The Last Word: Always and Forever

Dear Pepsi,

Sorry I haven't written in a while; however, you are in my thoughts a good portion of each day. I have been busy trying to wrap up the semester, which went well overall despite dealing with Pandy being diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. I was going to Greece, to the island for 3-4 weeks; however, Pandy being sick put the kabash on that. It is okay though, I prefer to be home with her and Pearl after we were away the past two summers. I had hoped we would all be together in Maine this summer, going to the beach early mornings and at sunset. There are moments when I pause and feel baffled by the fact that you are not physically present with me anymore. I often glance sideways while driving, halfway expecting to see you riding shotgun in your pink harness looking straight ahead in your person like pose, or pawing me to pet or scratch you with my right hand. When you left, the girls and I lost our center so we hover, lacking solid ground. Our three quarter life without you Peps.

Looking for Pepsi at Higgins Beach

Pearly up close 

Pandy nestled in your pillows

I continue to miss you with an aching in my heart. It has been six months, and while the constant pain has subsided, it is replaced with a more chronic and subtle hurt that seeps into every corner of the room. I decided to find a Medium so we could connect. I needed to hear your voice, know that you are okay, and tell you how much I miss and love you. I also wanted to check in with Pearl and Pandy and see how they are faring beyond the obvious. I did some research and located a woman who lives in New Hampshire thinking I might drive to her; however, it is nearly four hours from Portland so we scheduled a phone appointment for last Friday at 6pm. Susan Deren is her name. I sent pictures of the three of you per her instructions. The house was quiet enough to hear a pin drop as I waited by the phone for her call, my pen and paper ready to take notes. I tried to temper my expectations but my aching heart needed to hear from you. Short of bringing you back, I figured this was my best shot. 

Me and my Pepsi girl

We chatted a few minutes before launching into the communication. Susan said Pandy is in good shape and she doesn't know she is sick. Susan thinks she will be around a while, which is good news. Susan spoke of how she came to us emaciated (so true), her breathing is off (Prednisone), that as long as she is joyful all is good, that she looked to you for everything and that we are stuck (our three quarter life). Then she went right to you Peps, and what she said took my breath away. You told her that you had to go, you couldn't stay. Susan asked if my dad was on the other side, and I said yes. You father has your dog, he wants you to know he is taking care of your baby. My mom was there as well, but she wasn't the one talking, it was my dad, saying we've got your baby, she is with us. Susan said my dad was there for your passing. She said you are with my parents and you like them, that you were ready and the last two weeks were hard for you with the pressure on your heart. You were ready, you were tired. She said my dad wanted me to know that taking care of you was his way of thanking me and being a real father to me. He said was a pain in the ass, not a good listener, and too judgmental, and he would change if he could do it again. The tears streamed down my face. The man who let me down as a father, who tried to crush me when he couldn't control me was finally stepping up in taking care of you. All the years of complication, sadness, pain, dashed hopes, and lost opportunity came down on me like a thud. How did he enter this picture when I had all but sealed him off?  

My father, Sid Gerstenblatt

My fall from grace with my father is a story into itself. My father was one of a kind - brilliant, talented, tortured, funny, sharp witted to a fault that bordered cruelty. He had a huge influence on my intellect, love of books, art, and politics, and my relationships with men. As with any story there is an up and down side; however, the souring of our relationship was a long gradual decline. We hadn't spoken for three years when he suddenly died and despite the hurt he inflicted on me I regret I never saw him one last time. Perhaps that's why Susan said he was the one talking and not my mom since she and I ended on a good note, and he and I did not. I have tried to think more kindly of him as I get older and reckon with my own flawed parenting. The acute sadness has faded somewhat; however, some wounds remain raw to a certain degree. I am proud of what he did for poor kids in Vermont and the fact his legacy lives on. At a luncheon last month I introduced Jonathan to a colleague who attended Montpelier High School and knew of my father's work. I felt happy that Jonathan heard about the work his Poppy did. We laughed about him being the first radical Jewish guy with glasses and white hair in Vermont, not Bernie Sanders. He sang at the Apollo, where he stopped shows, and Billy Eckstien and Pearl Bailey told him he was the greatest singer they ever heard. He picked up a paintbrush as an easy way to finish his degree at 48, had a well reviewed show in Providence, and was accepted to Rhode Island School of Design for his MFA, though he wasn't interested. It must have been hard to be that talented, tangled up and tortured at the same time. His parents were Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe and never gave him any kind of support or encouragement. It was all about survival. He was playing gigs at 14 years old to bring in money for the family. And while he fell short for me in so many ways, he opened my mind and extended my horizon. I had to buck him or I would have been roadkill. He shadowed my development, undercut me in ways I could not understand. In the end our score was never settled, yet, knowing he came for you when you passed and takes care of you everyday goes a long way towards evening the balance. Thanks, Dad.

