Courage--Why Pets Matter So Much to Us in Times of Trouble

As my mother lay dying, I held tight to Courage.

No, I don't mean a sense of bravery or a feeling that I could prevail. I mean Courage the Chihuahua, pictured above. (Or as his owner, my sister Jane, calls him, he's Courage the Chee-whoie-whoie.)

That tiny dog became my anchor in a rough and stormy sea. Mom's coma happened quite suddenly, and I was without the daily resources I usually depend upon to keep myself going emotionally. I was far from home, without my husband, and without my own dogs. I didn't have a car and I couldn't use my typical lifeline, the computer. Like a spaceman in zero gravity, I had a hard time finding my balance.

Our mother's sick room was my world. Courage was my comforter. Small and portable, he would crawl into my lap for petting. As I stroked him, I felt the tension and fear leave me. A sense of zen-like calm came over me. As long as I could lift my hand, run it over his tiny back, and start again, I could go on.

I could handle what was happening, handle the horror of watching my mother's body fail her, handle the anguish that came from realizing I couldn't ease her suffering, and handle the emptiness of the long future ahead without her...as long as I could keep petting Courage.

Now I have confirmation my feelings weren't unique. I just finished reading "Making Rounds with Oscar," an extraordinary book by David Dosa, a geriatrician who works at Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, RI. Seems that Oscar (pictured below) would instinctively know when a patient was dying. The little cat made it his duty to be there as a sort of handmaiden to the process.

When Oscar's "talent" was first reported to Dr. Dosa, he dismissed it. Nothing in his scientific background could explain Oscar's intimate knowledge. Indeed, if you've ever lost a family member, you know the answer to the question, "How much time does she have?" yields wildly inaccurate responses. Health professionals are the first to admit how hard it is to predict someone's demise.

Yet, Oscar proved himself to be an incredibly accurate prognosticator of time of death. Dr. Dosa found this hard to believe. After all, most of the patients at Steere were in poor health. The doctor reasoned that Oscar simply noticed an increase in activity and followed the "crowd" to the room of any patient who was dying.

But even so, Oscar's abilities were hard to explain. One evening when two people were dying at once, Oscar sat with one patient until he passed and then raced out of the room to jump onto the bed of a second patient who died shortly thereafter.

Dr. Dosa decided to take a scientific approach and interview families who shared their loved ones' last moments with Oscar. The doctor quickly discovered that Oscar's predictive talents were not nearly so important as the measure of relief his presence afforded grieving families.

One woman said, "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." Another interviewee said, "...Oscar gave me the feeling this is all natural."

Since Oscar and Dr. Dosa had a rocky start--Oscar bit the doctor when they first met-- Dr. Dosa begins the book with a sense of skepticism. He accepts the presence of the cats in the nursing center (there are two on each of the three floors of the facility), but he doesn't really see the animals as intrical. In a way, Dr. Dosa thinks the center is doing the animals a favor by providing homes for these strays. At best, he sees them as decorative, a homey touch much akin to having living plants and hanging pictures on the wall.

All that changes as Dr. Dosa begins to explore the comfort Oscar provides to grieving families. Dr. Dosa writes, "Maybe we started adding cats to make this house feel more like a home. But I was starting to think they were the ones teaching us that what makes a home is a family."

Courage did the same for me. He reminded me that even though my mother was leaving us, I was surrounded by her legacy. We all loved her, and one of her gifts was her love of animals. Another was our love for each other. Nothing, not even death, could steal my mother's love from us.

Dealing with Depression

I thought I was handling my mom's death pretty well, until the other day. My sister sent me a photo of my mom's gravestone. I had asked her to, but somehow, seeing that stone with Mom's name and date of death, just...well...it sort of sent me over the edge.

Of course, this came at a bad time. A lot of my professional life is up in the air. I'm living in a rental house, and it doesn't always work for me. My husband is working a lot of hours. None of my family or friends are nearby.

There's this general feeling of emptiness that invades every cell. It's so hard to fill all those losses up.

I'm trying to stay positive, really I am. So I thought I'd do something positive: I'll write about how to help a friend or loved one with depression. Here goes a few caveats:

This is not intended to replace professional treatment or help. No way! In fact, here's step 1 and 2:

1. Of course, if they aren't on medication or they haven't had their medication checked, do so immediately.

2. Take any suicidal comments seriously. Never, ever dismiss a suggestion that the person wants to hurt him/herself, and do encourage them to share these thoughts with you.

Okay, let's assume you have all this in place. Now what can you do?

1. Monitor the person's medication. Depression saps energy and distorts thinking. Check to see that the person is taking his/her medication and taking it properly.

2. Discourage or help them avoid natural depressants such as alcohol, marijuana, and other drugs. I find that antihistamines make my depression worse.

3. Help them get a good 8 hours sleep. This can really make a difference, so adjust your sleeping schedule if possible.

4. Make sure they are eating healthy food at regular hours. Help them avoid sugar. It makes the highs higher and the lows lower.

