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A ceramic Christmas tree from Nana taught me I was an adult
Nana was an old-fashioned woman. She was devoutly God-fearing, believed divorce was a sin, and had definite ideas of gender roles. She also had a strong tendency to see her grandchildren as small children no matter how old we got. Birthday cards from Nana were often ones more appropriate for a 7-year-old, but she sent them with love, and that’s what made them unique.
Frankly, Nana would have been over the moon if I’d graduated from college, gotten married the next day, and started making babies the day after that (with no pre-marriage practice). If I had to have a career, the only appropriate one in Nana’s mind was a teacher. That was not ever in the cards for me. Immediately following graduation, I moved to Washington, D.C. to investigate employment discrimination at the EEOC and then work as a paralegal before going to law school. Ultimately, I changed my mind about law school, but that’s another story.
Nana saw me as this little girl for most of my life. Shortly before my first Christmas in D.C., I came home to find a big box from Nana waiting for me. It cost her almost $10 to mail, which was a lot of postage in 1993, and she sent it directly through the Crystal Beach Post Office rather than going through the taxidermist (this was her go-to for mailing packages – God only knows how the UPS guy thought our home was decorated), so I knew this must be special. She’d also written “FRAGILE” all over the box in big bold letters.
What was Nana sending me?
Much to my surprise, the box contained one of her treasured ceramic Christmas trees and at least two homemade fruitcakes. I know everyone hates fruitcake, but Nana made the best fruit cake in the world. That’s a fact. You can look it up on my blogs.
As I unpacked the Christmas tree Nana had carefully packed in packing peanuts and protected with recent issues of the local paper (which I very happily read, and she knew I would), emotions overcame me. Nana always sent Mom boxes of fruitcake, date loaf, and fresh white grapefruits off the tree at Christmas, but this was my first such package from her. She didn’t include date loaf, which she knew I didn’t like anyway and sent my grapefruit in another box.
Sending me the Christmas tree and fruit cakes were Nana’s way of telling me she saw me as an adult. She may not agree with my choices, but she knew they were mine and she was proud of me. That Christmas I was no longer her sweet 7-year-old granddaughter, but a 22-year-old woman who was figuring out the world. To further drive this point home, a few weeks later on Christmas morning, I received an envelope with a cemetery plot located in Batesville, Mississippi in it. True story. Ask my cousins. We all received them.
Nana would slide back into old habits and often treat me like a child until her death nine years ago, and I learned to live with it, but for a short time in 1993, she recognized me as an adult. And, more importantly, in that moment as I unpacked the tree and fruit cake, I realized that I was unmistakably an adult.
Today would be Nana’s 102nd birthday. Happy birthday Nana. I still miss you.
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July 1, 2018: Little Merry Sunshine’s 11th anniversary
Today is the 11th anniversary of the day I began writing Little Merry Sunshine. Eleven years ago, I thought blogging was going to be a fun, new hobby, but didn’t think I’d really have any fans or regular readers. I also didn’t think I’d still be blogging 11 years later, but I am. Go figure.
I began writing Little Merry Sunshine over at Blogger, where you can still find my first seven years of posts. Through the magic of social media – Facebook and Twitter – I built a nice following of real life friends, family, and complete strangers, many of whom have become friends. I loved my blog, but it was just me and I wanted to be part of a blogging community. I joined ChicagoNow in November 2013 and found the community and support I sought.
For a short time, I also wrote a blog called Remembering Frances that contained a collection of memories about my Nana. That blog went live on July 12, 2009, the day she died.
Since July 1, 2007, I’ve written 1,425 posts across the original Little Merry Sunshine blog (1,216), the ChicagoNow version of Little Merry Sunshine (175), and Remembering Frances (34). That’s 129 posts annually.
I’ve written about politics, Watervale, my family, new experiences and adventures, kindness, my cats, joy and sorrow, and gratitude. Little Merry Sunshine is my memoir.
