Pretzel

Pretzel by Jan Adrian

I don’t know if Pretzel rescued me or if I rescued Pretzel.  After breaking up with my partner in the beginning of a pandemic, I was suddenly alone.  As a cat lover, I had cats most of my life, but had not replaced the last two who died 7 years ago. I had been traveling so much that another cat didn’t make sense. Then the pandemic hit. Since I wouldn’t be traveling as much, another cat seemed like a good idea.

I made an appointment at Happy Tails sanctuary, picked out three potential adoptees from their website, and went to meet them.  The first one was totally blah. Just lay there while I tried to make contact.

Pretzel was the second one I met. She was in a room with about five other cats. When I went in and sat on a chair, she was on my lap within two minutes, wanting to be petted, and purring. No need to meet the third cat.

Her paperwork said she was nine years old, didn’t like children or other pets, and was needy.  She sounded perfect for me. But what really sold me was her stunning beauty, her baby blue eyes, and her silky fur. I took her home with me.

Pretzel was a very verbal cat. She complained when I put her into a cage, a car, and then a new environment. But I marveled at how adaptable she was. Unless I take the perspective of our souls and imagine that we chose each other before coming into this world, she had no choice about coming home with me.

She was the eleventh cat I’ve had in my lifetime. We lived together for two years, and I often told her she was my favorite. She came when I called (not a characteristic cat behavior).  When she wanted me to pay more attention to her, she gently stroked my arm with her little paw. She often sat on my lap and purred.  When I returned home after being gone a few hours, she enthusiastically greeted me, and gave me someone to come home to.  I loved Pretzel.

About 6 months ago, Pretzel had a sore on her underside that kept bleeding and didn’t heal. The vet called it a mass and recommended surgery.  One thousand dollars later, the vet had removed two masses from the mammary chain, and a biopsy said they were malignant.  Breast cancer. She thought she got all the cancer in the surgery, but of course didn’t know if other cancer cells were in Pretzel’s body. The vet said it usually takes about six months for cancer to progress, and I should watch for other lumps.

The surgery recovery process was very sweet. Pretzel and I bonded. The first two weeks she was caged in a large wire cage to keep her from walking around and exerting herself. At bedtime the first night, when Pretzel was used to being in bed with me, she frantically tried climbing up the side of the cage to get to me.  Instead of reading in bed like I usually did, I sat on the floor next to her cage and read out loud to her. It seemed to comfort her, and she settled down. This became our nightly routine for those two weeks.

She wore a cone for six weeks to keep her from licking the surgery site. She hated it. Instead of hiding in a corner like cats do when they don’t feel good, she started hanging around me even more. Since she couldn’t scratch her head in the cone, she begged me to scratch it as much as I could tolerate. We bonded even more during that difficult time.

Eventually her surgery wounds healed, the cone came off, and we went back to normal.

Then two weeks ago, Pretzel stopped eating and clearly didn’t feel well. An Xray showed tumors in her chest. Even though we didn’t do a biopsy, the vet said Pretzel had breast cancer, and it had metastasized to her lungs. This is the same diagnosis I am dealing with. What are the chances?

Steroids helped Pretzel feel better and eat a little, but she was no longer her old self. She hung around as close to me as she could get. I felt I loved her even more. Is that possible?

The vet said he could refer her to an oncologist, but in his experience, treatment would not be useful at this point, and I would put Pretzel through a lot of discomfort.  Not something I would choose for her. I knew our time would be short.

I have since heard that it isn’t uncommon for a pet to have the same diagnosis as her owner. Some people theorize that pets take on the disease to help out an owner they love. I don’t know if I believe that, and there is no way to prove it one way or the other. But the idea made me wonder.

What I do know is that my relationship with Pretzel demonstrates the saying I have heard, “If you want to feel love, look for beauty.” Every time I looked at Pretzel, I saw her beauty and my heart was full of love.

Just ten days after starting on the steroids, Pretzel was not eating. She declined rapidly, no longer spending time on my bed with me. She hid in the guest bedroom where she could be alone. I sat in there with her and watched as she changed positions frequently, not able to get comfortable.

She was suffering. Her life was in my hands, and I needed to help her forward. It’s often referred to as the Rainbow Bridge or Kitty Heaven.

Although her time in a body was over, it seemed her spirit remained with me. For such a small being, seven pounds, her absence left a huge hole in my life. Now my house feels empty.

I am grieving her loss, an indication of the love I feel. Grief and love are two sides of the same coin. We can’t have one without the other.  We only grieve what we have loved, and every love will end in loss.  I am so grateful for the time we had together and for the love we shared. I am grateful that Pretzel chose me.

Breathe

Breathe

By Violet Mitchell-Enos

Ooh ooh child, things are going to get easier,

Ooh ooh Child things are going to get brighter.

Tears rolled down my face.

We had just finished our yoga session–savasana.  Sally, our yoga teacher, said the song just came to her; for me, it was the perfect 70’s song at the perfect time.  A song I had not heard in such a long time but immediately it was so familiar, and now I clung to each of those words wanting to believe them. I searched Sally’s eyes as she gazed through the Zoom lens. Could I glimpse this happier time to come? I saw her eyes so gentle and compassionate. She may not have known about my loss, but she was honoring my grief.

