“What greater gift than the love of a cat?”
CHARLES DICKENS
WATCHING A LOVED ONE’S HEALTH FAIL IS HARD. MOST families eventually find a way to accept it and move on. Some can even do it with grace and dignity. Mary always spoke of one son who was ceaselessly cheerful in the face of his mother’s dementia.
“How do you do it?” she asked him one day.
“Oh, I said good-bye to my mother a long time ago,” he told her. “Now I’ve just fallen in love with this little lady!”
This was an advanced, black belt–level reaction. Maybe it’s the guilt, or the fear of death, or simply the heartbreak of seeing the slow decline the disease brings, but many people seem to disappear as their parents or spouses fail, as if they themselves were being diminished.
Not Kathy. Her spirit always seemed indomitable in the face of her mother’s condition and she took each slide backward with a glass-half-full optimism that was an inspiration to the staff. She took comfort in the small triumphs, or “little victories,” as she called them.
I remembered running into Kathy and her mother seated on a bench in the nursing home’s rose garden one afternoon. It was a particularly windy October day and I wondered what on earth they were doing outdoors, huddled in their jackets beside their empty lunch trays.
“Aren’t you cold?” I had asked Kathy.
“I prefer to think of it as brisk,” she had joked. “You know, for the next three to four months, my mother is going to be cooped up inside. What’s a little cold? And look how lovely the leaves are at this time of year.”
Kathy had glanced over at her mother and placed an arm around her shoulder.
“Aren’t they beautiful, Mom?” she had asked, pointing to the last of the red and gold leaves on a nearby tree. Her mother said nothing, but there was a hint of a smile on her face.
“Little victories, Dr. Dosa,” Kathy reminded me as I walked quickly out of the cold that day.
Her last statement echoed through my head as I passed the spot where she and her mother had sat. That October day may very well have been Mrs. Sanders’s last time outside.
A sharp winter wind drove me swiftly through the frozen garden and into the nursing home’s first-floor dining area. It was almost lunchtime and an aide was busy setting the table. She moved carefully, polishing the silverware as if she were setting up at one of the finest restaurants in town. This attention to detail is part of what makes Steere House unique, I think. Respect for the residents informs nearly every decision here and can be seen in even the simplest of gestures.
In the corner of the dining room, Ida Poirier was sitting patiently in her wheelchair, waiting for lunch to begin. She quietly studied the aide as she polished and placed each piece of silverware. As I entered the dining room, Ida looked up and smiled.
Ida has been a resident of Steere House for many years now, confined to the nursing home because of her rheumatoid arthritis. After years of inflammation, her legs and hands have become a tangled mess, but her mental faculties are as sharp as they’ve ever been. Despite her predicament, Ida maintained a wry sense of humor that comes from a lifetime of struggling with chronic illness. For the chronically ill the choice seems to be to learn to live with your affliction, and occasionally laugh, or succumb to suffering.
I reached down and gave her a hug.
“What’s for lunch today, Ida?”
“Usual crap, Dr. Dosa. I don’t know, what is today—Monday, Tuesday?”
“It’s Thursday, Ida.”
“I think its potpie day, then. Not that it matters; it all tastes the same.”
I smiled.
“They try their best, Ida. Unfortunately, they’re not working with a budget that allows for filet mignon.”
“Maybe not, Dr. Dosa, but could we at least have lobster once in a while? We are in Rhode Island, after all.”
“I’ll talk with the chef.”
“Yeah, right!” She shook her head in mock disgust and then tried to gauge my expression. It was nice to have Ida to banter with.
“Dr. Dosa, are you going up to see that patient who died?”
“Why do you ask, Ida?”
“I heard the cat was in there with her when she passed.”
I paused before answering. “How did you hear about that?”
“Some of the nurses down here have been talking about Oscar and what he does. Personally, I love cats. I think I’ve had a cat my whole life. Even now, either Billy or Munchie is always in here keeping me company,” she said, referring to the two cats who live on the first floor, “but I don’t know about that cat upstairs.”
“Do you believe the cat knows?” I asked.