I’ve never shied away from sharing (or oversharing as a few people have suggested) topics including my overwhelming grief when Nana, my cats, or Uncle Ray died; my journey from my first mammogram to lumpectomy; or my most embarrassing moments because I always believed my words could help someone. The numerous notes of gratitude I’ve received from readers who found comfort and answers in my journeys proved me right. Those notes inspire me.
I’ve been interviewed by HuffPost Live and WGN Radio about posts I’ve written.
Whether this is the first Little Merry Sunshine post you’ve read or you’ve been reading since the beginning, I’m grateful for you.
Here’s to another 11 years.
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The United States is stealing children and doesn’t give a damn about the lifelong trauma it is causing
NOTE: This post may trigger some people because I share the story of my childhood trauma when one of my parents left in the context of separating children from their families at the Mexican border. I’m not angry about my experience nor am I placing any blame because I fully believe that we are all doing the best we can every day. If you choose to comment on this post and make any disparaging remarks about my family or say the current immigration crisis was created by Democrats, you will be blocked because neither of those things is true.
When I was six years old, my mom left our family.
My three-year-old brother and I were left with our dad who was working full-time in Chicago, an hour away from our home in Arlington Heights. Dad still had to work, so he arranged for us to be taken care of by a neighbor. After school, rather than turning right on Kaspar Avenue and running home to play at my house and watch Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, I turned left and knocked on the front door of a woman whose name I don’t recall. I don’t remember if she had children who were the same ages as Dave and me or how our family knew her.
I don’t remember much about this time, but I do remember not knowing if or when Mom would come home. I don’t think I knew where she was and I don’t recall speaking to her while she was gone. I had no idea when Dad would come pick us up each night. I would sometimes play outside and see his car pull into our driveway, but he wouldn’t pick us up immediately.
What I do remember is that it was during this time that I first developed migraine headaches. I can still vividly feel how my brain felt like it was trying to break through my skull and scalp to escape my head. I remember sitting in the woman’s 1970s kitchen in an uncomfortable yellow plastic bucket chair and describing the pain of my migraine in these words – my brain was trying to break through my skull. She did nothing to help me.
I’ve suffered from migraines since I was six. I can directly trace my anxiety back to this time of my life. I have a constant fear that people who love me will leave me and I’m sure it traces back to this experience. This may have been when I began biting my nails (a habit I gave up in my 30s).
I don’t remember all the details of the my mom’s absence, but it traumatized me.
And it was 41 years ago. And I’m typing these words through tears.
Ultimately, my mom came home. She had been in Colorado at her brother’s house trying to figure things out. But she returned home.
On The Last Word tonight, Lawrence O’Donnell shared a story tonight of a little girl named Jessica who had been stolen from her parents by the United States of America when her family tried to seek asylum here. She’s now in New York. The woman who made the video worked in the facility where the child is being held against her will. After she made the video, she quit her job. The video is heartbreaking. (About the 1:55 mark)
Later in the same video, about 4:20, Lawrence shared the story of a six-year-old girl who was being incarcerated in the United States. She was allowed to speak to her father, who was in El Salvador. The call was recorded by The Washington Post. Listen to the Post’s full recording of the call. According to the translation of their Spanish conversation, the conversation went just like any typical father-daughter conversation might until the little girl asked her dad when he was going to come get her from the detention center.
Her father was silent. He had no answer. It’s not up to him to decide when to pick up his little girl. It’s up to the United States government.
“Daddy, when will you come get me?” she asked again.
Finally, through tears, her father told her he’d get her soon, but they had to fix the airplane first.
What else could he tell her?
The truth is, he has no idea if he’ll ever see his little girl again because President Trump creates policies without thinking about the repercussions. What’s worse is that even if someone in his administration tried to voice a concern, he wouldn’t listen to them.
I don’t have children, but my heart breaks because we have become a country that steals children without giving a damn about the lifelong trauma we’re causing them. The U.N. says this is torture. I agree.
When will we stop traumatizing and torturing children?
What in the hell is wrong with us?
