Chapter 7... In which our hero Ziggy goes to the Dermatologist....
and checks his dignity at the door...
He's been itching and scratching and breaking out since the day we brought him home. We've tried all sort of herbal and prescription remedies. So it was time to head to the Doggie Dermatologist. Who, by the way, is alergic to animals. But that's another story.
I told Nancy he was allergic to Cladosporium, Cephalosporim, Aspergillus Fumigatus and maybe Grain Smut - but she didn't believe me.
So, now he's styling a new 'do; and awaiting his allergy cocktail that we get to load-up into a syringe and administer for the next who knows how long. I told him no one would notice. He doesn't believe me either.
Check this out...
I had a flashback to my pre-teen years this morning.
While walking through a parking ramp, I smelled a Thingmaker:
From Radiolab...
After hearing our show about moments of death, filmmaker Will Hoffman went out in search of moments of life. What follows is what he found.
In the last few days Jake was with us, we had quite the hospice set up in our home. With his path to the lower level blocked, we moved a new litter box to a corner in the dining room. Then we added another one in another corner. Just in case of accidents, we'd spread a sheet of tin foil along another wall towards the living room.
On the landing between the main and second floor, we'd done the same thing. Also adding his original litter box to a corner on the landing. "Cats don't like tin foil," was what we'd read. The tin foil paw prints told us otherwise. And the one-time pool of urine said the same. But that was Jake. Always doing it his way, seeing the world through his unique perspective. Jake had taken to wanting the comfort of our bedroom as his infirmary. So there, we'd put a litter box in a secluded corner.
Then, when his control began to slip, we added one in front of the dresser where he'd had an accident. And one just outside the bathroom door. He had taken to lying on the thick bathroom rug or on the hard surface of the bathroom vanity. Sometimes, just outside the bathroom door on the carpet.
Yesterday, it was time to empty out the litter from each of them. They were all just plain litter. To keep track of his habits, we had taken to clearing each box as he 'went.' Nancy had already talked to the folks at the animal rescue, and they knew we had litter boxes, litter, medicines, shampoo, and food to donate.
I was at work. It was just Nancy and Zig working their way through the house, with Nancy explaining to Ziggy where all of this was going, and also asking Jake to understand his donations didn't mean we were going to forget him. Around mid-afternoon, Nancy called to tell me she was cleaning, sorting, and boxing. And to tell me that Ziggy was 'very down' today. She said that he was acting strangely subdued. You have to know our Ziggy is quite the neurotic. So acting like a normal 2+ year old dog would be weirdness for him.
But yesterday, Ziggy was sad, and it was obvious. Nancy was being kind to him, talking to him while sorting out Jake's life. And watching him sniff the area where Jake's food was normally set. All the places Jake called his own When I got home from work, Nancy was telling me more about his sadness - how he'd just been lying around all day, not his usual I'm-in-charge-here self. It continued when I arrived. Normally Zig gets excited when he hears the garage door open. Nancy usually helps a little with the "who's here?" "where's daddy?" stuff. This time, he just laid in his kennel, doing his neurotic licking-of-the- legs.
This continued through dinner and after. A time he usually sits in Nancy's face, waiting for his share of whatever we were having. Not today, he just laid on the floor between us, not really watching either one of us, but not sleeping either. We decided on something from the bedroom DVR, so we headed upstairs. Ziggy loves this part of the day. He gets to cuddle up with us to watch some TV. Normally with a part of his body touching each of us. Not really conducive to either one of us touching each other, but that's for another blog...
Last night, he went sniffing into the bathroom. He never does that. He went sniffing to the three other areas where Jake had 'stuff.' He has a way of sighing that normally makes us laugh, but today it wasn't the same. We could tell. And when Nancy went into the bathroom, he laid down on the floor where Jake had a litter box. A place he'd never lain before.
