“A Mother Tonight Is Rocking a Cradle in Bethlehem”

Yesterday I read a mom’s “worst day ever post” on Facebook.  She received news that her 5 year old boy’s leukemia relapsed and he needed a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible. My heart broke for her.  I empathized with her facing a Christmas, like the very first one, where nothing else mattered except a baby’s life.  

In 1999, right before my son’s 2nd birthday, I had my “worst day ever.”  Matthew was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.  Around Christmas, he was in the toughest part of the  chemotherapy treatment.  If we were going to celebrate the holidays, it’d have to be in the slimmest and simplest way because our son had little to no immune system.  We were extremely cautious about germs and wore medical masks years before everyone else. Regardless, pandemic or not, a bald toddler with a medical mask screams cancer which is very hard for people to “see.”  It’s hard to watch commercials for St. Jude.  If we drew any attention it oftentimes included sorrow and pity, which was comforting at times and sometimes strengthening.  The kindness of strangers is awe inspiring.  

It was the worst AND best Christmas.  

We were present every moment and grateful for the few privileged and healthy family members who visited.  I barely shopped, decorated, baked, cleaned or cooked.  And honestly, I didn’t miss it.

Over the last several years a lot of families, especially ones that have members with deficient immune systems, have had to slim down and simplify their holidays.  They stayed home with just a few guests to keep the risk of Covid down.  

We were quite lucky that we were home and able to wake up to Santa’s treats and our cats and not in the hospital that year. However, we weren’t so lucky on Y2K when we wondered if the world would end at midnight. He was in for an infection, a high fever sent us straight to Children’s Hospital emergency room.  The emergency room at CHLA was in an old part of the hospital on a busy city corner.   As I sat in a dark, dingy room staring out the window, I secretly wished a car would smash into the window and take us all out together, quickly and painlessly of course.  That didn’t happen and the world was fine. Down the hall from Matthew’ s hospital room, we toasted with Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider and noisemakers as we watched fireworks over Los Angeles from the window.  After he got better, fighting off possible cardiac arrest, we got to meet our new niece born January 4th.  The doctor advised the two could meet since their immune systems were similar.  Watching my son snuggle with a newborn baby was a highlight of that holiday season. 

Three long years later on January 13th, 2003, we celebrated his last day of chemotherapy (no bell). With every check up, we thank God for good results.  I assured my son that every poke from then on out was an affirmation of his health and praised him for always being so brave.

I hope, pray and wish that the mother I heard about and hope to meet someday, will be able to look back 20 years to her worst AND best Christmas.

(written in 2021, on December 19, 2022, I finally met the inspiration to this story)

Meow Woof

On the eve of our 900 mile road trip, Angela, my forever friend called to tell me she was taking one of her dogs to the vet.  From the way Tiki looked the last time I saw him, I knew we might have one less passenger on our journey from Scottsdale to Denver.  Tiki, a 12 year old, male Pomeranian tolerated me and for that I felt lucky. He might have even liked me a little bit, afterall I drove him and his little sister Maggie May from California to Arizona just a few months before.  They were so well behaved, I didn’t even realize they were in the backseat until our first pit stop.  Unfortunately, Tiki suffered from severe hip problems, possible dementia and just recently and the reason for his death, kidney failure.  We came to the conclusion that he had no interest in living in the the Rocky Mountains and his hips (that didn’t lie) probably preferred a warmer climate.  He had been with Angela through marriage, divorce and several moves but he wasn’t going to make it to the her “relocation discovery part 2.”

I was sympathetic toward Angela but knew she was focused on moving to a new city and maybe a bit relieved about the transition without her poor, old dog on the drive and in the place she’d be calling home for a few months.  The distraction took some of the sting off the loss, even though I knew it was still so hard for her to lose her lil friend, Tiki.  I was in a similar situation when we lost our sweet, cat Lila.  She got feline leukemia at the same time our child was going through treatment for the childhood kind.  It was close to Easter 2003, when our son got an infection and had to be hospitalized.  Meanwhile, Lila was getting worse but our focus was obviously and primarily on our son.  My ex husband, Tom, recently reminded me that the difficulty of administering medicine to a toddler and a cat was quite similar. I remember Tom wanted to leave Children’s Hospital to put the cat down before she died naturally, but in a mini melt down I recall saying something to the effect of “fuck the cat, our child is dying,” which was unnecessary and totally regrettable.  I hate that memory.  One day, while we were still at the hospital, Lila passed away under our bed possibly with her brother, Sampson, by her side. So poor Tom had to deal with the gruesome act of burying our beautiful, lilac Siamese “Wittle Miss Wiwia,” long for Lila, in the backyard. Months later while hosting a party, Tom blurted out, “I don’t think I buried Lila deep enough,” to which multiple people almost spit out their drinks laughing at what seemed like an out of left field comment.  But it was obvious he felt haunted by finding her and I felt bad that I thwarted his desire to put her down humanely.  Focused on caring for our son during our hospital stay, I was spared a bit of the initial shock and grief of seeing just one cat walking down the hallway or feeling the weight of just one cat on the bed.  I guess Angela felt the same way not having a familiar space where both dogs would be seen together.  And when we stopped in Santa Fe for the night, I was in the bed with her and Maggie instead of Tiki.

Angela and Tiki’s relationship reminded me of mine with Sampson, who went on to live 7 years longer than his sister.  Tiki and Sampson were there to comfort us when we ended our marriages.  They became our hus-cat and hus-dog, who protected and loved us the best a cat and Pomeranian could.  When I regained some strength and saw my life take a good turn out of depression was when Sampson started to show his age.  He was tired and his time of caring for me was coming to an end.  We had a good sit down talk and I told him I was ok with him  checking out and assured him I’d be alright.  I also let him know that I’d feel a bit relieved that the next part of my journey would not include cat food or litter and I’d be free to travel without worrying about a sitter.  My hus-cat had to leave me a widow so I could find strength on my own. And we said goodbye. I have a feeling the same thing may happen for Angela as she heads into a new territory literally and figuratively, where her puppy, Maggie May will be there to support her with girl power.