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Mister Rogers is the neighbor we still need
I cried seeing the trailer for Won’t You Be My Neighbor? in the theater a couple of months ago, so I knew I’d be emotional when I saw the documentary. I had no idea what I was in for though.
I loved Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood when I was a kid. To say he was my one of my best friends is no understatement. I loved the Neighborhood of Make Believe with Daniel Striped Tiger, Lady Oberlin, Henrietta Pussycat, and all of the rest. I loved Picture Picture. I loved the songs. In fact, I had (and still have) two Mister Rogers records.
Mister Rogers gave us life skills. He taught us about loving everyone regardless of their race, disability, or any other difference. He helped us grieve death and divorce. He taught us to regulate our emotions through the song What Do You Do With the Mad That You Feel?.The movie did not disappoint. It had every Mister Rogers moment you hoped it would have, including Mister Rogers and Officer Clemons in the wading pool during the time when African Americans were being run out of white-only swimming pools; Mister Rogers helping adults and children process the assassination of Robert Kennedy; and the full story behind the appearance of Jeff Erlanger in 1981 who taught us all about disabilities (including a surprise at the end). It also included his 1969 congressional testimony.
One of the most enduring pieces of Mister Rogers legacy is how he liked us for exactly who we were, which was encapsulated in the song, It’s You I Like. Surprisingly to me, Mister Rogers received much criticism over the years claiming he pampered kids and falsely built them up to be entitled by telling them they were special. He addressed this criticism in his commencement address at his alma mater, Dartmouth College, in 2002:
It’s you I like … What that ultimately means, of course, is that you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you. When I say ‘it’s you I like,’ I’m talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch — that deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate; peace that rises triumphant over war; and justice that proves more powerful than greed.
Shortly after he spoke these words and with about ten minutes left in the movie, I was openly sobbing, as was everyone around me. The woman, who I didn’t know, next to me wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me into her. We sat like that for two or three minutes — just two strangers, both crying, being moved by a man who we both loved and who profoundly impacted our lives. Eventually, we parted, but as the credits rolled, she reached out again. This time she took my hand, kissed it, looked me in the eye, and said, “I love you.” Through my tears, I managed to say “Thank you. I love you too.” Then she and her husband walked out of the theater.
I don’t like hugs, but I loved this one, and it’s helped me open up and hug other people this week when I was asked for a hug. Mister Rogers is still teaching me life lessons.
I don’t know who this woman was and I’m glad I don’t. Not knowing allows me to think she was anyone I happen to see on the street. Mister Rogers was all about spreading love and kindness. Not knowing who this woman was reminds me to silently say, “I love you” to everyone I encounter and put love and kindness into the world.
Mister Rogers went off the air in 2000, returned shortly after 9/11 to remind us to “look for the helpers,” and died in 2003. Last week, in the wake of the suicides of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, the CDC issued a report that said that the suicide rate in the United States has increased by 25% between 1999 and 2016. I don’t know if there is cause and effect here, but I can’t help but wonder if we had more Mister Rogers, if we’d have less mental illness and less suicide. What I know for sure is that it couldn’t hurt.
Original episodes of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood is available for streaming on Amazon Prime. Won’t You Be My Neighbor? is showing in select theaters nationwide. Please see both.
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Blogging isn’t sexy, but I love it and ChicagoNow is my home
I began blogging on July 1, 2007 on Blogger because I wanted to create a place on the internet that celebrated what was good in life and I was curious whether anyone would read the randomness that stumbles out of my brain.
Even in the halcyon days of 2007, social media and, more generally, the internet seemed to thrive on negativity and shrillness. The news, gotten mostly through newspapers, television and well-respected news websites, was often negative too. If it bleeds it leads isn’t a new phenomenon. I was optimistic enough to believe that I could be a voice of change. Gosh, my naïvety was cute.
Little Merry Sunshine 1.0 mostly stuck to that mission, although my snark sometimes appeared. Slowly, but surely, I developed a pretty sizable email subscription list and social media following because I used Facebook and Twitter to promote my blog. And then in 2009, the Chicago Tribune featured me on the front page of their website as one of Chicago’s Best Blogs. My readership skyrocketed and I felt like I’d arrived.