Ziggy misses Jake. I miss Jake. Nancy misses her best friend most of all. Yesterday was hard for Nancy. Wanting Jake to know she wasn't just 'getting rid of his stuff.' Rescue kitties all over would be getting the help he was providing. She told Jake that yesterday. And today will be hard. We'll be dropping off all of Jake's medicines, food, and 'stuff' at the Homeward Bound Rescue adoption at a local pet store. And we'll see kittens and cats of all shapes, sizes, and needs. It'll be hard. We'll be doing a good thing. Something that Jake wholeheartedly agrees with. After all, he was saved by Nancy a decade and a half ago. And he saved her right back.
That's something I said to Jake every night before we went to sleep. I also now say it to Ziggy. Its also engraved on Jake's urn.
I think all of my Vox neighbors and friends know that we lost Jake last week after a valiant struggle on his part. In the end, his poor little body just couldn't fight anymore. But oh, how he fought. Dan used to call him "The Little General" because although Jake was small in stature, he was enormous in attitude and personality. He was true to that up until the end.
After weeks of dealing with kidney issues, gastrointestinal issues, severe anemia and just general lethargy and weakness, it appeared that he was going to get better. On Thursday, his vet called with test results that she said were "good news". We were told to keep on the same path and bring him in this Wednesday for additional blood tests.
By Thursday night, he had slowed down his eating, but had an OK night...he was still going up and down the stairs and going to his litter box regularly. By Friday morning, he was considerably weaker. For most of the time, he would ask to be lifted up to our master bath counter where he would lay for hours. Eventually he would jump down, go potty and grab a snack. Then he would sleep on the bathroom rug or find one of us to lift him back up on the counter.
On Friday, it was different. I picked him up and he just snuggled. He curled himself into my chest and neck and just lay there. Suddenly, he started to sniff the air toward the open window and he made a feeble attempt to crawl up the towel bar to get to the windowsill. I lifted him up and he just stared into the sky for what seemed like an hour. I remember thinking "what a beautiful picture this would make"...the sky was pure blue with only a few wispy clouds in the sky. And there was The Little General...small, but regal. Surveying the scene. It was a touching sight to see.
The rest of the day he slowly stopped eating anything more than a mouthful. I was frantic to try to find something for him to eat...cottage cheese, cream cheese, chicken broth, ground beef, milk, chicken, turkey even warmed up baby food. He would eat a bite and then lay back down.
When I spoke to the vet, she said that one of his medication's side effects was a stomachache and loss of appetite. She suggested that we give him 1/4 tablet of Pepcid AC, bring him in in the morning and keep offering him food.
On Friday early evening, he couldn't walk up or down the stairs anymore. He used to sprint those stairs and while he did slow down considerably, he always chose to walk them at his own pace without any help from us. Eventually, he would stand at the stairs and look at me. The look that meant, "help me". I had a feeling on Friday morning that today was going to be the last day of Jake's life. I couldn't shake it, even after the vet called with good news. Because of that, I started to panic on Friday night. Dan was gone at his daughter's party and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't and wouldn't call him to come home, so I found a pillow and laid on the bathroom floor next to Jake.
We talked for a long time about our journey together. I told him that I would be fine and that he didn't have to hang on anymore for me. I told him that I loved him more than I thought possible. I talked to him about Grandpa and Grandpa's boyhood dog, Bubbles. I promised him that he would see them all. I thought about my friends like Matt, Een and Navelgazer who have lost their beloved pets recently and I hoped he'd meet all of them. I told him that I was sorry for not knowing what to do and I begged him to go on his own because I was not brave or strong enough to make that final decision.
He was still getting up and going to his litter box until about 2am. That is when I was petting him and felt wetness near his back legs and realized it was pee. Although I couldn't say anything, that's when I knew. It was time.
Dan wrapped him in my robe and brought him to the emergency vet where we lost him at about 3:30am. I can't write about that, but many of you have read Dan's blog. If not, here is the link. Dan wrote about it beautifully and much more coherently than I can right now.
