“A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”
MARK TWAIN
HAVE YOU EVER HAD A REALLY BAD DAY, THE KIND THAT makes you question everything you’ve done and causes you to worry about all that the future holds?
I was having just such a day about six months after my initial encounter with Oscar. I was sitting in my office, staring out of the window. On a clear day my window offers a spectacular view, especially in the summertime when the blue water of Narragansett Bay shimmers beneath a bright sky and marshmallow clouds. In January, though, the view is more likely to be cold and bleak, the water an uninviting slab of asphalt. That’s how it looked on that day, and it was a perfect reflection of my state of mind.
My eyes were fixed on a tanker unloading cargo, but I wasn’t paying attention. Instead, my mind had been going over the events of the last few days, playing over one scene in particular, like a damaged DVD. Three weeks before, I had learned I was a finalist for a major research award from a prestigious New York foundation. Such grants are more than gravy for me; my research in the field of geriatrics and nursing home medicine is what keeps me going, and receiving an award like this wasn’t merely a matter of recognition. I saw it as a validation of everything I did.
Two days earlier I had boarded a train bound for New York. The meeting had gone well, or so I had thought. I left the interview brimming with confidence, and maybe a little pride. This award was mine; I could feel it. I had worked tirelessly on the application, putting in hours late at night after the daily grind of work and family responsibilities. All that midnight oil was going to pay off. The board would see the importance of my work and fund my research, and why shouldn’t they? It was crucial and unique and the board must have understood that. On the train back to Providence I had begun plotting how I would use the award as leverage to get my boss to give me the raise I deserved. If I’d had a cigar I would have fired it up (or would have if I smoked and they still let you do that on trains).
But one call had changed all that. The moment the phone had rung that morning I felt a cold stab of dread. There was something about the ring. Perhaps it had come too early. Maybe it was just a premonition. Breathlessly, I had picked up the phone and said hello. The woman on the other end was immediately grim; listening to her, I understood how my patients’ families must feel when I call them with bad news.
“We want to thank you for coming to New York to meet with the board. They were very impressed with your work.”
The pause that followed was endless.
“But…we are sorry to tell you that you were not selected for the funding.”
The woman had continued for several moments chirping on about the many “talented candidates” they had interviewed, but I had already stopped listening.
All I could think about was the failure.
No promotion. No raise.
Another career setback.
I felt like the numbers had all been reset and I was back at zero.
Hours after the phone call, I still couldn’t get it out of my head. You know the expression “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” I couldn’t understand any part of it. How could they not understand how important this work was? So few people were interested in the nursing home environment and the proposal was good, perhaps the best I’d ever submitted. What could the other candidates possibly be doing that was more important?
Was it my notes?
The way I talked?
My suit?
I tore myself away from the window and forced myself to sit at my desk. I looked at the blinking prompt on my computer. I had been in my office for over an hour and hadn’t even logged on. I watched it blink like a failing heart monitor.
Maybe it was my tie?
I picked up the phone to dial the foundation, determined to find out what the problem was. I dialed the number hellbent on finding someone, anyone, who would listen to my plea for reconsideration.
Suddenly my pager went off. For a moment the world seemed to stop spinning, giving me pause to reconsider my actions. I looked at the numbers on the display.
It was Steere House.
I ignored the page and retreated back to my internal dialogue. Was I really going to learn anything by calling? What part of no did I not understand? Maybe they just weren’t interested.
The pager went off again.
Same number.
Don’t they know this isn’t a good time for me?
Frustrated, I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello, Dr. Dosa, how are you?”
“Fine, Mary, what do you need?” There was a distinct edge to my voice.
“Well, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today. Is something wrong?”
“It’s just been a bad day, Mary. What’s going on there?”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked sincerely.
I was in no mood to explain myself, let alone apologize. “Not today. But thank you for asking.”
“Well, anyway, I wanted to let you know that Ellen Sanders has passed away.”
“At least someone is having a worse day than me.”
There was a long silence as Mary probably wondered how, or whether, to respond.
I put my hand on my forehead. “I’m really sorry, Mary. That was uncalled for. Pay no attention to me.”
“Okay, David.” I couldn’t tell if Mary was holding her tongue or had just cut me some slack. I knew that she’d had worse days than I could imagine. She tactfully switched gears.
“By the way, I wanted to let you know that Oscar was there.”
“Where?”
“At the bedside. Oscar was there when Ellen passed…just like all the others lately.”
“Come again?”
“You know, our cat friend. Oscar’s still making his visits. He’s made about five or six since Mrs. Davis died.”
On any other day I probably would have just laughed, as I had six months earlier. But there’s something about particularly bad days that makes you reconsider your preconceived notions of life. And this was definitely one of those days.
As Mary rattled off some instructions to me about filling out the necessary paperwork, I pictured Oscar sitting next to Ellen and her daughter Kathy.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Who? Oscar? Oh, he’s still hanging out in Ellen’s room. The funeral director hasn’t been by yet. In fact, the hospice minister just got here, but Oscar’s just sitting on her bed. You know, you should probably give your condolences to Kathy. She really likes you. Why don’t you come over and say hello?”
Then she laughed.
“On second thought, given your mood, maybe you should just stay where you are.”
I laughed myself. Nothing like the loss of someone else’s loved one to put your own problems in perspective. I didn’t need to tell Mary this: Her husband took his own life shortly after the birth of their second child, leaving her a single mother who now made the adult children of Steere House her life. My parents were alive and well, my wife and children were healthy—even if my own health was sort of day-to-day. Carpe diem, or as the song goes: Get it while you can.
We talked for a few moments about Mrs. Sanders and her family before I rang off. For the first time that morning I thought of someone other than myself.
While Ellen Sanders’s death was not surprising, the timing of it was rather unexpected. She had given no indication that she was terminally ill. There were no nasty infections or any of a number of other disease processes that shorten life. Other than her dementia, she was a poster child for good health.
But while none of the medical staff, myself included, thought she was even sick, let alone close to death, that cat sensed something else. While my faith in science and my own intellectual vanity made it easier for me to reject the notion that some errant feline could know more than we as medical staff did, I felt strangely elated by the notion that I could be completely wrong.
Was it a coincidence that Oscar had been there for each patient’s death? I thought of that Einstein quote: “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Suddenly, I felt the lure of a good mystery. I grabbed my coat and walked over to Steere House, determined to find out more about our mystery cat’s behavior.