So, we got this thing called a hurricane this weekend. It was windy and rainy. I mean, really windy and rainy. So much so, that there was a run on bread and milk and water AFTER the thing hit. This is a pic of the bread rack 12-hours post storm. To me, it looks like a Florida market before a 32 degree temperature forecast. Or what a San Diegun (San Diegoion? San Diego-un? San Diegan?) market would look like before snow.
We, the family, including all siblings, nieces, nephews, in-laws (except for Kerry’s husband Steve’s mom and dad, who seem inaccessible in the hinterlands of North Carolina golf courses) made it from all corners of the country to celebrate Mom’s 70th birthday this past weekend.
We swam as a family in the ocean. I gave my nephew a boogie board and he immediately rode in his first wave like a champ. Clare, who was born when I was 31, is a beautiful, nationally recognized soccer star. Her sister, Tara, takes to the ocean like me—naturally. Ryan doesn’t like to get his nose filled with the Atlantic yet, and his younger brother, Jake, is still too little to wade in, but I have confidence for him.
Our family has waves in the DNA. We had special moments with Aunt Judy, 71, myself, 44, brothers-in-law Steve and Matt, and Tara, Conor, and Ryan, swimming as if we were gifted. Tara rode her fathers back as he took some waves in. We all took some bigger waves in from crest to sand. We all—despite the SPF we applied—ended up with tans.
There are few things more special than wading into the ocean with a nephew or niece holding your hand or on your shoulders, braving the next wave. Life is love again.
I have drugs that are illegally legal. Percoset, medical MJ, codine, etc. Why? Because surgery incurs pain, and if the doctor prescribes less than you need, you ask for more. They give it to you out of compassion. They don’t want to see their patients suffer. It’s better than going to a liquor store or a dealer on the street. Politicians don’t understand this. They think a perfect world consists of aspirin and Viagra. Hey cop, judge, prosecutor: Ever get your gum flapped open and a bolt inserted into your jaw? I have an account at a local pharmacy chain for heart and chill out meds. Doctors and pharmacists see the problem. They do all they can to relieve it. They do it with a good heart and smile. And a warning. They care. Hey blue with the red lights, do you like to see people suffer? Judging by the tasers shot into people who have died, yes. That was supposed to be an alternative to bullets. Steroid-pumped droids with badges suck.
It’s been a huge long time since I’ve posted. I don’t know when I’ll post again. I’m in everyone’s favorite state of being: miserable sadness. I can’t write without being snooped on and confronted negatively. I think I almost died in April. Literally. No shit. Four days in the hospital attached to every monitor an ICU can muster.
I broke free from my apartment this week for three hours and paid hell for it by drunkenly accepting a free admittance card to a go-go bar. It was just a card for getting in—didn’t even consider going. I’m not that dumb. Anymore.
I might as well have been given a seashell that said come suck a mermaid’s tits. That’s how she reacted. The way I said thanks to the person handing out the cards (by the thousands) blew my girlfriend’s mind out. She won’t accept that I’d sooner pay money for air than do the go-go bar scene. Been there. Done that. Had the girlfriend. I think that’s what drove her crazy. She’s the jealous type.
So no blog posts. No twitter. Just isolation. And a trip to the pharmacy every now and then.
Let it be said that I woke up today with the television on. There was a show on cashing in on the Christian doctrine of Jesus’ suffering, resurrection, and subsequent ascension. It focused on the suffering. In all its gory, gothic detail. Unimaginable mortal torment. Puncture, peel, asphyxiate, bleed. Just about everything but abandon, perhaps the most unbearable anguish.
I drift in and out of sleep, mixing vivid dreams with televised torture. My cell cues me awake. There’s a lingering anxiety. I pick it up and see that my girlfriend is texting me to see if I’m still in for Easter dinner with her dad. I’m in. No question. She asked me a few days ago and I stalled. I’m not a big celebration guy. But her father was kind enough to invite me, so I committed. And her message was less to see if I was still in and more to see if I was still committed. I am. Yes.
I forced myself from horizontal to vertical and went about looking for Easter clothes. Found some that were pretty much untouched for months and still in dry cleaning bags. Showered and shaved. Fed my kidney-cancer-killer cat, Lefty—talk about resurrection (fingers crossed)—and left.
Lynn (my girlfriend) and I walked from our Upper West Side apartment building to the parking garage. Quick walk. One long avenue and a half block. Five minutes. Her car was waiting, but there was no attendant. Which means no keys. We waited. Whistled. Finally, she rang a bell. The garage congregation came calling with the keys. We loaded the car with Easter treats and hit the street. We made the light and proceeded to the West Side Highway. A necessity to cross the river to Jersey.
There was a small collection of cars lining up to merge. There was a small commotion on the sidewalk. A weeping woman. A wide-eyed man silently screaming for help with every yearning turn of his neck. And a little dog, wrapped in a sheet.
*
I called at Lynn. “Stop. Stop the car.” This is instinct calling. This is the bell ringing. This is real.
Lynn pulled over as far as she could on the highway ramp. There was a car directly in front of us already pulled over, blinkers on.
As she pulled over, I did not count how many cars passed. But there were many. Too many.
I jumped out of the passenger seat and ran to the scene. There was no asking what had happened. The dog had been hit. Hard. By a car. They were able to carry him off the road to the sidewalk. The man was holding a broken leash. The dog was in over-the-edge shock, hyperventilating and bleeding. Great, profound suffering. Anguish. Tears start streaming down my face, matching the reaction of his human family. We have no tools to save him.