As proud as I was of that attention in 2009, it was the only third-party attention Little Merry Sunshine received until November 2013 when I launched Little Merry Sunshine 2.0 on ChicagoNow. With that move I became part of a community of more than 400 bloggers hosted by the Tribune Media Group (now tronc). My readership blew up again thanks to being listed in the ChicagoNow Directory in the Lifestyle Opinion section, being featured regularly on the ChicagoNow homepage, and having my posts being pushed out on ChicagoNow’s social media channels occasionally. My fellow ChicagoNow bloggers also read, commented, and shared my posts, as I have always done for them. All of this put Little Merry Sunshine in front of more eyes than I could ever achieve on my own.
Joining ChicagoNow also meant that I had technical support for my blog and a community manager (Thank you Jimmy Greenfield!) who supported us through daily emails, blogging tips, and regular blogging challenges like Blogapalooza, to list just a few of the things he did for us. Want to guess how much of that I received by blogging at Google-owned Blogger?
The past few months have been challenging at ChicagoNow. We’ve gotten a new community manager (Hi Matty Schwer!) and many other changes have taken place. Some of my fellow bloggers have met these changes with great resistance and even aired their grievances publicly, which I find to be not only distasteful, but embarrassing. Bad mouthing ChicagoNow hurts all of us. In my opinion, Matty has been responsive, transparent and helped keep ChicagoNow sustainable. I’m not sure he sleeps because answers to questions come almost 24/7/365.
Change is hard, but none of us blogs because blogging is sexy. ChicagoNow no longer pays any of its bloggers, so anyone who hoped to make their first million blogging at tronc recently had a rude awakening.
Blogging at ChicagoNow and being affiliated with tronc has a multitude of benefits though. More than a few bloggers have gotten jobs or gotten books published thanks to their ChicagoNow blogs. Many of us are viewed as authorities and experts in our genres and been interviewed by a multitude of local, national, and even international news agencies.
Since joining ChicagoNow, I’ve been interviewed on WGN Radio, HuffPo Live, and I have an interview that will air next month on CBS2. My post, Elf on the Shelf Turns This Hater into a Believer, was part of an article on Huffington Post and shared in the newsletter of a Pittsburgh-based non-profit my cousin is part of (she emailed me shocked that my post had been shared and had nothing to do with it being included in the newsletter). Why I Can’t Lean In to Ban Bossy, caught the attention of a journalism student at Medill who interviewed me as part of a class project. I’ve even been honored to have a number of my posts selected as one of the best posts of the month by the powers that be in the swanky ChicagoNow offices. I’m pretty sure this list isn’t inclusive, but you get the point.
I’ve made friends with people I would never have known without ChicagoNow. This community has lifted me up through hard times and celebrated many wins with me. Finally, I’ve become a better writer.
Anyone who says they get nothing from ChicagoNow and tronc is simply mistaken and is ignoring the obvious truth.
I don’t know what the future of ChicagoNow will be, but I know I have a blogging home here and here I will stay.
One last thing: Writing IS sexy and writers ARE sexy.
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My memories of Orbit Skate Center will roll with me forever
When I learned in February that Orbit Skate Center would close permanently on March 31, I knew I had to lace up a pair of rental roller skates and roll around their rink one last time.
Mary and I loved to roller-skate. It was the 1970s, so let’s leave my fashion choices alone. I learned to roller skate on my sidewalk with my BFF Mary when I was five. My first pair of skates were metal, fit over my shoes and were ugly, but could be adjusted for various shoe sizes so they grew as I did. As I grew older, I skated to the park and spent hours skating on the tennis courts, which, unlike the sidewalks, were smooth as silk without any cracks.
I don’t remember the first time I skated at Orbit. Maybe it was with my Brownie Troop or with Indian Princesses or at a birthday party or possibly my family just went over for some wholesome fun. What I remember is that skating at Orbit was a regular part of my life and, once I was old enough, was a place my parents let me go with my friends and without their supervision.
