Spirit, Free

One week ago tonight, we said goodbye to Spirit. It's been a devastating time, to deal with this loss, after 18 years of our cat being such a sweet companion.

I wrote about Spirit and his coming into our lives, and his story is quite the Happening.

Now I need to write about how he left...because it is the way I deal with things that are on my mind, and in my heart.

It wasn't unexpected. Since December, he was showing that something was wrong. At first, we thought it was an ingrown nail (which was a reality), so Josh and I took him to Mondou pet store to have his nails clipped. He was so good, the two young ladies who did the clipping told us how sweet he was, and how he wasn't typical of so many cats who give them problems.

But he kept showing that something was wrong. We moved the litter box upstairs from the basement, because we saw that he was having trouble doing the stairs.

One day, we couldn't find him - and he was hiding behind our washing machine. I coaxed him out, but he went back there. He kept eating, and the use of the washing machine didn't bother him.

But it was, as we know now, a sign that he was isolating himself.

The day after New Year, we took him to the vet. She diagnosed him with arthritis, and gave us pills for him. We gave him the pills, but one day he flat out refused the cheese, the cookies, wouldn't take the pill.

He got steadily worse; we knew his front left paw was giving him big problems, from the way he would hold it, but he was also losing weight.

We took him back to the vet, and this time we all went, because I told the boys we may not return with him; he was showing signs of being in pain, unhappy, and we needed to know if this was the end.

The appointment was a sad one - the doctor said she wanted to X-ray him because of that paw, and even thought it might be cancer. While he was in the back being X-rayed, I voiced my thoughts that I almost wished they would find cancer, because the decision would be made for us.

Dr. Allen came back and showed us the results and it showed no cancer, but lots of arthritis. She said there seemed to be fluid in his abdomen, but without further tests, we couldn't know what it was.

We decided - as a family - to try stronger meds, and see if that would give him more time. We left, meds in hand, and tried that for some time.

But it wasn't to be. He got worse, not better. And we had to talk, as a family.

I made the appointment for last Wednesday night - February 6 - as it was an evening we were all available.

That wasn't to be either.

On Tuesday afternoon, home because he skipped his first class in order to study for the exam in his second that evening, Sam came into the den, urging me to take Spirit immediately. Spirit was in pain, and Sam said he witnessed something he wished he could forget.

I called the vet, and changed the appointment. She heard the tears in my voice and told me to come in whenever we were ready.

But first, I had to drive Sam to the train for his exam. I stifled tears - as much as I could - because he had this exam and I didn't want to distract him. He was already upset. He had spent time on the floor in the kitchen with Spirit, brushing and stroking his fur, and saying his goodbyes. My heart broke when I saw him take photos with his phone.

Of course, that day, the train was delayed by 20 minutes. But I got home, and geared up for what was to come.

Josh refused to carry the crate; he had carried it the other times, but - I understand why - this time he did not want to. Perry carried Spirit out to the car, and we drove to the vet.

When I checked in, my emotions got the better of me. The receptionist was deeply compassionate and took us all into a room immediately.

I played classical music on my phone; Spirit used to seek out the music when I played it at home. I just wanted him to have lovely music to play him out. The receptionist knocked on the door, and came in with a portable credit-card machine. Business had to be taken care of, and she had us do it right then, to get it out of the way. We also signed the form that specified we did not want a private cremation, and she left us again.

After a little while, Josh opened the door to the carrier in case Spirit wanted to roam. But he was in pain, and didn't venture out. A technician came in, told us that they would take him into the back to sedate him and put the catheter in his paw, before bringing him back to spend time with us.

But when she tried to lift him, he yowled in pain, and my heart broke. She decided to take him in the carrier, and when she did, we were left alone with our thoughts.