Yoga uses movements and breath with the intention of bringing harmony between mind and body. It was right for me during a time when I was not conscious of my body or mind–grief does that.

I’ve watched my seven-year old grandniece, Laila, teach breathing techniques to her younger brothers, Jace and Sammy. She told them it was meditation. Running so fast away from each other, or to each other, or running away to hide because of something they did that they were not supposed to do. Suddenly they are on the ground, crying with scraped knees, elbows, or hands.  Laila immediately swoops in, diving just like a hawk after food for her chicks.  She says comforting words as she murmurs, “Breathe like me.” She takes a breath in, slow long breath out, breath in, slow long breath out.  Soon, there is no crying, only calm and then they are turned over to me to clean a wound and put on a Pup Patrol bandage.  I’ve seen her pull the boys out to the porch and sit under the chimes with their legs crossed, eyes closed and forefingers touching thumbs as they breathe slowly and meditate.   I’m not sure if they even know what they are doing. But amazingly they sit quietly for a minute or two.

Could I do it, sit quietly and in peace for even a minute?  I recall the time we were climbing the hills, and Laila urged me to take picture of them meditating. They each sat on their own huge granite boulder with their colorful beanies atop their heads, legs crossed, eyes closed, forefinger and thumbs touching faces so relaxed as they breathed slowly in and out. It was a fall day, leaves drifting down from the trees, the air cool, a slight breeze stirring, and the sun shining brightly.  The cloudless sky was a bright turquoise blue that is only seen on macaws next to their bright yellow and iridescent green feathers. In the midst of creation, the children sit anchored on big granite stones–serene and at peace.

I held my breath waiting for him to take another.  This can’t be it, not now.  Frantic, I move to him, lie by him, wait to hear a faint breath, watch his chest to see it rise.  No more, no more breath, no more rising chest—I exhale and I don’t want to breathe again. Then I cry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop. 

Breathe, breathe–slow your breath down.  Breathe deep, exhale long.  The exhale is the most healing part.  Sally is reteaching me what I have forgotten and what the children  already know: breath is healing, calming, a bond between me and my world—harmony.

Ooh ooh child, things will get brighter . . .

The Dormant Seed

Once upon a time and far away – in fact very far away in a small unremarkable market town in the center of England – lived a young girl who loved her books and stories.

She quickly learned her ABC’s and when her parents read bedtime stories she remembered every page, correcting them if they ever tried to skip one.  Her appetite for reading quickly grew – The Pilgrim’s Progress at seven – The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, science fiction, history – the library was her second home and so was planted the seed of a writer.

As a teenager she scribbled notes in a journal, wrote a few lines here and there and pursued English Literature and French at school – language and words were her fascination, her passion.  She studied Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, Shakespeare’s Hamlet—the list went on and on.  Then at sixteen she had to make a choice in subjects – hers would have been Science and English Literature of course, but her teachers knew better, apparently, and said, “Oh no you can’t mix and match. It has to be all science or all art.”  So science it was.

The seed lay dormant.

The next few years she spent writing science reports, answers to exam questions and dissertations, one of the highlights being the Reproductive Life Cycle of a Barnacle!  Then on to a corporate job–crafting statistical reports, training plans, committee reports, performance reviews, job descriptions–words that seemed so stale and flat.

The seed lay dormant.

The years went by, life went by, and her writing was limited to e-mails and the occasional letter.  Books were still her sanctuary, and friends often said “we love the stories you tell” or “you should write a book.”  The seed gave a little shake at the sounds of these words, but she often asked herself, “Who am I to write a book. I have no stories and no time.” The seed would bury itself a little deeper into the dark earth.

Still the seed lay dormant.

In nature, of course, it can often take a significant event such as a hard frost or even a fire to unlock a seed so that it can in fact sprout–this little seed had lain dormant for so long that it was questionable whether it was still viable after almost 50 years.

Then came the events that would shake and inspire the seed into action–cancer diagnosis, her father’s death, the pandemic.  On clearing out her father’s house, she found some of her stories, essays, and poems she loved and had shared.

Covid was the final wakeup call–socially isolated, in lockdown she joined communities on-line including the local cancer support group who held a weekly class called “Notes to Self.” The seed shook a little harder, especially when she showed up and wrote a few words. With great trepidation she ignored the voice in her head which said, “You are not a writer, No one will take any notice. They will laugh at you.” But the seed was taking hold.

A dear friend in the group provided water and even fertilizer for the seed. “Sandra Marinella is giving a talk through Healing Journeys. You should sign up! So she did.

The seed was so happy that a shoot appeared although it was not sure which way to go–up or down?

She listened to Sandra, purchased a copy of the book, and this time the seedling shook so violently she signed up for a writing class.  How did that happen?  Again, she showed up with trepidation, read the book, and finally understood that she could write. She had something to write about.  Sandra and the beautiful community she created provided fertile ground and a framework to write stories of overcoming trauma and loss, positive stories, heroic stories. It all made perfect sense.

The roots of the seedling grew stronger and finally the shoot pierced through the soil to the light—throwing out a bud or two when a piece was written and then started to bloom as she told her stories.  She became proud of the writer she was, proud of her stories, proud to tell them, and proud to be part of a community of budding seedlings seeing the beauty of the blossoms unfold.

 

– Pam Sheppard

April 2022