No One Gets Out of Here Alive. Is that the Lesson?

In 2009, when I first began writing my MFA thesis about people who work with death in their professions, I also wrote about my own experience with death, which at the time was limited to my cats.  My last mentor thought it was kind of ridiculous to equate a pet’s death to that of a human, but I know a few pet owners who would beg to differ.  At one time, I had four cats living with me—Spooky, Binky, Larry and Penny.  Penny was the youngest cat (11) and she was the first to die.  I came home from work and found her foaming at the mouth and struggling to breathe.  I freaked out and my husband took her to the vet.  After an xray, it was discovered that she had several tumors in her lungs.  We made the horrendously difficult decision to end her life that night.

Four years later, my 15 year-old cat Larry began to urinate outside the box which was the first sign that something was wrong.  He was going through liver failure.  We also made the decision to end his life.  While I didn’t go to the vet for Penny, I took Larry in.  He loved nothing more than to be brushed, so as he cowered on my lap I brushed him to calm him down.  The vet couldn’t find a vein, so she said it would be best if I left the room as she would have to administer the shot into his heart. 

A few months later, Binky, Larry’s sister succumbed to the hyperthyroidism that we had treated her for for years.  Out of all my cats, she was my favorite.  She was a rotund Calico who was snuggly and social and would face off with any dog that dared enter the house.  When we took her to the vet, I stayed for the first injection, but I couldn’t be with her for the final one.  It was just too painful.

After Binky, the only cat that remained was Spooky, my oldest.  At 20 years old, he stopped eating and hid behind the TV.  I knew he was ready to go and it broke my heart.  I’d had that cat for half of my life and when he died, I vowed to never own another cat.  It was too difficult to lose them. 

When I went to pick up Spooky’s ashes, I met Judy and fell in love.  Despite the fear of another loss, I took a chance on love.  And I’m so glad I did.  Judy is a lovable cat who is chipper and snuggly and loves to destroy my furniture.  And I don’t mind because I love her. Her presence makes me calm and happy. 

I didn’t want another cat.  And then I met Sonya Reed.  She had written me to thank me for being with Khristian on his last day on earth and making him laugh.  A friendship developed.  We wrote.  I went to visit her.  In the year that followed she told me of her cat at the prison.  She named her Violet.  She snuck food to her and tamed her.  She loved this cat like a child.  The Sun published a piece about Violet and Sonya.

But then the prison decided they were going to trap the feral cats at the prison and kill them.  Sonya pleaded with the Assistant Warden to let her trap Violet and let someone adopt her.  And even though I didn’t want a second cat, especially a feral one that might hurt Judy, I agreed to do it.  I didn’t do it out of a love for a cat, but out of love for my friend.  I wanted to take care of the one thing she loved and make sure that she was safe from harm.

So, I arranged to have Violet tested for Feline Leukemia and HIV and she tested negative.  I got her spayed and vaccinated.  I brought her home on October 23, 2011 and amazingly she thrived in her new environment.  She is now an important and loved member of my family.

This past weekend, I awoke at 4:30am to the sound of her labored breathing under my bed.  I knew this wasn’t a good sign.  I found an emergency vet and brought her in immediately.  They took chest x-rays and found some inflammation.  They didn’t know if she had asthma or pneumonia or really what was wrong.  They gave her steroids and an antibiotic and kept her for 12 hours.  She didn’t eat.  I knew she was stressed out in that foreign place, so I took her home where she could rest and feel comfortable.

Yesterday, October 23 exactly one year from the day I brought her home, I took her to her regular vet.  She still wasn’t eating and had vomited. They did blood work, including a heartworm test and last night, the vet called to confirm that she had heartworms, which are fatal to cats.  Violet spent the first two years of her life living in a culvert outside the death row facility in Gatesville.  Heart worms are contracted by a mosquito.  There is no treatment for cats.  I am devastated.