The days since we lost Jake have been harder than I imagined. I keep thinking I hear him in the bathroom or see him around the corner. I keep thinking its time to feed him or I check before I close a door to make sure he doesn't get accidentally locked in. I can't manage to pick up his toys, his food and water bowls or the 6 litter boxes that we have scattered throughout the house.
I miss him in a way that stays with me all day and into the night. Its there when I wake up and there when I go to bed. I suppose when someone has been your constant companion for 14 years, your surrogate child and your best friend at times, its hard to cope with.
The pain is so strong that sometimes I can't believe its just about losing Jake. I'm sure part of it is additional grieving for my dad. To lose both of these wonderful, loving, kind family members in 14 months may just be too much. Perhaps its some misguided maternal transference. I consider both Jake and Ziggy my babies - probably because I don't have human ones. Writing that down seems somehow pathetic, but I'm sure its true.
When you have a pet, you love them and care for them like a baby. It is a complete unconditional and non-judgmental love. Pets never let you down. They never forget your birthday or snap at you after a hard day, they just want to make you feel better when you're sad and play with you when you're happy. They don't send nasty emails, they don't backstab, they don't steal or lie or make promises they can't keep. They want you to feed them, love them and keep them safe and in return they will give you their heart. How nice would the world be if humans treated each other in the same way? We could take away all of the drama and nastiness that comes from human relationships.
Speaking of human relationships...I cannot express how grateful I am for all of the kind words, comments and emails from my wonderful Vox neighbors. I haven't been able to talk to anyone in my day-to-day life about Jake and what happened, but its been such a relief to be able to exrpess myself here and also to get such wonderful support and kindness back. It makes me ashamed that I'm not a better Vox neighbor.
Family and friends have also been extremely supportive. I've had some really wonderful conversations with my mom lately about death and loss and she has been so helpful. I guess no matter what our age, when things are really bad, we just want our mommies. My family all loved Jake and have been so kind from sending cards, emails and gathering pictures of Jake for me. They've all shed their private tears for me, Dan, Jake and themselves too, I imagine. Dan's brother Dennis and his wife Crystala sent us a card that meant so much. They lost their beloved Winslow just a few short weeks ago. The emergency vet sent a beautiful card with a poem that made me bawl - but in a good way. People I used to work with nearly 3 years ago heard about Jake and have reached out as well.
I've been trying to think of a way to memorialize Jake...something that will not only make me feel better, but also be meaningful. We brought Jake home and have his urn close to us. I am also going to donate all of his supplies, food, medications, toys, beds, etc. to a local rescue called Homeward Bound. They are an incredible organization and a non-profit. I figured they could use all of Jake's things to help another cat. (Jake was a rescue cat too). But I'd like to do something else. If anyone has any ideas, please share them with me.
Writing about Jake makes me feel a little better, so over the next few weeks, I may write more. I hope its not too depressing to read.
Thanks again to all of my kind Vox neighbors.
Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. - William Shakespeare - "Hamlet"
We lost Jake at 3:30 am Saturday morning. He had become so weak that he couldn’t stand or walk. He really hadn’t eaten anything for at least 36 hours. A mouthful of food here and there – a spoonful of meatloaf on Thursday evening, a bite of chicken, a bite of ground beef on Friday. We even bought baby food and tried that. He tried a couple of tastes, but that was about it. His weakened state had become more and more troublesome on Friday, getting to the point late Friday night that he wet himself just lying on the carpet.
There’s an all-night emergency vet hospital not too far from us – we’d brought Jake there a couple of weeks back when he was having some trouble. We knew he needed to be seen – he was so weak. We didn’t want to wait until his regular vet appointment at 9am later that Saturday. They open when the other vets close and close up when the other vets open. And they’re wonderful. Doctor Susan Cox is wonderful. And kind. And thoughtful. Jake and I left the house just about 3am. He and I stood out in the alley behind our house for a moment or two, just smelling the air and looking around a bit. He took a look down the alley and gave me a nice couple of meows – the first I’d heard from him in weeks. We climbed into the car, with Jake wrapped in a nice blanket, lying on the seat next to me. We talked for the whole fifteen minute ride.