Pearly looking up at her Pepsi

Pearl. Your partner in crime, sister, best buddy. Susan said she feeds off my energy, she is an emotional sponge - if I am depressed, she is depressed. We know she is the caretaker in the family always circling the perimeter to make sure danger is not lurking. She absorbs all the stress in the family, does not like the spotlight shined on her, which suited you well! She has a job, and that's protecting us. Susan said we are stuck, all of us. Pearl and Pandy aren't sure where you are. I never told them. I made the decision to have you put to sleep away from them, I feared it would be too chaotic and I wanted to focus solely on you with no distraction. Perhaps I made the wrong call - if they had been present they could have sniffed you after and known you were gone. Susan said I need to tell them Pepsi's body was broken, Pepsi has died, she is not coming back but she is fine and we are still a family. Tell them as soon as you get off the phone she said urgently, and I did. I held their faces close to mine, looked into their eyes and told them. Susan said you spend a lot of time in the house, in fact, she said if she walked in she would find you in the living room. When were chatting about you Susan said Pepsi is so intelligent, like a person. I laughed at how many times we all said Peps is a person. Shakila even put that in the book she made of you. Susan said you liked it when we put things on your head and I chuckled at how Rena put a tiara on your head and you looked so fittingly regal. We had so many fun times Pepsi, you brought so much laughter to us, and I suppose what we miss the most is the levity you showered our lives with. The house is devoid of it and we are reeling from the loss. You were our anchor, we took our cues from you. 

The three sisters

Aslan is coming this summer for a few months and Susan said we need him to bring a good energy and distract us from our sadness. Aslan will shake things up she said. Aslan is your biological brother and has many of your traits; however, he is grateful compared to your center of the universe diva ways. Like you, he loves to swim, paw for attention, and sleep on the pillow. You both resemble each other. We always thought he would go first since he has been frail health wise, until the cancer that is. We need him now, our Pep's brother. He will love the yard, going to the beach and walking in the neighborhood. I am taking him to Dr. Stuer for holistc treatment, get him groomed and lavish him with love and attention. Pandy will have her compadre to hang with and perhaps Pearl will be inspired to play again. I may or not let him go back to California, and if not, I doubt anyone would be surprised. Maybe Papa will insist. We'll see. I admit it is a way to be closer to you and I have no shame about it. You will be around in your way, a steady and loving presence, keeping a close eye on your family. Aslan without Pepsi is a bittersweet situation I never expected; however, you have taught me that permanence and expectation are fleeting at best.

Pepsi and Aslan

Pepsi, being with you ten and half years changed me and your death has changed me even more. I might do anything really. On a whim or well thought out. Having to let you go has emboldened me, given me courage and perspective. I have terrible stage fright but love to sing. I decided to sing at the social work graduation party. We rehearsed for weeks, and even that was hard at first but I became more comfortable. At the party I stood in front of a crowd and sang my heart out. I thank you for that baby girl. I am up for tenure in a year and half, and while I feel pretty confident, I learned that not getting something isn't the worst thing that can happen. If one thing doesn't come though there will be something else. The list of things that can take me down has become much shorter since you died. I know more loss is ahead of me, it is inevitable with one dog who has cancer and others who are aging. We are all getting older, and while I try to brace myself, I know there is no way to predict or prepare for certain kinds of loss. It will level me as your death did and somehow I will get up and live a recalibrated life, all the better for having so many wonderful people/pets grace me with their presence.

Singing at the School of Social Work graduation party

Nothing stays the same, including me. I feel more aches and pains, see lines expanding on my face. It takes longer to recover from activities that once hardly phased me. There is a freedom that accompanies getting older and experiencing this depth of loss. You just don't sweat the small stuff and cherish what really matters. I remember a lovely couple I met on the island many years ago, and unknown to me at the time the husband had terminal cancer. Peter was a bright light and wonderful human being. We spent an afternoon being philosophical and he told me you have to let go so new things can enter your life. I needed to hear that, I was having a hard time ending a toxic relationship that was doing me no good. My tenacity is my asset and liability, and letting go is excruciating for me, always has been. Your diagnosis seemed to come out of left field. Why did I think I would have you forever when it doesn't exist? Talking to Susan helped me realize you are still here, albeit your spirit watching over us. I know you are okay, it's us who are struggling to move on without your physical presence. I want you back, I always will. I can see you looking at me with those eyes like deep pools, pawing me, urging me to choose life and laughter. The thing is I am not sure how to share the love that was always reserved for you. Everyday I still kiss your harness, talk to you, and look at the portrait I painted of you that stares me dead in the eye as I read or watch TV in the living room. I hold you in my thoughts and heart. I always will. I know what you want Peps, you made it clear what you wanted Susan to tell me, "I am okay, take good care of the girls". You get the last word darling Peps, always and forever.