*
10 days ago, I took Lefty to a veterinary hospital around the street from my building. I had them on my contact list in case of emergency.
This Is A Fucking Emergency.
So I called. Easter Sunday. I got their answering service. Told the operator what had happened and where we were. Got the dog family’s cell number. Gave it to the operator. She said she would try to find someone on call. No promises. We stood, hovering over this absolutely beautiful creation in unimaginable pain and suffering.
Out of nowhere is this Latino man wearing a baseball cap. Tall, thin. He asks us to make a stretcher out of the sheet. At first, I’m confused. I almost configure a body bag. He says, “No. Stretch the sheet taught at four corners.” We do. He helps. He assumes two corners.
We lift the dog off the sidewalk. Turns out the dog’s family had taken him for a walk at a nearby park when his leash snapped and he ran into traffic. Tragic as that sounds, it meant they were parked close by.
We’re carrying him down against the on ramp traffic toward his family’s car. The street becomes empty. I start talking to him like I talk to Lefty. In reassuring, loving tones. The sheet is taught. He coughs up a mouthful of blood. Then another. He lifts his head. Our eyes meet. Suddenly, his eyes roll so far back, all I can see is white. He rallies. His eyes lock in again to mine like a slot machine. He looks straight through my soul, into the depths of infinity. He raises as much of his body as he can, He curls toward me. Sheets of tears are running down my face. He lowers his head.
I have never seen a being in such suffering. We traded slices of soul. I lost a part of me and gained a part of him.
Just as we placed him in the back of the small SUV, the cell phone rang for man who had been holding the broken leash. It was the veterinary answering service. They had a doctor ready, if they could make it to 55th street quickly.
The Latino man touches my shoulder. I turn as if touched by a ghost. I forgot he was there. Now I see him in front of me. He says it is OK to go back to my car, and that there will be no car parked in front of us with the blinkers on. We will merge with grace.
I started to ask the man holding the broken leash for his number. I stopped. Too many questions, numbers, talk—too little time. I turned to go back to Lynn.
I looked for the Latino man who had told us what to do. The wise man who told us how to carry a life. He was just here a second ago.
The car in front of Lynn’s was gone. Far across the river, I guess. In record time. Dissolved into some incredible distance.
There is someone who is out there who is dying to know someone who does know you, who is craving to be near you, to finally fear you, to be dear to you and speak to you as fire is to cold as shy is to bold as crying is to holding is to comfort is to nestle, slightly wrestle, touching under where it’s crazy, being so lazy, chill and laid back again unto you, so far into you that I’m through you, nothing new to you or to me so we see where we’re going, always knowing that we’re throwing disposition through cognition…
Feel free to continue. I gave a head start of 104 words.
There’s a German kitchen store two blocks away. They sell a faucet. That’s it. A faucet. No handles, no seats or springs, no diverter valves. No plumbing attachments, period. It’s 5,000 a sq. ft. showroom for one faucet. No photography allowed. No catalog listing. It costs $10,000. The salesmen are, I kid you not, Sprokets. The store does indeed have wicked cool track lighting.
Leaving
My beloved cat was just diagnosed with lymphoma, my teeth are in terrible pain, and I’m in the middle of disassembling my apartment for an epic move to Manhattan this week. I am not in a good state. And by that, I don’t mean New Jersey.
Lefty stopped being Lefty gradually at first, then, suddenly. The ravenous, rambunctious creature stopped eating and drinking a few weeks ago. Lynn and I took him to the vet last weekend and it was a horrible experience for the three of us.
We needed something to transport Lefty, and the crate I had for him from his kitten days probably couldn’t even contain his rather large butt today. We went to PetSmart and bought a “Kennel Cab” suitable for intermediate-sized dogs. Turned out to be perfect for Lefty. We brought it home and wasted no time in putting it to use. Lefty even seemed to enjoy its cozy comfort.
Lefty was sort of himself again in the vet’s office by being relentlessly uncooperative, and he didn’t exactly endear himself to the pros trying to diagnose him. As they wrestled him down to get a blood sample, he fought as if his very life depended upon it. The wailing sounds and screams that came out of his tiny mouth and the wide-eyed look he shot me of of betrayal, confusion, and pain broke my heart.
He was in the throws of pure terror. I was not privy to give him comfort.The vet left to test his blood. While she was gone, Lynn and I were left with Lefty and calmed him down. The poor guy was absolutely traumatized. Lynn’s maternal instinct kicked in and she fetched him some water. He drank it like he’d been wandering doomed deserts for days.
After about 45 minutes, the vet came back with the tentative diagnosis. The blood work, combined with his symptoms meant kidney disease with a likelihood of cancer.
I had already lost it while he was wailing, but managed to hold it back to my best ability. Hearing this news put me over the edge. I know it sounds weird, and I knew this day would come, but mortality isn’t part of the daily sentience of affection between a man and his cat.
The thought of losing him is unbearable.
Further tests were needed to confirm the diagnosis. It required that I leave him overnight in a strange place with sick animals—and without the comfort of my lap for him to lie in. I left the vet in a zombie-like state, with a touch of desperate despondence.
I took home an empty Kennel Cab. And not to get maudlin here, but a heavy heart as well.