When she came back with him, he was wrapped in a blanket and very much sedated. She told us he was sedated, but very much with us. And he was. He was still conscious, but he was clearly out of it. (Later, Josh would tell me that bothered him a great deal. And while I can understand that, I told him I saw a cat who was no longer in pain - because I had to look on the positive side)

She put him on the sofa, and told us to take as much time as we wished. She showed us a button to push, explaining that when we were ready for the doctor to come in, it would ring, and she then left us alone.

I sat on one side of him, while Josh sat on the floor facing Spirit. We stroked his ears, his chin - he always loved that - and his head. I talked to him. I told him we all loved him very much, and we didn't want him to be scared. I told him we loved him for almost 18 years and he will always be our special boy.

I thanked him for being our first cat. I thanked him for giving us so much love and so much laughter. I thanked him for putting up with our crazy family, and I told him we will never forget him.

I tried not to cry because I didn't want him to be frightened, but it was impossible to keep the tears back.

I placed gentle kisses on his little head, and whispered that he would not have pain anymore.

The doctor came in.  She explained that the injection she would administer was just an overdose of anesthesia, and he would simply drift away. She explained it in soft tones, and though I dreaded it, I knew it was time.

Again, I kissed my cat, and whispered for him not to be afraid. Josh held his paw, and we kept stroking his fur as he was injected.

It took seconds. When the doctor took out her stethoscope and listened to his heart, I knew. She nodded and softly said, "He's gone."

She left us alone because it was then that our tears came with abandon. She told us to stay as long as we wished, and then she slipped out.

I kept stroking his fur. Josh tried to pull at some of it, and I asked if he wanted to keep some. He nodded. At that moment, another technician came in to do an imprint of Spirit's paws. I asked her for a scissors so we could cut some fur to keep, and she brought three small ziplock bags and envelopes for that.

I cut fur for me, Sam, and Josh, and kept apologizing to Spirit who felt nothing anymore. The paw prints were made, and we were left alone again.

We cried, I kept talking to him, and we grieved this monumental loss. I took a photo of him; I don't know why, and he looked like he was sleeping. But I didn't want to return home with regrets that I hadn't taken the photo.I haven't deleted it. But I'm keeping it private.

After a while, Josh's tears fell anew and he said, "his paw is cold."

I asked if he was ready to let him go, and he nodded. So he pushed the button, and the technician came back. She gently lifted Spirit and held him cradled in her arms. I kissed his head once more, and we watched him leave our sight forever.

That's when Josh and I really broke down. I approached my son, and we held each other, crying. Perry joined the embrace, and we stayed like that for (I don't know how long).

Then we made the decision to leave. Walking out, I couldn't hold my emotions, and I burst into new tears. I cried all the way home, and coming into the house, I tried to calm myself because Theo was already sensing something. He'd never had a day without Spirit in his life, and I knew he was going to feel the loss.

I held my dog, explained that Spirit was not going to be coming home and that he was over the Rainbow Bridge.

I posted on Facebook when I was calm and able to see through tears, and the influx of condolences helped - but reminded me of how fresh the loss was and would be for quite some time.

I half-heartedly watched the Habs game.

Sam texted after he got out of school: "Is Spirit gone?"

I texted back that he went with my kiss on his head, and his paw in Josh's hand.

Sam didn't call me for a lift from the train. I know now it's because he didn't want to hear the details of the evening. He came home close to 11 p.m. and when I asked if he wanted me to tell him what happened, he said no.

I respect that. I know how hard it was to leave, to write an exam, and to not be a part of those moments. But if he chooses to read this account, or ask me about it, I will tell him then.

It's been a week. I have moments that hit me out of the blue. I got into the car after school the next day, and my phone played Pachelbel's Canon, from the night before. I lost it.

I miss his little meow. I miss those big green eyes. I miss the way he used to come for chin rubs, and ear scratchies. I miss his presence.

But I know that 18 years is a beautiful life, and we did the last thing we could for him: we gave him peace.

