Home-word Bound: The Last Leg

March 30-31: After all the rain and gloom of the ride, we end up in a dirty, dumpy hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. An overflowing garbage can greets us at the outside door, along with cigarette butts that haven’t been swept in weeks. Inside the room, the wallpaper is peeling, the cleaners haven’t touched the corners in years. The bed is horrible.  Ripped spread, pilly sheets, lumpy pillows, uncomfortable mattress. I check for bed bugs, but luckily find none. To say we are disgruntled would be a huge understatement. If we had the energy, we’d get back on the road and forget our sixty bucks. Instead, I write a scathing review on Trip Advisor. (Don’t ever stay at the Red Roof Inn, Central Knoxville!)

We stuff the sides of the bed, as usual, so Miss Monk won’t go under, but she finds a way and disappears half the night. We eat cold, soggy take out in the room because there are no restaurants nearby. I don’t even take a shower. I’d rather be un-bathed than get underneath the rusted-out faucets.

When morning comes, we are happy to see a sun-filled day. We don’t even want the free breakfast this place offers, so we pack up hurriedly. Monkey, of course, feels our anxiety and slips out of my grasp to vanish under the bed. No amount of coaching will bring her out. And we desperately want to get out of here!

So we push and pull the lumpy mound of mattress onto the floor. Next we move the two box springs—and when I say springs, I mean they should be called sprungs—apart. There’s Monkey, huddled in a corner. Not to mention what looks like a rotted dog bone, a pile of dirty cloth and a bunch of strewn papers. How all that got under there is not something we bother contemplating at the time, though it would make a good mystery.

Finally in the car, we are greeted by cheerful sunny scenery, some of it bucolic.  Now we are deep in the hills of Tennessee, followed quickly by Kentucky, enjoying the vistas with its greens tinted by sunlight. We see no wildlife in Elk Valley and the fog advisory doesn’t apply this morning. From the summits, we can see a ring of mountains etched on the blue sky. Jellico, Pine mountain ranges, the Daniel Boone National Forest.

The surrounding rock is stunning, geometric lines of colour. I know they’ve been gouged by machinery to create roads, but out of this destruction a lasting beauty has been created.  Dave Hunter (author of Along Interstate 75) tells us to watch for Exit 15, near Williamsburg in Kentucky, and we do. It truly is astounding. The ramp has been cut into the mountainside, creating two enormous mounds of rock, and the road now traverses a tunnel of granite and greenery.

Soon the hills give way to fairly flat ground, lots of rivers, rich soil. We are back in horse country, admiring the muscled stature of the beautiful animals. Next comes Ohio. Where we saw only snow sculptures at the end of January, we’re happy to see the light brown of fields drinking in the sun, getting ready for blooming and planting.

We stop in Findlay, Ohio, at our favorite hotel chain: the Drury Inn and Suites, of course! As if to compensate for last night, this time we get a bigger-than-average room, complete with a separate room for TV, lounge chairs and flat screen ready. Even Monkey likes it. She has a lot more room to run around in.

“Kick back” time is from 5:30 to 7:00. Hot dinner, 3 alcohol drinks each (well, 2 for Vince, 4 for me) and we’re set for the night.

By morning, we’re rested, have had our hot breakfast, and we’re ready to make the last part of our journey toward home. Miss Monk is not impressed, however, although she was easy to capture this time. At this writing, she is complaining loudly, despite the sunshine and some great music as background. Where are those earplugs Frances and Marty gave us?

 We talk about all the things we loved about our stay in Florida - besides our guests, this time. Being able to walk outside first thing in the morning to sit in the sun or slide into the warm pool was a joy for us and Miss Monk. Dining out. The Air Boat rides. Visiting Cugina and John's Pass and the dolphins. Cocoa Beach and the dolphins and the shark. Winter Garden, Celebration, Downtown Disney. Did I mention swimming in our warm pool?

We slip over the border into Canada without any problem and immediately feel at home. It's sunny and warm (relatively) and lots of the snow has disappeared. Spring does feel as though it has arrived...we hope. Home-word Bound!

Home-word Bound: Memories

March 29 – Today our drive is full of dark clouds, pouring rain, and stop-and-go traffic. It’s long and tiring, so we spend time talking about our experiences.

What a strange feeling, looking back over the two months we’ve stayed here.  We feel as though we’ve been away much longer, because of all that we did, because of all that happened.

Our house was constantly filled with visitors, which is what we wanted and planned for when we found a rental. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nice open kitchen and dining area, our own small pool and lanai. This house is lovely, with a great open plan and a bigger-than-average seating area around the pool. 

It’s lived-in, needs some deep cleaning and carpets replaced, but we felt comfortable. We didn’t have to worry about cats and kids, with their exuberance and freestyle ways.

 In the beginning, I didn’t want to bother the property manager, Vera Gualano, but I learned later on that I should have. Clearly, it means a lot to her to ensure the house is being maintained properly. I would rent through her again with no hesitation.

Each visitor brings their own gifts of conversation, excitement, love, and interests. Mike and Rita were in this area of Kissimmee only last year, so they take us exploring. They fit us perfectly, like brothers and sisters often do. Easy, comfortable, fun, generous and in our loss of Sahara, so very consoling. 