In junior high, my school held an annual skating party at Orbit. Attending the party was instrumental in learning how to navigate boy-girl relationships. Did I have to wait for a boy to ask me to skate during the Couple Skate or could I ask him? In 1983, this was a pressing question. In 2018, this question still occassionaly trips me up.
I’ll never forget the boy I skated with most often. He was Greek with blond hair and one of my closest friends. We grew apart in high school, but I’ll always remember how nervous we both were as we held hands during the Couple Skate.
No roller skating party was complete without the Hokey Pokey, which, to this day, I’m pretty certain is not what life is all about, although I might be wrong. I could do all the moves. In fact, I was a pretty good skater.
Ah, the memories.
When I arrived at 6:15 last night, people were already lined up out the door waiting for the rink to open at 7:00 and one last Friday night Cosmic Skate.
The rink. Aside from the organ no longer residing in the far corner of the rink, it looked exactly the same as I remembered it. The rink looked exactly the way I remembered it with the snack shop at the north end of the rink, skate rental counter on the south end, and benches and lockers on the west side. The only thing missing was the organ, which I later learned was moved from the south end of the rink to the north end by the snack shop.
I laced up my skates, locked up my purse, and headed for the rental counter to exchange my skates for a smaller size. I was feeling fairly steady in my skates and was looking forward to getting onto the rink.
I had these skates on for maybe five minutes last night. And then I lost my balance. My skates flew out in front of me while my head hit the ground behind me and my glasses flew off. The good news is that my glasses didn’t break, but I immediately had a bump on my head that went from goose egg to grapefruit in 0.3 seconds. I tried to sit up, but the world spun.
Orbit employees immediately surrounded me and other skaters offered help. After a few minutes I was able to sit up and was helped to the bench a couple feet away while the manager called 911 and another employee fetched ice. A lovely woman removed my skates and returned them. I remember asking someone to retrieve my purse and shoes from the locker, although I don’t recall who.
I cried. Not out of pain, although the pain was indescribable and intense. I cried out of humiliation and my own foolishness thinking that at 46, I could still skate like I did at 16.
A full busload of hot EMTs arrived (I’m fairly certain every EMT in the Northwest Suburbs was there) and wheeled me out on a stretcher. Once in the ambulance, my vitals were fine, but CT and Chis, two of the hot EMTs, highly recommended a trip to the ER just to be safe. My grapefruit-sized goose egg wasn’t getting smaller. Then they put me in a neck brace. The humiliation continued.
This sexy neck brace was more precautionary than anything else. Did my neck hurt, CT the hot EMT asked. Nope. Not until they put me in this neck brace and I couldn’t move. At the Northwest Community Hospital ER, my nurses Lisa and Andrew, gave me a little grief about roller skating as they hooked me up to a few machines that would monitor my pulse, blood pressure, respirations, and oxygen levels. I pushed back by pointing out that the handle on the overhead light looked remarkably similar to a certain adult toy.
A few hours later the CAT scan showed my neck and spine were fine and the only damage to my head was a bruise the size of Texas. Oddly, the CAT scan was not able to determine how many cats I own (answer: two). The kind doctor said I could drive home and handed me my discharge papers.
I took a cab back to Orbit and went in to thank the manager for taking such good care of me in my time of need. I was happy to see the packed rink. I may not have been able to enjoy one last skate, but I’m glad hundreds of other skaters of all ages did.
Today I’m feeling grateful for my health insurance. Grateful I didn’t break anything. Grateful I didn’t fracture my skull or have bleeding in my brain. Grateful for the kindness of strangers. Grateful for wonderful medical professionals. Most of all, I’m grateful for the many years of great skating memories I have at Orbit Skate Center.
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10 signs you might be middle-aged
The other day I ran into a neighbor, and we spent 15 minutes catching up about the recent ailments and surgeries of our neighbors. This sounds like gossip, but we live in a condo building and everyone looks out for each other, so having these conversations is essential.