“Oh, I believe it. When my husband died years ago, I bought myself a cat to keep me company. I called him Patches because he had little patches of white on his black fur.” She smiled briefly at the memory. “Anyway, Patches always knew whenever I was sick or my arthritis was acting up. He would jump on my bed and just sit with me. Otherwise, I could never seem to find him. He was always hiding somewhere in my apartment—under a bed, in my closet, always somewhere.”
“What happened to the cat?”
Ida’s expression changed and I regretted asking her.
“He died of some kind of cat cancer. I had to put him down.”
“I’m sorry, Ida.”
“No, Dr. Dosa, don’t feel bad about mentioning it. I had to do it. Sometimes I think we’re kinder to animals than we are to people…” She looked out the window in silence. It was more than a little awkward, but I let it play out.
“You know,” she said, eventually breaking the spell, “every day, I sit here and wait. I wait for someone to help me get dressed. I wait for breakfast, then for lunch. After that, it’s back to my room for a nap or to watch some stupid soap or talk show on TV. Then I wait for dinner. When I was young, I never had time. I was always on the go, didn’t have a minute for myself. Now, all I have is time.”
She looked off in the distance again, lost in her thoughts. When she turned back to me I sensed her mood had changed again.
“Dr. Dosa, I almost envy that patient upstairs. At least she is free of all of this.”
For emphasis, she held up her hands as if presenting evidence. Her fingers, bent inward at impossible angles, rendered her hands useless.
“I used to love to knit. I’d sit for hours in my sunroom and knit scarves or blankets. It didn’t matter who I was knitting for. Sometimes I’d knit blankets for one of my cats. Other times, I’d take them to the Women’s Hospital across the street for the newborns. I can’t even do that anymore.”
Frustrated, she dropped her hands into her lap. I looked at her and racked my brain for something to say that might lessen her sorrow. I had nothing to offer.
“I really miss him,” Ida said abruptly. “The cat, I mean,” she added. “I miss Patches.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and we sat together in companionable silence. She acknowledged my touch with a smile, but I couldn’t help thinking that she probably wished I were a cat.
“Dr. Dosa, animals have this sixth sense and they can communicate with us if we understand their language. I’m telling you that Patches wouldn’t leave my side if I was sick.”
“You mentioned your other cats. What about them? Were they like Patches?”
Ida smiled again. “No, Ginger was friendly as can be. She was always at my feet or on my lap, but she really didn’t have that sense of when I needed her. Now Grover, he was—”
“You named your cat Grover?”
“I let my niece name him. I probably should have called him Oscar the Grouch, though, because he could be meaner than a rattlesnake.”
“So you believe all of this about the cat upstairs?”
Ida looked up at me with a knowing smile.
“You’re not much of a cat person, are you?”
“I can’t say that I am, but I’m trying to be.”
Then Ida openly laughed.
“I knew it! I could tell you were more of a dog person. You’re too damn nice.”
Her humor was contagious and I found myself laughing from deep within. I needed that. “Thank you, Ida. I’m not sure you meant it as a compliment but I’ll take it today.”
“You’re welcome.”
She studied my expression again.
“Something’s wrong,” she said finally. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s just been a bad day, Ida.”
She smiled. “You’ll have a lot more of those in your life. Forget about it. Most of the time it’s not as bad as you think it is. Just go home, kiss your wife and kids, drink a beer, go to bed early, and you’ll feel better in the morning!”
“Doctor’s orders?” I asked her.
“Doctor’s orders!”
RIDING THE ELEVATOR to the third floor, I thought of Ida’s sharp mind and damaged hands and I felt troubled. If I was being truthful—and this did seem to be a day of truths, welcome or not—what bothered me about Ida was a connection we shared. Looking at her sometimes I felt that I was staring at my own future. I glanced down at my own hands and studied my enlarged left thumb. It was ten years since I myself was diagnosed with an inflammatory arthritis very similar to Ida’s. I looked at my swollen right wrist and thought of the swelling in my left knee and ankle. The joints were not as painful as they once were, thanks to my complicated medical regimen of pills and injections. Yet the telltale signs of inflammation were there and I knew that, like Ida, my joints would fail me, my own legs would not carry me into my proverbial golden years, and my own arms might not be able to hold my grandchildren.