I told him how much I love him. How much I liked having him fly out of the ‘forest’ of dining room chair legs to attack me. I loved how I’d pick him up; carry him around for a few seconds while he enjoyed the view from that height, and how, after setting him down, he would always give me a smack and a chastisement for daring to pick him up. How he would just swing at me for having the audacity to walk through the same room. I asked him if he remembered the time back in Nancy’s apartment on the 22nd floor of a downtown building, when he had that conversation with a pigeon on the other side of the glass. I told him how much I appreciated his sharing Nancy with me. Stuff like that.
Jake and I arrived there just after 3 am. His weight had dropped to 3.1 pounds – down from 4.6 pounds just three days earlier. We had just heard from our vet on Friday morning that his Wednesday blood tests showed that while his red blood cells hadn’t improved, other cells had – and that would lead to more red blood cells. We were hopeful. But as Friday progressed, Jake regressed.
His temperature had dropped to 90 degrees – and he was placed in a heated space to warm him, and given IV fluids. Dr Cox came back to tell me “Jake’s not well.” I asked her what our options were, and she said we could keep him on IV fluids overnight to hydrate him. But the look on her face didn’t give me much hope that this was much of an option. I asked her if this was the equivalent of keeping a human on life support, and if this was just putting off the inevitable. She said yes, it was. And that Jake is ‘miserable.’ He was in rough shape, and had no reserves to call upon. She called him extraordinary. And was amazed at how long he’d held on already with nothing left in his tank. I asked her if I could have a couple of minutes to call Nancy and discuss the situation.
While we both thought this might be happening and that we might have to make this decision; we really didn’t have to strength to say it out loud. I called Nancy, to tell her about our visit – and in tears, asked her if it was OK to let him go. We both were bawling as we decided that letting him go was for the best. I told her I’d be holding him as the doctor administered the IV, and that I would bring him home soon. If I’ve been involved in a harder decision in my life, I don’t remember it. And felt even worse that Nancy had to be alone.
A few minutes later, the doctor returned, and I told her that we’d made the decision to end his suffering. She agreed that it was the best decision. She also said that while she would have kept him warm, given him IV fluids, and continued to treat him through the night, she would have felt sorry for Jake.
She explained to me what was about to happen. While I held him, she would administer what amounted to being a triple dose of anesthesia. He wouldn’t feel anything. He might try to get up, or pick up his head – but it wouldn’t be from discomfort – it would be from disorientation. And it would only take a couple of seconds.
Jake was Jake right to the end. I held on to him, told him how much I loved being his friend, and that I would take care of Nancy for him. Crying (like I am now), stroking his ears and chin as he passed on without blinking an eye.
That was Jake in a nutshell. Change his food? Eh. New litter brand? Yawn. Move from a three room apartment to a three story house? Buy a dog? Bring it on. I’m in charge here. It’s my world and you’re just living in it.
Dr Cox asked me if we wanted her to take care of him. I said no, I’d be bringing him home to Nancy, and that we’d make arrangements. She looked like she felt as bad as I did. We wrapped him up in his blanket, and she also handed me Jake’s paw print in clay. More tears, and I started for home - wondering how I was ever going to be able to hand Jake to Nancy. It was a long ride. Me talking to Jake, and Jake just listening to my stories again.
Nancy was waiting in the bedroom, still crying, when I got home. I laid him on the bed next to her, she hugged him and kissed him, and told him how much she loved and missed him already. She thanked him for coming to her rescue 14 years ago when she was going through a bad time. And for being there. Being the one soul that would listen. For being the one soul that would keep her company, and be waiting for her to come home.