Maureen sent me this prayer, and I must share it here:

Dear G-d, Creator of all life, You have blessed us with life in so many forms, - from the smallest insects to the largest animals that roam the earth. To human beings, You gave the power to think and to remember, the power to love and to nurture that love. To others of Your living creatures, You gave them the power to give us love in many forms. Our pets give us the gift of unqualified and unconditional love. They love us and love us and love us some more, and there is always more love where that came from. When they become a part of our lives, they become a very special part of our family life and all that we share. We thank You, O G-d, for all that they gave to us. We speak of them as pets, but truly they are loving companions, special members of our family, who enjoy our love and give to us without measure. Compared to the number of years that we humans live, their lives are brief. And when their lives come to an end, we feel the pain of our loss because a beloved member of our family has died. With pain, sadness, hurt and grief, we mourn the loss of our beloved pet, who brought so much sunshine into our lives. May we always treasure the love and joy that our pet brought to us, and may we always remember the lessons of love that he taught us so well. AMEN.

So beautiful. So moving, and so very true.

Maureen also sent me an article, a letter from a rabbi about his loss too. One sentence was strikingly powerful:

"I savor this grief as the way the gift of unconditional love is painfully but properly repaid."

As painful as this loss is, it does honor Spirit's memory to grieve him this deeply.

It will take time but the grief will become less sharp, the pain more distant, and the memories will bring smiles not tears.

For now, though, it is still very fresh, and still very deep. And my moments are still very frequent.

Run free, Spirit. You were a beautiful and aptly named gift in our lives.

❤

Edit: About 10 days after this, we received the most beautiful card in the mail. I share it here. The handwritten personal touch was beyond classy. The gesture itself enhanced our gratitude to the Pierrefonds Animal Hospital, the knowledge that the doctors, technicians, and all who took care of our Spirit, and us too truly do care. They are wonderful, and all are well suited to work with animals and the people who entrust our animals to them.

 

Habs win 2-1 over Coyotes

In a game filled with tension - one-goal game or tied for the whole 60 minutes, the Habs managed to stave off a tying goal and won 2-1 over the Yotes.

Alex Galchenyuk returned for the first time since he was traded to Arizona for Max Domi. The team paid tribute to him with a typical, classy Canadiens "merci" video, and it was clear he was touched by it. And though he managed to net a goal late in the third frame, it was reversed when Claude Julien challenged for offside.

Habs fans know those calls rarely go our way, but to our delight (and shock!), the referee announced that it was, in fact, offside, and there was no goal.

This marked my first time liveblogging a game. I had practiced over the week, but this one was the one that had to count. First, I settled on a style I liked (modeled after Mike Boone's way of indicating period and time), and got into the flow of posting as I usually tweet.

There are a lot of features I have yet to discover in ScribbleLive, but I learned to pull in tweets and use them to illustrate the progression of the game, as well as the mood on Twitter - both Habs and Coyotes streams.

I thoroughly enjoyed doing this; it also, as I posted later in the game, kept me from my usual spot, wearing out the carpet in front of the television as the tension mounts. That's when I usually try to push the puck with my hand (never works), or inch closer to the screen (55" isn't big enough when one is trying to help her team win), or just stand with my hands over my eyes - peeking through my fingers.

Being a (rabid) Habs fan has its drawbacks. Tension, too uptight to eat on game nights, emotional rollercoaster.

But it also has its benefits. I mean, I know my heart is healthy. And when the Habs win, it's that much sweeter.

So here, without further ado, is my liveblogging assignment. It took me a while to apologize for the overabundance of exclamation marks - so I'm making up for it by apologizing now. I do tend to get....enthusiastic.

Reach For The Stars

 I returned to school in June of this year. I did so because my work in the field of cyberbullying was not garnering many speaking engagements, and I was feeling unproductive, unstimulated, bored.

So I returned to Concordia, and was accepted to the Graduate Diploma in Journalism. This will, if all goes according to plan, lead me to a year in the M.A. Program (Digital Innovation in Journalism Studies), and give me two graduate degrees in Journalism within the space of two years.