As I walked away, I realized that I’m having far more conversations about ailments and surgeries than I used to have and I must be hitting middle age. That made me think about the other signs I’m no longer my 25-year-old self.
You might be middle-aged when …
- Your period is two weeks late and your first thought isn’t “Oh my God! I’m pregnant!” it’s “Oh my God! I’ve hit MENOPAUSE!”
- Your doctor starts giving orders for strange tests like colonoscopies and stress tests at your annual physical.
- You’ve stopped laughing at the Life Alert commercials because it suddenly seems like a darn good idea.
- The “I’m too tired for sex” excuse is no longer an excuse. You really are too tired for sex.
- You start waking up in the middle of the night to pee on a regular basis.
- People your age are dying with some frequency.
- You no longer know everyone on the Red Carpet before award shows.
- Some pop culture references go over your head, and you’re just fine with that.
- Stilettos are beautiful, but you’d rather be comfortable.
- Being hip and fashionable is no longer a goal. Being timeless is your priority.
I don’t know about you, but I’m much more comfortable in my skin at 46 than I was at 25. So it’s all good.
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The “Me Too” posts about sexual harassment and assault upset me at a visceral level
Have you seen the “me too” posts that have appeared all over Facebook in the last 24 hours?
The posts started thanks to this tweet from Alyssa Milano.
If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet. pic.twitter.com/k2oeCiUf9n
— Alyssa Milano (@Alyssa_Milano) October 15, 2017
//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
I initially hesitated posting “me too,” but then I realized that was part of the problem. As women, we’ve been conditioned to internalize the sexual harassment, catcalling, inappropriate touching, assault, and rape we’ve endured over the years. Somehow it’s our fault or what happened to us isn’t really that bad, as if either of those “reasons” are legitimate or reasons to stay quiet.
At last count, more than 80 of my girlfriends and a few of my guy friends have posted “me too” and shared their stories of harassment and assault. That’s more 20% of my female Facebook friends. And that’s just the friends who have chosen to share their stories.
What upsets me about the “me too” posts is that these women are Gen Xers and Millennials and we’re mostly being harassed and assaulted by our peers. My own experience bears this out.
I was 7 the first time it happened to me. I told a boy he couldn’t kiss me on the playground and he chased me until he knocked me down into a snow/ice bank and knocked out my two front teeth. He liked me, grown-ups said as I spent the afternoon in the principal’s office with blood gushing from my mouth waiting for my mom to pick me up, and that’s what boys do. In eighth grade, that same boy stalked me.
I was 9 when boys began to snap my bra (I had committed the sin of developing early) and attempting to pull my bathing suit top down at the pool. Boys will be boys, I was told.
I was 11 when a boy tried to stick his foot between my legs under the table during science class. He would also corner me in the band room after school when I’d pick up my flute. I became scared of him and kept my flute in my hall locker so I wouldn’t be caught alone in the band room. I kept quiet because I’d long since learned there would be no punishment for his gross behavior. He’s now a minister.
I was 13 when a grown man catcalled and made sexually suggestive comments to me while my brother and I were on vacation with my dad. I told my dad and my dad let him have it. After that week was over, I never saw the man again.
I was 20 when a man assaulted me. I didn’t tell anyone for many years. The reasons were complicated, but included that I’d been drinking and didn’t think anyone would believe me. He later called and asked me out on a date. I hung up.
I’ve lost count of all the times since then I’ve been sexually harassed or catcalled. I don’t usually tell anyone. What’s the point? Complaining about it will only get me labeled as difficult and a troublemaker, but won’t have negative consequences for the harasser.
Once in awhile I’ll call out the offender for his grotesque behavior and he will inevitably tell me I’m being too sensitive, that he’s just joking, or he wouldn’t want to fuck me anyway. Huh.
I don’t know when we’ll get to a place where harassment and assault aren’t the norm, but I hope that we’ll start taking women seriously when they have the courage to speak up for themselves.