We had already discussed cremation. We’d discussed it long ago – before he was sick. We’d discussed it when making arrangements for Nancy’s father – and as we discussed our own. So around 5am we called the after-hours number for the Pet Cremation Services of Minnesota, and talked to the person on call. Even though we had woken him; the first thing he said was that he was so sorry for our loss. Pet People are a rare and wonderful breed. All of them are in a business – vets, pet food stores, and hospitals – but they all share something special when it comes to the care of animals and their humans.
Bob agreed to meet us in about 45 minutes to make the arrangements. Neither of us had slept in the last 24 hours – I don’t think Nancy has slept comfortably in the last 24 days. We were both drained. We drove to their location to meet Bob. When we arrived, Nancy couldn’t bring herself to hand Jake over, so I brought him inside, while she waited in the car. I talked to Bob; we brought Jake to the back area – where he asked me if I’d like to place Jake in the crematorium myself. I asked him to wait until Nancy and I had made the arrangements and had left the office. We found a beautiful urn; Nancy had known for 14 years what she’d have engraved. With tears in our eyes, we drove away, not to see Jake until days later.
It’s now about 7am Saturday morning – and it seemed like we’d lived a lifetime in 24 hours. We talked and cried, I dozed off for about an hour around 10. I had to leave around noon for a party for my daughter and her husband. Knowing I couldn’t possibly leave, and couldn’t possibly not go, tormented me. Nancy was insistent. I had to go. In talking to Nancy’s mom – she said the same thing. Needless to say, it was a long afternoon. Balancing the joy of Cori’s party with the tears just below the surface.
I made it home around dinner time, and we spent the evening crying and remembering. Waking on Sunday, Nancy was still terrified that she had made Jake sicker and weaker by giving him meatloaf on Thursday evening. She hadn’t thought about the onions in the meat – and onions are poisonous to cats and dogs. She was worried that we hadn’t told the vet about it, and maybe something could have been done to save Jake. The thought was tormenting her. I called the hospital – and Dr Cox was there. I asked her about a couple of things in her report – things that scared us into thinking maybe we had decided too quickly. “Poor prognosis” sounded so vague – “Owner chose euthanasia” “Good heart rate.” She again told me that we made the right decision and that Jake was miserable. And how she would have treated him – and had in the past for other owners - but always felt sorry for the animal. Because who was feeling better about the prolonged treatment, the animal or the owner?
I told her about the meatloaf. Before I could even finish the sentence about the onions, she cut me off. Telling me absolutely no – that wouldn’t have had an effect on him. While onions are poisonous to cats and dogs AND humans, we and they would have to consume an incredible amount before it had an effect. She explained that if you had a big pan of onions in butter, and a dog jumped up and ate the whole thing, maybe there’d be an effect. This really gave Nancy some peace of mind.
Dr Cox again mentioned that Jake was remarkable. Other cats wouldn’t have held on as long as he did – she was amazed at his condition. She said that there’s a possibility that he had held on that long to keep Nancy company. And that he was so extraordinary, that he may have held on, lying on the bathroom rug for another week! Who knows? He was that strong. And may have been protecting Nancy by not wanting to leave her.
I like that. And I believe that.
Now we begin to go on with life without Jake. We still can’t bring ourselves to take away any of the six litter boxes that place around the house to help him. Or his food dishes in the usual place and in our bathroom where he’d taken up residence for the last week or so. I’m going to miss him so much. I'll miss his disdain for anything that didn't appeal to him. The impatience he had for that bumbling oaf Ziggy. Or the way he lay between my outstretched legs on a footstool. Or the way he'd magically appear even if you thought the word can opener. Or the way he'd sleep like a big fur hat on Nancy's head while she slept. And I can only imagine how much Nancy will miss her baby. Her best friend. Her savior of the last 14 years.
Friends~
We lost Jake about 3:30am on Saturday morning. I thought I should let you know. Nancy will write about it - I'm writing about it. We spent the weekend crying, missing, and reminiscing. Nancy will be here soon to tell you more about it...
~Dan
Its been a long, rough week with Jake. After appearing to do a little better, he slipped again. He started to lose weight again, the diarrhea came back and the stumbling was much more frequent.