It's been intense, and rewarding, but that's for another piece. I would like to share what unfolded last night (the 18th of October).

In September, we all received email from the Program Director (Dr. James McLean) to consider applying for one or both bursaries that would be awarded by the Montreal Gazette in October. Every year, the Gazette selects students from the applications they receive and awards them the Susan Carson Memorial Bursary, and the Philip Fisher Bursary.

An essay is required for the application, and so I began to research these two people.

Philip Fisher was a fascinating man, a fighter pilot and eventually the president of Southam Group, which owned the Gazette. I wrote an essay discussing how his belief in education for journalists adds to the opportunities we will eventually have.

Susan Carson was a journalist who wrote for the Living section of the Gazette. Tragically dying young, 30 years ago, a victim of cancer, her work speaks loudly. She championed the causes of those in society who most needed to be recognized - the downtrodden. Her words not only touched hearts, they opened hearts. For example, she wrote about homeless women who went to food banks to feed their children, but found a lack of food in those places. Montrealers opened their hearts and wallets after that, flooding food banks with donations so that those in need would never have to face hunger. There were many examples of how she reached the minds and souls of her readers, and I was deeply inspired.

So I wrote from my heart:

In learning about Susan Carson, I was deeply moved by her commitment to shedding light on those less fortunate than others. She wrote about real people and she wrote so compellingly that her readers opened their hearts and acted upon the emotions she had evoked.

I cannot help but wonder what effects I could have upon potential readers, if I were to take a page from Susan Carson’s book. Only instead of society’s downtrodden, the people I wish to help are those being bullied.

I wrote my thesis after having researched cyberbullying for years. At the time, that word was not yet a household term, and it was difficult to find information on the subject. But it was not impossible, and I was able to find stories in the media that shed light on the faces of bullying. More to the point, it was the headlines of tragedy that caught my attention.

In 2010 alone, 34 were lost to bullycide, children as young as eight years old, who felt their lives were so tormented that they could not go on living.

I reached out to families who, as a result of their unimaginable losses, had begun to work on behalf of those victims of bullying who might yet be saved.

I reached out to John Halligan first. John’s son, Ryan, was 13 years old when he took his own life, hanging himself from the bannister in their home. John sought answers online, though new to the technology back in 2003, and saw chat logs between Ryan and his tormentors. He read where his son wrote to the girl who had rejected him, “it’s girls like you that make me want to kill myself.”

One correspondent in particular coached Ryan on death and suicide. “If you killed yourself you would really make them feel bad.” Ryan’s response was, “you’ll read about me tomorrow.”

This story repeats itself almost weekly. Amanda Todd, Rehtaeh Parsons, Megan Meier, Ty Smalley, almost weekly. There are also the kids who are keeping it all inside – for now; I call them the walking wounded.

I have befriended many parents of bullycide victims. Without exception, each of them wears their heart on their sleeves, and yet their strength and determination to see bullying stopped inspires me.

Cyberbullying awareness is not just something I wanted to do; it became a mission, a resolve within that continues to propel me to educate others. I have sought every venue, every forum, every format I can in order to impart the advice and knowledge that continues to grow as I persist in this quest.

In considering journalism, it dawned on me that I could combine my raison d’être with the ability to disseminate this information more widely than any classroom or blog.

I don’t know if bullying will ever stop; but if I could play some part in at least reducing its numbers, and if I could do it by writing the stories, reaching the people who need to hear these details, I know it is crucial for me to at least try.

Ms. Carson’s work has inspired me even more than before. If, through her writing, she was able to reach Montrealers to donate to food banks, to face their own biases and make necessary changes, then perhaps I, too, can reach readers who may be living with the walking wounded.

I may not change the world, but I hope to make a difference. With my strengths in writing, and my motivation to reach those in need, perhaps I can begin to achieve my goal.