I wrote Sonya a letter last night through JPay to break the bad news. I wish I didn’t have to do it that way.  I wish I could have called her and spoke to her in person, but she’s in prison.  In addition to dealing with the news of Violet, her daughter with Khristian just had her fourteenth birthday and in two weeks, it will be the three year anniversary of Khristian’s death.  I don’t ask much of people, but if you want to score major kharmic brownie points, would you please send Sonya Reed a letter?  If only to say that you’re praying for Violet.  She needs her spirit lifted and right now I can’t be the only one to do it.

Her address is:

Sonya Reed #878111

Mt. View Unit

2305 Ransom Road

Gatesville, TX 75628

You can write her the old fashioned way or buy a stamp through jpay and send an email. It would mean the world to me if people reached out to her with compassion.  You don’t have to be her best buddy, just say something simple.

I am trying to make sense of this turn of events.  Violet was the happy ending to my book.  I couldn’t save Khristian Oliver or LarryMatthew Puckett, but I could save a tiny cat from death row.  And look at what happens. Despite my best intentions, death will take her anyway. I just wish and hope and pray that this little cat can beat the odds and recover.

If you are so inclined, will you please pray for her?

Thank you.

Pamela   

Monday Mournings: The Death of a Spouse

Today, I am pleased to have a friend from school on the blog. Originally from New York, Corin Hirsch is a food and drinks writer who now resides in the lovely state of Vermont.

DW: Who was the person that died? CH: My husband, Nicholas Sayer.

DW: How old were you at the time? CH: 30

DW: How old was Nicholas? CH: 28
DW: Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen? CH: It was sudden. Nick was a tree surgeon, and was working in a pine tree when he slipped and hit some wires with his shoulder and was electrocuted. He likely (hopefully) died instantly.

DW: Did you and the person talk about death? CH: Strangely enough, we were watching a film a few nights earlier when Nick became reflective about a brush with death when he was a teenager. He imagined out loud what people would say at his funeral, and we also joked about what each of us would do if the other died -- hover around and vet potential partners, etc. He insisted that if he didn't approve of the person I was dating, he would unleash supernatural forces to drive them away.

DW: Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before this person died? CH: Yes, my mother died suddenly when I was 10 and she was 35. I had also lost two of my grandparents by that point.

DW: Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving? CH: My family and friends were immensely supportive, even as they grieved in their own ways. My father was a rock, and friends of ours flew in from the UK (he was English). A few stuck around until his memorial service a few days later. Without all of these incredible people, I'm not sure if I would have made it through without resorting to Class A drugs. (I'm kidding, but only by half).
I was in shock for a long while, though, which didn't wear off until nearly a year later. Then, depression set in. Naturally, people move on with their lives and sometimes their patience can wear thin with a person who's blue. I tried not to impose much on others beyond the point of reasonable expectation, so grief became more private and in some ways, more insidious.

DW: Is there anything you wish you'd done differently with this person? CH: The night before Nick died, I didn't go to bed when he did because I wanted to stay up late and work on a poem for my brother and his fiancee, who were getting married a few days later. (I was supposed to read the poem at the wedding). I regret that....but on the last morning I saw him, I uncharacteristically offered to ride with him to work, at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning. I remember looking at his hands in the car and thinking how much I loved those, and him. When he was walking into work, I lingered and stared at him, and he turned at the door and gave me a puzzled smile before heading inside.

DW: Was he buried or cremated? CH: A friend of Nick's went with me to the funeral home to pick up the ashes, and I rode home with them in my lap. They were still warm. Some of his ashes are buried at a cemetery in Surrey, where his family can visit; his stone overlooks the South Downs, his favorite place to wander in the woods and spy on animals. It's an almost mystical place, on the grounds of a centuries-old Christian church.