After another trip to the vet, we learned that he is extremely weak and pale (the gums) due to severe anemia. A normal cat's red blood cell percentage is supposed to be between around 25%-45%. Jake's was 15% - down from 38% 10 days earlier.
After a more detailed blood test, it showed that he is no longer making any red blood cells but there is no clear reason why. It could be one of many things including:
1) His original diagnosis of kidney failure - apparently it can cause some reason for the body to stop making new cells. Most likely due to a parasite of some kind.
2) Some issue with his immune system.
3) Internal bleeding.
4) Cancer of the bone marrow or his bone marrow function is simply shutting down.
Because there is no blood in his urine or his poop, they feel confident that they can rule out #3 pretty easily. To get a definitive diagnosis Jake will have to go through possible endoscopy or exploratory surgery. Before we try that, the vet feels that #1 and #2 can be remedied with medication.
So...in addition to his daily Subcutaneous Fluid Treatments, the prednizone, the metronidiazole, the renal and fatty acid supplements, he is also on an antibiotic that can help with a possible parasite and an immune system booster.
Twice a day he gets both pill and liquid medicine, which competely pisses him off. Once a day he gets his IV fluids, which he doesn't love, but seems to be dealing with.
He goes back to the vet on Wednesday for more blood tests to see if these drugs have improved his red blood cell numbers. If they haven't, then we have some hard decisions to make. Apparently when those numbers go into the single digits, it becomes life-threatening.
He doesn't appear to be in any pain, he's still eating and drinking quite voraciously and he still goes up and down the stairs.
We now have 6 litter boxes on 2 floors of our house. We used a baby gate to block his access to the lower level. He doesn't have accidents during the day because one of us is CONSTANTLY watching him....but at night, he pees on whatever we put down for his bed. But he also uses the litter box at night too. I think when he finally allows himself to sleep, he gets so tired that he just can't make it to the box.
The fluids make him pee more, which is why we added so many additional litter boxes. His last big accident occurred on the aluminum foil on our stair landings and in the corners of every carpeted room that Jake has access too. So much for cats being afraid of foil...he peed right on it and then stepped in it and tracked it through the room.
Its frustrating, but I feel so bad for him. He knows he's weak. He doesn't meow, purr, play or jump....but then he will have a burst of energy and run down the stairs. Its hard to know what he wants. He tends to want to stay in our master bathroom most of the time. I've laid a towel on the counter and that's where he wants to stay. We lift him up and give him access to fresh water and that's where he sleeps. Every so often, he'll jump down and sleep on the bathroom rug.
Its hard being here because we are constantly on guard - making sure he's not having accidents, making sure he's lifted up onto the counters so he can drink from the faucet. We have had to keep him in the kitchen overnight so we can get some sleep and then every morning we start again....moving the gates, moving his food back to its normal spot, moving the litter box out of the kitchen, cleaning the litter box from the night, washing the bedding that he peed on the night before. His eating has become a challenge too. He'll eat something and love it for about 3 days and then he won't touch it, so I'm constantly trying to find new foods for him to eat. Scrambled eggs with cheese, baked chicken breasts, canned chicken, cottage cheese....the other day he stole some salmon salad that I was eating. He ate all of it...the bowtie pasta, the shredded carrots, the red bell peppers and the vinegar based dressing. He has access to gourmet wet food, dry food and human food....between all 3, he eats a lot. But his weight doesn't seem to change much. Yesterday he was 4.5 lbs - down from his usual weight of 8 lbs. Its so much work and its so emotionally draining.
I can't even talk about it...I don't even know why I write about here...probably because I need some outlet. When I write here, I don't cry. When I send an email or have to talk on the phone, I cry.