I felt a shiver as I thought about Ida and the curse of not being able to do the things you once liked to do. I allowed the feeling to wash over me, felt the self-pity rise and fall like a fever, and then shrugged it off. Instead, I thought of Kathy and what she had said about the importance of little daily victories in combating chronic illness. I’ve had over a decade to think about chronic illness in my own life and know that she is right. There are more important things in life than careers and grants. There are the day-to-day victories, the gifts of the here and now. Instead of worrying about my old age and my grandchildren, couldn’t I just rejoice in being able to carry my newborn daughter up the stairs and play soccer with my son? I was still able to bend over and tie my own shoes. Tomorrow’s problems would have to wait.
I exited the elevator onto the third floor, stepping directly into a meeting between several aides and a hospice nurse at the front desk. They were in the midst of an intense conversation, one that I quickly realized revolved around Oscar.
“So he did it again,” I interjected.
“Yes, he did,” Lisa, the hospice nurse, replied. “He’s developing quite a unique talent.”
We were joined at the front desk by Sally, one of the hospice ministers. She had just returned from Mrs. Sanders’s room.
“How is Kathy doing?” I asked her.
“She’s upset, but I think she’ll do fine eventually. She’s had a long time to come to grips with today.”
I left them and walked down the hall to Mrs. Sanders’s room. Kathy was holding her mother’s hand, crying quietly, while Oscar sprawled out on the bed, his front and hind legs extended, his spine resting gently against Mrs. Sanders’s leg. Kathy turned to greet me. Beneath her swollen eyes she managed a slight smile and rose to give me a hug.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She began to cry again and I felt her warm tears through my shirt. We held the embrace until it became uncomfortable. Kathy’s eyes were bloodshot and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her blouse was wet from her tears and wrinkled from the vigil she passed in the chair beside her mother’s bed. I tried to think of something to say that might make her loss easier but came up blank again. Thankfully, Kathy broke the silence.
“Dr. Dosa, I want to thank you for everything you have done for my mother.”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeves and turned to sit back down in her seat by the bed. She picked up her mother’s hand again and cradled it in her own. The movement stirred Oscar, who looked rather tired himself. He blinked and looked at Kathy.
“Can you believe this cat?” Kathy said.
“I heard that he was here when your mother died,” I replied. Through her tears she smiled slightly.
“Yeah, he and I are buddies now,” she said and reached over to pet Oscar on the head. Oscar accepted the attention and nuzzled Kathy’s hand.
“The hospice nurse and the minister told me he’s done this before,” she said.
“For the last year or so, from what I’m told,” I replied.
“Well, he’s a really special cat.”
“I suppose…,” I said, and realized that a small part of me was starting to believe it.
I put my hand on Mrs. Sanders’s hand and said a private good-bye to my patient. Neither Kathy nor I spoke. On the bed next to us, Oscar sat quietly purring. Finally, after several minutes, I asked the question I’d been contemplating since my conversation with Mary.
“Kathy, were you okay with Oscar being here at the end?”
She looked at me for a moment and then said, “Dr. Dosa, I think of Oscar as my angel. He was here for my mother, and here for me, too. With Oscar at my side…well, I felt a little less alone. It’s hard to explain, but some animals, well, the sense they give you is that they understand what’s going on. More than that, they just accept. I don’t know, but Oscar gave me a feeling that this is all natural. And it is, isn’t it? If birth is a miracle, isn’t death a miracle too? My mother…well, her struggle is finally over. She’s finally free.”
Kathy stared at me, waiting for a response, but I gave her no indication of what I was thinking. I guess I really didn’t know.
“My mother never wanted to live the way she did in the end,” she added. “She was a proud woman. You didn’t know her before, but she had a tremendous sense of pride. She always dressed fashionably and she was quick with a joke.”
She smiled, perhaps remembering one of her mother’s jokes, one that she did not share with me.
Looking at Kathy, I realized that she would be fine. The coming days would be hard on her, but she would move on to the next chapter in her life—one that wouldn’t involve daily trips to Steere House.
I said one last good-bye to Kathy and realized that our association had come to an end.
“Take care of yourself,” I said.
Kathy nodded as I left and returned to her thoughts, and to Oscar.