DW: Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share? CH: Depending on circumstance, shock can last a long time, and completely bend your sense of time and location. And though the sting of the loss never completely goes away, life does go on — that's a cliche, of course, but you realize how quickly the world swallows up our memory. The people who knew Nick will never forget him, but in a generation or two, who will remember him, or me, or you? It's very humbling, and when you grieve someone's death, you can see that process happening in real time.

DW: Were any songs played at the memorial that were important to Nicholas? CH: Wilco & Bill Bragg, Remember The Mountain Bed. I had listened to that song all autumn while running in the woods, and its lyrics were (and still are) resonant. Nick's brother learned it and played it at his UK memorial.

That, and Tom Waits 'Take It With Me' Nick listened to it a few times before he passed and once I caught him tearing up to the lyrics. It makes you wonder, did he know somehow?
This goes out to Nicholas.

A Bit o' my Book!

Hey folks! So, I was supposed to do an interview today that kept getting postponed and delayed and yadda yadda yadda, so guess what? Today it was officially cancelled. The best laid plans and all that jazz. What does this mean? I've got nothing for you, dear reader. And this makes me feel kind of guilty because I'm one of those types that feels an enormous amount of anxiety if I say I'm going to do something and I can't do it. I'm the kind of person who shows up, usually 15 minutes early so I can case the joint and feel less weird, but by golly, I'll show up. I may not be dressed to the nines or have neatly pressed hair, but I'm there and that has to count for something.

And because this interview was cancelled, I also feel like a bloser. (That's a blogging loser.) Somebody, donated to my blog, so that makes me feel totally motivated to keep the content appearing. I don't want her to feel like she's donating her hard earned money to a lazy, no writing kind of writer. To rectify this situation, I have decided to take a random few pages from my book and post them here. These pages may mean nothing to you, but once you read the book, they'll mean a lot. This excerpt is about my scariest day exploring death. So much was at stake. I thought I was going to be a hero and reunite a really nice woman with the child she never got to know and it didn't work out that way.

So, enjoy. And happy hump day! P.S. I have deleted the names of the Church and of the Mom.



     With two letters and a surprisingly beautiful painting of roses that Sonya made for her daughter out of a children’s set of watercolor paints, I drive the two and a half hours to Tyler, TX. My original plan was to bring Erik and the kids, but I have to be on the road at 6:30 to make it to the church before the service starts, and it doesn’t seem fair to subject them to this crazy mission on a Sunday morning. Besides, this is a solitary task that must be completed in a quick, efficient manner. If I linger too long, I will stand out like Mr. Rogers at a Heavy Metal concert among the Pentecostal crowd with their long, pulled back hair, ankle length skirts and long sleeves. Despite my best effort to craft a conservative black ensemble from the available clothes in my closet, I look more like I’m attending a Johnny Cash concert.

     I stop at a McDonald’s in Tyler to use the restroom and out of guilt I buy a mocha latte. Not a wise choice, considering I’m already in fight or flight mode. Sweat is trickling down the inside of my black cardigan and my hands are visibly shaking as I pull back out onto the main road. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. It’s just a church and I’m just the messenger. I don’t even have to talk if I don’t want to. I just have to hand over the envelopes, the painting and leave. That’s it.

     But, really, who am I kidding? I’m a stranger in a strange land, delivering a message that no one wants to hear.

     The _________ Church of Tyler is at the end of a long residential road and consists of two adjacent brown buildings that aren’t particularly ornate or church like. I pull into their parking lot and park in the designated “visitor” spot. I watch as a man in a black suit exits his car with his two young children and enters the main building. I try calling my Mom for a pep talk but she doesn’t answer, nor does Erik who is probably still sound asleep. I’m unsure as to which building to enter—the one with the people or the one without the people. I don’t know if it’s because I’m scared or because it’s Sunday or because I’m about to enter a house of worship, but I say “God, help me” and exit my car.