We're together when Mike and Rita's daughter, Laura, calls from Ontario. She's engaged to be married to a wonderful young man and we toast their love and happiness.

 Kristen, John, Ben and Cate bring high spirits, energy, laughter and fun. We play in the pool for hours, visit Universal Studios and play cards at night. They spend fourteen hours at Disney one day! It’s pure joy for me, every minute I can wake up and see their amazing faces. 

I haven’t spent this much time with my daughter’s partner. Now I appreciate and love him even more.  I cannot describe the feelings I have for this daughter of mine, this strong beautiful talented amazing woman whom I still remember as a little hand in mine. 

It’s during my daughter and her family’s visit that we hear about Rose. For a couple of years now, we must admit, we have grieved for her loss. 

At ninety-five, Rose was no longer able to do all the things she loved such as cook and garden. She was very often unable to communicate and this was a woman who loved to tell stories, ask questions, give fiercely held opinions, offer unsolicited advice. 

Rosie was a huge presence. She ran her household with gusto, was the original reduce, reuse, recycler. Her sauce and pasta were unparalleled, along with her pizza, melting moments cookies, biscotti, apple or lemon meringue pies, butter tarts, scrippelle…

When she had leftover pizza dough, she’d roll it up, fry them and salt them, and presto! Long Johns to munch! At special times of the year, such as Christmas, she made her own Christmas cake, and at Easter, she made sweet, fruity bread. I remember her salads were always delicious because most of the vegetables came from their garden, and the dressing she made was perfect. Rose, along with assistance from her husbands and sons and later, daughters-in-law and grandkids, was the consummate hostess, and she loved having family around. 

Although she was a woman of deep faith, Rose didn’t take too long to accept me, even though I was half responsible for her son’s marriage break up. Because he loved me, and she loved her son, she eventually enfolded me in her circle. Nowadays, she sat mostly sleeping in her chair, often unable to recognize people. She never forgot her sons, though, even if she couldn’t retrieve their names. When Vince and I would visit, her eyes were often vacant when she looked at me, but as she gazed upon him, a light would appear. She’d rest her head on his shoulder and pat his belly, as though soothing her baby boy. 

Very often, we’d shed lots of tears when we left her, for the loss of her quality of life. When she falls that day in February and breaks her hip, we fervently pray that she'll go to sleep, go to where she can play cards again, tend a garden, give a family dinner, run around on two strong legs. On March 1, she does just that.

Vince books a flight home for Saturday afternoon, so I drive him to the airport. It’s a hasty decision, one we somewhat regret later. When he’s home in Canada, alone, feeling the effects of losing his mother, in a house that’s torn apart for painting, his voice is tearful and sad. I wish then that we had waited until Sunday, when I could have gone with him. My sister Chris and her husband Dave arrive tonight and I have booked a flight and back again for the funeral only. I feel as though I am in a bubble. Here I am, enjoying the company of my beloved sister and brother-in-law, while Vince grapples with grief. The first night, Dave and I drink a couple of bottles of wine (okay, each), make a few drunk calls, sleep late the next day. Their friend Grant’s son, Adam, comes to visit and we have a ball. 

On Tuesday, I take a cab at 3 a.m. and get on a plane, wearing a sundress and my sister’s boots. Our friends Mary Jo and Peter meet me at the airport. It’s surreal, getting to hug and kiss them unexpectedly, and stepping over ice and snow. When Vince sees my face in the doorway of the funeral home, he begins to cry. I wrap him in my arms and kiss him, and he lets his sorrow flow. The day is a whirlwind of family, friends, tears, laughter, funeral egg salad sandwiches, and memories. Our nephews and Vince’s sons are pallbearers; our nieces do readings at the Mass. We are so proud of our children. The grandkids add zest and innocence. Dylan speaks for all of us as the casket is raised and inserted into the crypt: “Wow, that was awesome,” he says and we all smile. Because it was awesome—the celebration of a life well lived, Rosie’s long, loving legacy, the memories, the joys and sorrows. 

Suddenly we are back in Florida. We visit my cousin Wendy and Dennis the next day, revel in their company, in the sunshine, marvel at the dolphins, and of course eat and drink well. For the rest of Chris and Dave’s stay, we laugh and swim and sun and talk. We talk about loss, we talk about life and love. 

After we reluctantly allow Chris and Dave to leave early Saturday morning, we get ready for David, Rebecca, Sydney and Evan. Once again, the house is filled with high spirits, laughter, playfulness, romps in the pool for hours. They spend a whole day at Disney and excitedly describe every moment when they get back. 

I am so grateful for their presence in my life, never ever take for granted the fact that they have embraced me and treat me as mother-in-law, friend, grandmother.

When they leave, we are glad that our friends Helen and Sandy and Maire and John are arriving, the Duplassies on Saturday and the Kearns’s on Monday. Since we’ve been friends for over forty years, there is complete and utter comfort and ease in their presence. We can be ourselves. We enjoy the warm air, the pool, shouting at each other over cards, and going out for dinner. We visit Winter Garden and Bok Tower Gardens. The four of them spend three days in Bonita Springs, while we stay home with Monkey. 