I know for sure that he won't get considerably better. He'll have good days and bad ones, but I know this is close to the end for my sweet baby. I've made the decision that when he can no longer eat or go up and down the stairs, then it may be time to say goodbye. Our vet is so supportive. I asked him directly if now is the time to start thinking about options and he said "not yet". His thought that was that Jake is obviously debilitated but is still affectionate, still eating and still semi-active. I trust our vet to be honest. He knows how I feel about this - I will do anything and spend anything to help him. But I won't have Jake suffer in any way. When I see him giving up, then I will know.
He still fights when Dan gives him meds and he gave me a nice big chomp on the arm the other day while I was holding him for his IV treatment. That bite actually made me happy because that is so Jake. He's always been little, but he has a classic case of "short man syndrome'....he may be small, but he'll kick anyone's ass who messes with him.
During the day while Dan is at work, I talk to Jake a lot. I tell him that its OK to let go if he's ready. I tell him to give me a sign that he's wants to go or that he wants me to stop. So far, I can't tell what he wants. Half of the time he looks at me with the same face and same eyes that he's looked at me with for the past 14 years. Then other times, he seems blank. I tell him what a good, good friend he's been and how happy he's made me. I talk to him about all of the funny quirks he has and how much I'll miss him when he goes. Maybe its just wishful thinking, but I'd like to believe he understands me. I also like to believe that I'll be able to make the right decision when it gets to that point.
We've been taking a lot of pictures and video of Jake lately. It makes me sad to think how few pictures I've taken of him over the past 14 years. He was always a little camera-shy.
A nice article...
From Esquire Magazine - July 09
By Chris Jones
I was on a bit of a bad run a little while ago, mostly because I'd grown to hate people and airports, people in airports most of all. That was until I was in Toronto, probably my least favorite airport after Newark, standing in the security line, in my stupid socks, my belt lost somewhere in the machine. There was a girl behind me. She had made some joke when we were undressing — I can't remember it, exactly, but it was more conversation than I'd been looking for, and I'd just smiled, fakely, and gone back to being mad at the world. It was only after we were through to the other side and gathering our things that I glanced back at her and realized she was crying, not just a little bit. She was a girl in tears in the middle of this awful, antiseptic place. I'm pretty sure it wasn't because I didn't laugh at her joke. I'm pretty sure it was because she had just kissed goodbye someone she loved, maybe for the last time. Normally I would have just picked my keys and coins out of the tray, but that morning I reached out behind me and put a hand on her arm before I walked away.
It was the shortest of connections, but it was enough. I waited for my flight that morning and never once wished gone the time. I sat there and remembered those years when I had been an optimist, honest and true, and when I'd been hopeful, and when I'd loved people I didn't even know existed. And I remembered when airports for me were gateways, opportunities, the places from which the best days of my life were launched. There was a time when I loved airports the way other people love churches, coming together under glass and high ceilings so that they might be released. I remembered especially waiting for my wife at the airport in Paris early one morning, back when she was my new girlfriend, the sun only just coming up in our lives together, and I remembered how excited I was when she appeared through the orange glow behind the sliding doors with her bags on a trolley. That's when I knew everything I needed to know, and I'd forgotten all about it in my rage and my rush.
Now, whenever I can, I go early for my flights and confuse my taxi drivers by asking them to drop me off at Arrivals. I pick up a drink and a magazine for the lulls, put on my headphones — Explosions in the Sky works well — and I watch people begin again. I watch them come off their long flights and I see their tired faces light up, their hearts explode, their knees buckle, their eyes close. Sometimes I want to ask them what they mean to each other, but most of the time it's not hard to tell. I'm not ashamed to admit I wobbled when I saw a boy and a girl hug each other in Los Angeles, and when two daughters ran to their father and each grabbed a leg in Orlando, and when a son with a giant backpack and a summerlong beard fell into the arms of his tearful mother in Boston. Every time I see emotions so familiar in the faces of strangers, I'm rescued from today, from all of our modern sins and plagues, again and again and again, brought back to those moments in my own life when I knew in my chest that everything would be okay, like the moment just before I hugged my wife in Paris, and the moment just after I let go of that girl in Toronto.