     I place the envelopes inside my roomy black purse and clutch the painting and coffee in both hands, which makes opening the door to the second building problematic. I walk in, not expecting a soul, but I’m greeted with “Good morning” by three adolescent girls standing at a counter. One of them is Maddie, Khristian and Sonya’s daughter. Her long brown hair is free from the secured braid that I’ve seen in every picture of her; it cascades in long, dark waves down the back of her floor length purple dress. My heart feels as if it is going to pop out of my mouth. The three girls look towards me with curiosity.

     “Hi. Um, I’m looking for ____ ___________. Is she here?” My voice quivers.

     Maddie steps out from behind the counter. I want to tell her so much—that her dad loved her and wanted nothing more in life than to meet her and that her Mom is a lovely, intelligent woman but she’s stuck behind prison walls and can’t reach out to her. She points towards the hall.

     “She’s down that hallway in the kids’ room.”

     “Okay.”

     I take two steps forward and then freeze in place—this is it—what am I waiting for? Maddie is now behind the counter with the two other girls. I quickly walk over unsure of what to say. Meeting her without one of her parents glued to her side wasn’t how I envisioned this thing happening.

     “Are you Maddie?”

     “Yes.”

    “Hi. I have something for you.” I hand her the painting. She gently takes it from my hands and holds it by the outside edges, like one would hold a photograph so as not to smudge the picture. She studies the words on it—“My Daughter, My Heart.” 

     “It’s from your mother. Your biological mother,” I clarify, hoping to impose some sort of understanding.

     One of the girls says, “What?” as if this was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. Oh God, what have I done? I dig through my purse and grab the letter addressed to her.

    “This is a letter from her to you.” 

    “Thank you,” she says and takes it from my trembling hands.

   “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous. I’m going to go talk to _________.”

   I high tail it to the hallway, leaving these three sheltered girls with the after effects of my verbal bomb. I don’t even have three seconds to compose myself. _______ and an older woman with black hair in a bun eye me suspiciously as I walk towards them. I can’t catch my breath.

   “Hi, um, my name is Pamela Skjolsvik, uh, and I’m a friend of your sisters,” I say, my voice sounding as if I’ve just finished a relay race.

   ________’s strawberry blonde hair is piled into a bun with a few loose curls that frame her makeup free face. She looks at me quizzically.

   “Sister?” she questions.

   “Sonya.”

   _________’s facial expressions change from perplexed to pure anger and it’s directed at me, the messenger. The black haired woman who isn’t as colorfully ornamented as ______ steps in closer to her to block my entrance into the room.

   “I have a letter from her to you. I just need to get it out of my purse.”

   I walk between them, deeper into the room and plop my purse and coffee onto a low table and proceed to rifle through my bag. These two women probably think I have a lot of gall to invade their space, but if they could only listen to the sound of my pounding heart, they’d realize how afraid I am.

   “Here,” I say and hand her the letter. “Sonya wants visitation with her daughter.”

   “Uh, huh.” ________ backs away from me as if I have horns and a tail.

   “That’s it.” I say. No big deal. I sling the bulky purse over my shoulder and step out into the hallway and almost as an afterthought, I turn back towards the two women.

   “I also gave a letter to Madison.”

   Both women sprint from the room in different directions like some sort of folk family swat team. When I exit the building, I find that Maddie and her two friends have disappeared from behind the counter. The black haired woman follows me out into the courtyard. She is joined by the man I saw earlier in the black suit. They stand on the steps of their church and watch me—the bumbling messenger of doom—as I search through every nook and cranny of my purse to find my keys.

   Once inside the safety of my car, I lock the doors and call Erik. The man and woman stare in the direction of my car with stern expressions, their arms folded firmly across their chests. Part of me wants them to feel a bit of the panic that I felt entering their domain. I just sit there taunting them with my inactivity, but as soon as Erik answers, a flood of suppressed emotion gushes out of me, something I don’t want them to see—I’m human and I’m scared. I pull out of the lot—one hand on my phone and one hand on the wheel. No matter how justified I feel that what I’ve done is right, I feel as reckless as if I’d brandished a gun.