Then suddenly there we were, on our last day, crying over Sahara, our faces looking toward home and certain realities. 

But the lilacs in Georgia are in full purple bloom and the radio is playing our favorite songs. We start to sing. We feel very lucky, very blessed, very grateful. Monkey meows in her pet carrier.

Home-word Bound: Leaving Sahara

March 28:

Perhaps it’s because we leave a bit earlier than expected. The cooler weather is followed by rain, so we decide to spend a bit more time in the morning packing up. If we wait until Saturday, we’ve got to be out by 10 a.m.


We are ready to take off early in the afternoon, a little while after Maire and John and Helen and Sandy leave.

On our last night, we had a great time at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.

Whatever the reason, grief hits us again without warning. First for Sahara. 

If you read my blog about our trip here, you know that we arrived with two cats. In fact, the blog was entitled Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida. Little did we know that our beloved tabby would never leave here.

Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Five years ago Sahara was diagnosed with very bad irritable bowel syndrome that either bordered on, or had morphed already, into lymphoma. The vet told us she had between twenty-four and forty-eight months to live, but that she could have a good life. Once the cancer “jumped”, it would likely happen very quickly. It did.

Until a couple of days before, Sahara was her usual self. Loud, feisty, highly attached to us, she’d follow us everywhere, complaining or just observing. She had a lot of different sounds to express her opinions, often hilarious. She had the kind of personality that could not and would not be ignored. She even ruled over her dog cousin and nephew. 

 

 Her daughter Raven, called Monkey because she sounds like one and is a little mischievous, was enraptured with her mother. They played, cuddled, cleaned each other, and were seldom apart. 

At first we thought Sahara was still nervous about being in a “new” house. Suddenly she began to spend time in our bedroom closet, huddled up behind a suitcase. Even though she hadn’t shown signs of feeling strange here, that’s what occurred to us. After a few hours, she’d come back out and be her loving, active self. The next day when it happened again, we thought maybe she had a stomachache. On the third day, when she went under our bed and didn’t come out, we knew there was a problem.

Did she eat something poisonous? A plant, a beetle? I got on the Internet, searching for the weeds that poked up in the garden outside but I found nothing dangerous.

I tried coaching her out, placed her on our bed, petted and talked to her. Gave her some of her medication, which she had been refusing. She took it, but it came back out a while later. She wouldn’t eat, or drink. She crawled back under the bed.

The next day, Valentine’s Day, she was lethargic, hardly moving in the spot under our bed. We pulled the mattress back to touch her. At one point, she seemed to have slipped into a coma. I burst into tears, thinking she had died, but suddenly she began to purr. A soft, broken sound. Every once in a while she would give a rattled sigh, as though she were trying to breathe through pain.

“We have to take her to a vet,” I said, and Vince reluctantly agreed.

When we gently pushed and dragged her out and placed her in the cat carrier, she groaned. Urine squirted out on the floor and all over me as I clutched her to me. Rita and Mike, upset too, cleaned up after us as we stumbled into the car.

At the veterinarian hospital, we petted and cooed to her. She gave a weakened, rumbling purr in return. The vet and assistant were amazing. Knowledgeable, efficient, yet caring. They were gentle with Sahara, doing what they had to do with a minimum of fuss. When the doctor showed us the x-ray results, we knew the time had come. The cancer had indeed jumped—her stomach, her liver, her intestines. She was likely in terrible pain, though animals instinctively hide it.

“What do you recommend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“I think we should put her to sleep,” he said, as kindly but as honestly as he could. “I guess you have two options. We can help her go right now, or you can take her home and she’ll probably pass naturally during the night.”

We both thought of the chance to cuddle her in our bed once more, to hear her purr as she died, but we knew that was selfish. She’d try so hard to purr for us, to make us happy, even while she was suffering. We couldn’t do it to her.

We talked to her, petted her, cried over her as the medication stilled her heart. Sahara died knowing we loved her with all our hearts.

When we got home, Mike and Rita were waiting with hugs and tears. We were so grateful to have them with us. In the two weeks previous, they’d gotten to know and love Sahara, too, so they understood.

There were lots of tears over the next six weeks. We cried as Monkey meowed mournfully, searching the house for Sahara, night after night. The time she looked into the still pool water, saw her own reflection and reached out a paw to touch it, brought on some weeping. We watched as she changed her personality, became more vociferous and affectionate, clinging a bit more to us, as she had once cuddled her feline mother.

Now we leave here, the site of Sahara’s last days. She had played, purred, talked, raced around, fallen onto the pool cover and got soaked, meowed for a video, and slept at our feet. 

Monkey seems lost and lonely in the big cat carrier. In the hotel, she has no one to cuddle when we go out for dinner. She’s a cat, she’s adaptable, she’s fine. We all just wish Sahara were heading home with us, too.

During this same trip, we lost our Rosie, too. As the miles (not kilometres yet) fall away, we wonder how we’ll feel once we’re home. Until then, her loss has not seemed real.  

March 29 – rain, peanuts, lilacs – describe each visitor