5. Don't run away from them. Oh, yeah, I know. You are thinking, "I can't do anything." So you disappear or go off and do your own thing. Wrong, wrong, wrong. You can. And when you disappear the message you send is, "I like you when you are healthy but not when you are sad." That's really destructive.

Here's what's most important about all of this: A depressed person can NOT do for himself/herself the way they usually would. Depression deprives you of energy. You don't think clearly. You don't have the resources to care for yourself, and your natural inclinations (like grabbing a candy bar or not eating) may actually make your depression worse. So having a loving person spend a little of his/her energy looking after you means the world.

This is a great video--one that brought me to tears because of her honesty--
http://www.wikihow.com/Help-Someone-with-Depression

PS If that darned guy who is trimming our bushes doesn't stop soon, no one will have to worry about my depression. I'll be in jail for murder. ARgh.

Almost Seems Like Home

Yesterday I drove to the grocery store and back without thinking. Not a big deal to you. But it was to me. You see, I'm feeling at home.

This has been a year of tumult. In January, my mother's exam found spots in her lungs. However, the spots didn't light up, so the doctors were convinced it wasn't cancer. "Probably scar tissue," they told us. By June we knew the truth: She had terminal lung cancer.

Still, Mom clung to hope. After all, last time she had cancer, the chemo and radiation zapped it. She'd had two, almost three good years in between. "I just need to get through this treatment," she told a friend. "I think I have five more years. Okay, maybe two." But she never gave up hope.

When the doctor scoped her, he didn't tell my sisters how advanced the cancer was. Mom insisted on taking her chemo. Despite the fact it made her sick.

When I visited her on Mother's Day, I was shocked at how frail she'd become. Even before we were told the cancer was terminal, she lost fine motor control. She dropped things repeatedly. Her legs had become extremely bowed. When we drove places, she read the signs as though she were trying to ground herself in the here and now. Her conversations were erratic. She forgot things. She wasn't herself. Now I know...even then, she was dying. Even before the diagnosis, she was slipping away.

My sisters and I worked out a plan. I flew down in July to have a turn taking care of her. My plane landed late on a Saturday in Miami, so I was going to drive up to Stuart on Sunday. My son and husband were already there--my son needed a place to live for college. The guys planned to make a father-son weekend of it. Somehow their plans got confused. They visited Mom on Saturday night. She was barely lucid. They said their goodbyes. My husband David didn't think he'd ever see her again.

He was right.

By the time I arrived on Sunday, she was in a coma. For the next eight days, my sisters and I cared for her. We called upon hospice. I shall forever be grateful to them for all they did. Sally Lippert was an absolute angel. Connie, the other hospice worker, was kind, helpful and thoughtful.

But it was an ugly, painful way for Mom to go. The morphine didn't completely assuage her pain.

I won't think about that now...but I will say that at the end, we were happy for her release. These earthly bonds no longer served my mother's spirit. And when she died, the lights in that room strobed on and off, on and off, on and off, until Sally got up and turned them off at the switch. She's seen thousands of deaths, but never seen anything like that.

I came home and tried to pack to move to the Washington DC area. Actually, I wandered around my home in St. Louis like a ghost. I tried. I really tried. But I was lost. I was exhausted. I would pick up things, look at them, put them back where I found them and wander around some more. In between, real estate agents would call asking if they could show the house. That's their job, after all. So, I'd scoot everything into some semblance of order, grab the dogs, toss them in the car, and go drive around for an hour or two. I was a mess.

Finally I told David, "You'll have to pick out a house for us. I can't do it. I don't have the time to fly to DC. I trust you."

So he did.

We had a memorial service for Mom, and we moved Michael into his new condo. He loves it. David flew back to DC, leaving Michael and me to buy towels, furniture, cleaning supplies. I'm not sure he's used the latter yet! Oh, well. He's happy--and I think I've never been happier than pushing a grocery cart with him by my side and loading it with food for my boy.

Two weeks later, the packers came. I tried, really tried to organize our belongings, but I couldn't. The two women who did most of the packing were enormously kind. One took my husband aside and told him to tell me not to work so hard. Bless her. I remember wandering (again with the wandering!) from room to room, thinking, "This is the house where I raised my son. Where my mother came to visit. Where we had friends stay the night. Where we celebrated the holidays. Where my dog Kevin lived. Where I wrote my first book. How can I say, 'Goodbye'?" But I did.

We drove for two days. My dogs--Vicky and Rafferty--sat beside me in the passenger's seat. They were very, very good. Almost as if they knew I needed them.

We arrived in the DC area at 8 at night. I drove, for the first time, on the notorious Beltway, aka Highway from Hell, with its uneven lanes. I was sooo tired. At one point, my wheels bumped the uneven asphalt, and my car careened back and forth in the lane. But I made it. We drove to this house.

It's a good house.

I can live here.

And now I can go to the grocery store, all by myself. Without the help of GPS.

It's going to be all right.