continue to be devalued and murdered, and swastikas are spray painted on synagogues and gravestones desecrated. They are haunted by these ghosts and navigate the world with a degree of fear of what may happen because of their skin color more than their religion; however, collective loss and pain belong to them as a lump sum. I think about my parents and how they managed to carry on after my sister died. They had two other children but still. We never talked about it, there were no grief groups then, though even later we rarely did. It hurt too much. We suffered in silence as many people do, drifting in our thoughts and feelings, wondering what it would have been like of she had lived. Would we have been so broken or perhaps just more of us to be broken?

Sissy age 3

I know my life has purpose and meaning Peps, and good days are still ahead. I couldn't keep you forever as I cannot Pandy. Cancer aside, nothing is forever as Aunt Diane said. Pearl will leave me, or perhaps I will leave her first. Permanence is not part of my psyche anymore and I measure high stakes differently. Part of aging is being strategic about how to allocate time and energy because there is less of it. My capacity has dwindled and I make no apologies. I cannot fill this space on my own. I ache for you and your levity Peps, you riding shotgun, laying beside me with your head on the pillow. Pearl and Pandy love each other, I really see how much now that Pandy is sick; however, they don't play like you and Pearl did. They don't come over to me and bark with toys in their mouth, insisting I chase them in circles around the house. We are missing part of our life with you gone and while three quarters of a life is something, it is not and will never be the same. I keep writing to you because I can't let go of you Peps, you are my moral compass and keep me honest about my bottom line. It is my way of not suffering in silence like my parents did when Sissy died, or Jeanette's grandmother and those like her who somehow made a life from the ashes. Survival means many different things when life becomes unimaginable.

The sisters

I may never get my old bounce back, or perhaps I will. I take what is in front of me and try to be grateful for all of my abundance. I know you would be disappointed otherwise.  I love and miss you with each passing day darling girl.

Love,
Mom

At Bat With Cancer: Strike Two

Dear Pepsi,

I am sorry I haven't written in a while, please know it has nothing to do with how much I love, miss and think about you every singe day. I have actually been avoiding writing this letter because the news is not great on this end. Pandy has cancer. She was diagnosed three weeks ago with Multiple Myeloma, which if there is any good news it is the longevity outcomes for this more treatable form of cancer. The median survival is 18 months; however, your oncologist Dr. Philibert thinks she can well exceed the median if she responds to chemo and prednisone. After one week on the meds her protein levels declined and we are hoping to get as close to normal as possible and then make a game plan. Overall she seems fine but so did you. In small ways I see she is off; however, it may be the side effects of the medication. I am trying to remain optimistic while not setting myself up for a big fall. As I did for you baby girl, I will fight for her and make sure she has the best treatment. 

I found out about Pandy’s cancer much like yours.  She was sneezing and coughing, early one morning. I got out of bed and turned on the light to a spray of blood all over my bed. In that first moment I knew it was cancer. I can’t do this again. That was a momentary lapse, of course I would do it again for Pandy or Pearl. I spray washed the bedding, threw it in the washing machine and wiped up the blood as quickly as possible. Pepsi girl, I knew if I didn’t come with her I could not face the blood. We rushed to the Emergency Hospital and found a familiar face at the desk. During your illness we came to know the staff well at the ER and specialists side of the desk. After blood tests the ER doc came in (you saw him one night as well) and gave me the bad news. He sat in the same seat the ER doc that delivered the news of your cancer while I sat on the same bench where I received it. I heard the words cancer, Multiple Myeloma, sorry, better outcomes than the HSA that you had. Tears streamed down my face while I repeated over and over I don’t believe this. Pandy was discharged from emergency care and handed over the specialists. Your oncologist called in sick so the internist took over to aspirate cells from her spleen and confirm what was highly suspected. I left her for tests and went to the reception to make the usual round of calls. Through my sobs I asked Jonathan what I had done wrong in this life or another to bring on such misery to my beloved doggies. No Mom, it has nothing to do with you, it just happens. I swallowed hard wiping snot and tears with my sleeve while the staff looked on, processing their own disbelief.

We are three weeks into treatment. Pandy’s protein levels were down after one week on chemo pills and prednisone. She has another test next week and we are hoping her levels will be close to or normal, and if so, we will see what comes next. Three weeks was half your lifespan after diagnosis. It was so quick Peps, looking back I realize how every minute was amplified and intense. It seemed like a much longer three weeks than any other. With Pandy it is different in the sense that she can be left alone, her survival could be as long a three years, though who knows, maybe more or perhaps less. I have no crystal ball, I just get up every day hoping for the best. I use the same medical gloves to give her the chemo pills and run out to pick up her poop since it has the chemo in it and you Pearl has been known to snack on poop. It is different but the same – cancer is cancer and it has the upper hand no matter how hard I fight. She is getting the best treatment as you did, holistic and Western, and lucky for us we have a clinic that integrates both. Pandy is such a strange little girl, still so affected by her past trauma, yet she has come so far from that shaking bag of bones we picked up in November of 2011. You resisted but eventually you let her cuddle rather than get up every time she tried to lie beside you. It was amusing how you let your diva guard down enough, but not too much.  

I had started to feel more whole again. Going to San Juan and seeing you appear in the cloud gave me some peace, confirmed that you are still with us. After reading my last blog Papa said it was one of my best and asked if I realized that I was growing further away from the pain of your loss. For a moment I was offended, how could he even suggest I had moved an inch away from the pain when every day I kiss your picture and the pink harness hanging on a towel hook in the half bath. My life hasn’t felt the same since you died, and while on the surface I seem normal, my perspective is forever altered. It is a three quarters life and always will be without you. Intellectually I always knew there is no forever or permanence; and while I still try to be prudent, the future is elusive and I hold no stake in it. I can talk about my six-year financial plan as much as I like but the truth is I have no idea what will actually unfold or where I will be in six years when social security starts kicking in. I can speculate but the variables outside of my control, therefore I tend to focus on what is in front of me other than what may or may not be around the corner. You can only be so prepared.

Sometimes I feel guilty at how much I loved you. I wonder if am I taking Pandy’s cancer more in stride because you outlined every space of our lives or because her cancer is more treatable? I am not shortchanging her treatment and remain on alert and a constant state of vigilance. Back to back cancer might normalize it? You were the first? Am I trying to cushion the blow before it happens? Am I really taking it in stride or am I shellshocked? My heart swells with love every time I look at Pandy and Pearl, now more than ever in the shadow of your loss. I feel things being taken from me one by one and I cannot stem that tide or figure out how to tighten my grip. I held onto you as long as possible, did everything in my power to save you; however, in the end I had to concede. Cancer was bigger than both of us. I also wonder how, with Pandy having cancer, that I continue to ache for you, see you front and center in my mind, lean over to kiss your picture several times a day and feel as if I still punctuate every sentence with you. Does that mean I love her less? You held the center for the four of us, we took our cues from you, and in the aftermath of your loss we are still trying to figure out how to be. I am treading lightly these days. Strike two has been called, though we are still at bat. You are watching over the girls and I, gracing us and urging me to stay strong. Be assured Pepsi, my three quarter self in this three quarter life is still fierce and will fight for Pandy to the end, as I did for you. I know you expect no less of me.

I love and miss you darling Peps, every single day.

Mom