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Sammy Gardner: February 24, 2012 – July 4, 2017
Sammy Gardner was born in Chicago on February 24, 2012. He was one of three kittens, two boys and a girl, born that day to a mom I’ve never known anything about. When he and his siblings were found by volunteers from the Illinois Animal Rescue within a few days of their birth, their mom was no where to be found and it was assumed that she had been killed.
Sammy, his sister Zoey, and I became a forever family about three months later when I adopted them from a lovely foster family who sent them home with handmade fleece blankets. I hadn’t even been sure that I was ready to be a cat mom again because it had only been about seven weeks since Betsey and Ross had died, but we instantly fell in love and I knew that I had to be their mommy.
For five years and two months, Sammy, Zoey, and I have been a family, but today Sammy suddenly went into heart failure and I made the painful decision to let him cross the Rainbow Bridge.
Just this morning, Sammy was trying to knock photos off my living room wall, which always entertained him to no end because of how much it frustrated me, and climbing on top of the refrigerator where he loved to sit and watch over Zoey and me — I’m fairly certain he also judged us from his perch. Yesterday, he tried to take a stroll down my condo building hallway, but I was too quick. He cuddled with both Zoey and me, walked away, his breathing changed, and he became lethargic and non-responsive to his name. It truly happened just as quickly as that.
I rushed him Blue Pearl Specialty and Emergency Pet Hospital in Northfield, but by the time we got there, it was too late. Sammy was still with us, but my decision was clear once I spoke to the vet. Sammy lived a good life and passed away in my arms with my tears streaming down on his little body.
Sammy will be remembered for his snuggles and the way he greeted me at the door every night. He loved to sleep next to me in bed and was a major force in helping reduce my anxiety. Without Sammy and Zoey, I can honestly say I wouldn’t have made it through the summer of 2012. They provided unconditional love and helped bring me out of my horrible depression. Sammy purred louder than any cat I’ve known and our home will certainly be quieter now, but Zoey and I will adjust.
Sammy and Zoey have seen me through some difficult and painful times in the past five years, times that could have broken me. I promised today him that I’m in really good space, that I can take care of myself and Zoey, and that he could cross the Rainbow Bridge in peace.
In his last moments, I thanked him for letting me be his mommy, thanked him for being my boy, and told him that Zoey wanted him to know that he was her best friend. I also told him he was brave, had lived a full life, and one day, we’d all be reunited.. Just as sure as I rescued Sammy and Zoey, they rescued me. I assured him that although Zoey and I would miss him every day and would never forget him, we are strong and we’ll be okay. Sammy made our lives richer.
I also told him that Betsey and Ross were waiting for him on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge because today would be their 21st birthday (how’s that for some crazy-ass timing?) and I’m sure they’re waiting to start their celebration until he arrives. Knowing them, they have lots of catnip and tuna, which Sammy’s never had and will love.
Sammy is survived by his littermate and best friend Zoey, who at this moment is snuggled up on the cat tree where Sammy spent many hours every day. In addition to Zoey and me, Sammy is survived by Christopher, who loved him like he was one of his own and always brought Sammy and Zoey kitty treats while I was away. Sammy is also survived by many friends who touched his life and whose lives he touched.
Zoey and I are grateful to the incredible staff at Blue Pearl; their compassion was evident from the instant I rushed in with Sammy. They gave him expert care, were most concerned with making him comfortable while trying to stabilize him, and were reassuring to me that I did everything possible for him today; I couldn’t have known he was sick and it probably came on instantaneously so there is nothing for me to feel guilty about. When I realized taking any extraordinary measures were for me and not for him, they gave me all the time I needed to say goodbye and let him die in my arms. It was a beautiful goodbye.
I’m also grateful to the staff at March Animal Hospital, who all provided his routine veterinary care for the past five years. Zoey and I will be in later this month for her annual physical.
For now, Zoey and I are going to get used to life just the two of us. Like Sammy, Zoey is 5 1/2 years old and I’m not sure how she’d adjust to life with a new cat in the house. I’ll never say never, but for now we need to mourn Sammy and be good on our own.
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Jessica L Gardner 