I love you baby girl,
Mom

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

It's The Little Things

Dear Pepsi,

Your memory trails me like a secret shadow. I go about my daily life, yet it feels half hearted no matter how much I apply myself to the tasks at hand. Welcome to my three quarter existence. Yesterday I stripped the bed after Aunt Diane left for Austin, stuffed the dirty sheets in the washer and and pulled out fresh ones from the linen closet. There were two flat sheets and one fitted. I knew one of the flat sheets was the one I covered the duvet cover with so guests wouldn't lay on a bed of dog hair. After all, it was really your room and bed, which you grudgingly (unwillingly) shared when guests visited. The flat sheet is the same color as the duvet and sheet set, with a line of pulled threads and holes from you pulling the covers back and unmaking the bed. I unfolded the flat sheets to figure out which one went inside and which one to spread over the duvet since occasionally Pearl or Pandy lay on the bed and stare out at the backyard. I made the bed and then stood in the room and sobbed. I never have to make the bed several times a day anymore as I did with you. I called your dad, mumbling through my tears as he silently listened on the other end three thousand miles away. 

The two sisters

On the outside I look my normal self. Inside is quite another story. My perspective has changed, and while that is not necessarily a bad thing, I can get derailed into grief and longing on the turn of a dime. It's the little things Pepsi, not seeing you at the foot of the stairs intently looking out the front door, you not being underfoot while I eat breakfast, or being woken up each night when you climb in my bed. The accumulation of memories stack into multiple piles. Pearl and I bump into them and though it happens several times a day, we lock eyes as if we are still baffled by the fact you are not here.  Neither she or Pandy pick up the toys scattered on the floor - the rope toy, blue ball and knotted white sock just lay there unless I can entice them to play. No tug of war, interactive play or fetch. Pandy might be a taker but Pearl isn't having it. There doesn't seem to be much fun left in her without you. I bought them new squeaky toys the other day and they were interested for about 30 minutes. They joined the toy collection that collects dust on the floor unless a visitor comes and Pearl does her retrieving thing.  You would have been all over that squeaking dog and cow, that's for sure. 

When Aunt Diane was here last week we spoke of you often, laughing about your one of a kind ways.  It was her first time coming to Portland without you here to greet her. The past year has been a litany of loss - Diane's dad, my mom, Frank and you. No one lives forever she said. My head knows that but my heart is still reeling. For ten years I whispered over and over, begging you not to leave and stay with me forever. It was our inside joke but not really funny. I sit at the tea house typing these words as tears roll down my cheeks. I have no shame when it comes to my grief for you. They didn't know you and they sure don't know me. Last week a student I hadn't seen in a while expressed his condolences and before I could say thank you the waterworks began. The surface of my emotional life is a thin, translucent powder, barely concealing the depth of my sadness. When you got sick I kept going, maintained my responsibilities as best I could, and while I eliminated what I called the unessential, I didn't stop. In retrospect I was dazed, confused, angry, and exhausted. I wish I had stopped Peps, and not let one thing compete with the time I had with you, not even a little bit. Lesson learned baby girl, lesson learned. 

The days are getting longer. Spring teased us with warmer temperatures and then dumped a foot of snow reminding us how unpredictable life is. Pearl and I tread lightly in our three quarter life, exchanging knowing glances as we make the most of what we have, which is a lot. Pandy was rescued from such a tenuous life she is always waiting for the other shoe to drop anyway. I walk them around the neighborhood, chatting as we traverse the streets. I let them off leash in the various parks to run and discover smells. I open the door and let them loose to play out front on our dead end street. I chuckle and think how I could never do that with you, my runner and explorer of every backyard in the street who thought call back was not in your repertoire. It is the little things, in a myriad of ways, that map the territory of loss and grief. The space in between you being here and then gone is where I linger. I am not sure it is an actual space but for now it is where I reside, bumping into the ever mounting stacks of memories. Time marches on, dragging me kicking and screaming; however, I remain in lockstep with you baby girl. And here is what I know for sure Peps, the forever I asked of you is and will always exist for us. However deep loss is, love is deeper.

Love you darling girl,

Mom