I sent it in, and went about my semester.

As the night approached, I continued to temper my hopes. I know that I am working and studying alongside very sharp, expressive, talented classmates, and any one of them was deserving of the recognition by either of the two bursary committees.

We had class yesterday, and were all going to go to the awards afterward; some people had rides, others went with the professor, and I took three other classmates in my car. We joked about how we all clean up so well (guys wearing suits and ties, girls in skirts, dresses, business attire), and how much fun the evening would be.

I would be lying if I didn't say my hopes weren't there - they were. They were just tamped down. 

We arrived at the offices of the Montreal Gazette - my Mecca - and entered the vestibule; if my classmates were reflective of me, my eyes were as wide and wonder-filled as theirs.

We entered where the security guard indicated, and met up with other classmates in the reception area. We found seats, put our jackets over them, and went to get refreshments (wine was served - so I took red). We milled about, chattering excitedly, and when the Editor-in-Chief, Lucinda Chodan, walked into the area, a hushed buzz of awe accompanied her. She is a very well-respected woman in our city, and I was starstruck.

Standing with my classmates, I was approached by Jim (our Program Director) who said, "It's Lissa? Or Leesa?" (pronouncing the first as the second part of "Melissa"). I grinned. It's a common question, and I informed him that it is "Lisa, with a double s." He smiled, nodded, and walked back to the front of the room.

Now, there could only have been one reason one of the emcees of this event would need the pronunciation of my name...but even then, I did not dare to hope.

We saw Ms. Chodan take the podium, and took our seats. I was in the last row, next to the middle aisle, and had to lean over to see (tall people in front of me - just a hazard of being 5'2").

She said some opening words, then introduced Jim. He, too, made some opening remarks, and introduced the family of Susan Carson, for the first award.

Her daughter spoke. She gave some background on her mother's love of the building, the people she worked with, and the people she met writing her pieces.

She said, "My mother would have loved this year's recipient." She went on to talk about the recipient's important mission, in the work she is doing, and when she said, "...in cyberbullying," every single head swiveled to look at me. It was a blur, but I saw newfound friends smiling - no,  beaming at me, and my hand went to my throat in reaction. I might have closed my eyes, to absorb this.

When I was introduced, I made my way to the podium, my hand on my heart as I locked eyes with Susan's daughter. I was aware of so many eyes on me, and I knew that I had to say some words of thanks. In fact, we'd been advised to prepare something.

I, however, had not. And, as I was told that morning by someone who knows me well, I would successfully wing it.

When I got to the podium, Susan's daughter embraced me.

(Photo: Amanda Jones)

I was overwhelmed as I took the podium.

(Photo: Amanda Jones)

And then I faced the audience.

(Photo: Amanda Jones)

I instantly knew what I was going to say. I'll have to paraphrase myself, because I had not prepared anything in advance.

But I turned to Susan Carson's family, and said, "I lost my mother when she was young too. Not as young as yours, but too young. And it was her love of language, her love of words that was instilled in me, at a very young age. I have always told stories, I have always been a writer of sorts, and I can't help but think that my mom would be so proud to see me in this program using my words to make a difference. It is truly a privilege to be in this program, with these people" (I know I indicated my fellow classmates with my hands) "and in this department, guided by such wonderful professors." 

I know I am not the typical Grad Dip student, so I acknowledged that. I continued.

"This is my third incarnation, and to be able to go on to use the power of my words to help shed light on victims of bullying and cyberbullying is something I truly hope to do." I turned to the family again and assured them that I would strive to be worthy of that inspiring woman's name via this recognition, and I once again put my hand to my heart and said, "I am deeply honored. Thank you so much."

I heard the applause - through the buzzing in my ears. I received embraces and kisses from Susan Carson's daughter, Lucinda Chodan, and then went to Jim as directed by Ms. Chodan, to receive an envelope. He, too, shook my hand and leaned over to embrace and double-cheek kiss me (Montrealers do that, by the way).

I somehow made it back to my seat. By then, I was trembling. My classmates around me were beaming (the graciousness of their congratulations resonates even now), and congratulated me softly.

I applauded just as loudly for my two classmates who also received awards, and then the ceremonies wrapped up.

Still shaking, I looked for a drink - but realized wine was probably not a good idea. (*grins*)

But I wouldn't have been able to; each and every classmate in that room made their way over to embrace and congratulate me. The warmth and the outpouring of happiness for me is something I will never forget. 

I saw, in the corner of my eye, John Kalbfleisch, who was Susan Carson's husband. He came over to me, and took both my hands.

"I had to come talk to you one-on-one," he said. "I wanted to thank you."

I didn't know if I had heard him correctly. Thank me? I said, "But I am the one to thank you," and he smiled.

"I want to thank you for applying," he clarified. "We have read a lot of these essays over the years. We read many this year too. But when we read yours, we looked at each other and said, 'that's our girl.' We were very moved by what you wrote."

I had to hold back tears. I thanked him profusely. He embraced me and I said, "I will reiterate to you - I will strive to earn this honor, with every word I write."

He smiled and held my shoulders. "Go get 'em," he said with a nod, and with a kiss, went off to his family.

I talked with classmates for the rest of the evening. I congratulated my two classmates on their achievements as well, and I could see that they were feeling the same buoyed awe as I.

We went on a tour of the Gazette newsroom, and aside from being named a recipient of an award, that was a massive high point of my evening! It's gorgeous, and it's sacred, and it's where I hope to work.

I was asked to sit down with Steve Faguy, a journalist whose blog I follow. In fact, I had introduced myself to him at the beginning of the evening, complimenting his style (it was at that point that I also told Lucinda Chodan that I was a little more than starstruck being able to meet her as well).

Steve writes up the Gazette awards every year, and I was the last of the winners to be interviewed. So we went into a separate room, and I gave him my interview.

He told me I'm definitely not the typical recipient of these awards. I had told him about my undergrad, my teaching experience, my Masters degree, my thesis and research in cyberbullying, my interviewing Holocaust survivors, and even my writing about the Montreal Canadiens. He grinned.

"Every person I've ever interviewed at these things gives me their bio: 'I did my undergrad in this and now I'm here.' You? You're different."

I had to grin when I told him yeah, I'm kind of like the den mother of the group but that my classmates have truly opened up to me and made me feel like I belong, age notwithstanding. 

I felt bad, though - he had one phone recording me, and was typing out notes on the other phone. It's likely his battery was low, due to the long evening and two other interviews. But it died during my interview. (I've apologized to him via Twitter)

When I was ready to leave, he showed me how to get to the escalator, and said, "By the way, the new [legalized] pot store is down the street, that way."

I smiled and said, "I think I'll pass. I'm on a natural high."

He smiled too, told me to enjoy it, and we parted ways.

I got into my car in an absolute state of continued awe. I called my dad first. Talked with him all the way to my exit. I've since made many other calls, to people in my life who have continued to support me in everything I've done.

It's still just sinking in. The recognition I received with this award means the world to me. It is affirmation that I have, once again, made a good decision in returning to school. Age is just a number. It's how we feel that determines what we can do, and I'm starting to believe, as I've been told so often, that I really can do anything I set my mind to.

Here's something many people do not know: just last semester, at least twice, in tears, I proclaimed that I had been foolish to think I could enter a brand new department after two degrees in Education, and had decided I would drop the program.

I am so very glad I did not let my emotions carry me away.

I will pursue every avenue open to me in this new incarnation. Journalism has always been something I've seen from the outside in. I am starting to believe I am slipping inside the door to see it from an insider's perspective.

And I am more confident than ever before that I will succeed.

The profound sense of reverence from last night remains strong. I suspect it will for a while. And it has inspired me more than ever before.

I welcome the Future.