I need to tell you about my cat

I need to tell you about my cat.

In an earlier blog, I wrote how Zach, my warrior cat, entered my life.  Now I need to tell you how he left. 

I was going through an awful divorce when my grandmother told us her nephew Michael was giving away tabby kittens. Nana used to babysit for me all the time back then. I’d been losing my mind for nearly a year when we got Zach. My girls and I experienced trauma like you watch on the Lifetime Channel, and now I was waitressing four nights a week, was doing grad school one night a week, and was working for a newspaper one or two nights a week. 

Life was chaotic and my babies, just three and five, were spending more time with my grandmother than they were with me.  We were stressed out and hurting and Nana knew it. The last thing I needed was a cat. At least that’s what I thought at the time. 

But it turned out Zach was a great distraction. My nana knew what the girls and I needed better than I did. Though he did wreak havoc on our house.  

The nicest thing I owned back then was a cotton chintz living room set in a pretty peach and celery floral print. It was a wedding gift from my parents.  Within a year of living with Zack, the poor set was a frayed, fur-balled mess.

The second nicest thing I owned was my mom’s country French walnut dining set. My mother got lots of new furniture delivered right before my sister got married in 1988, and I got the dining room set, which was at that point still flawless.  For three years, I kept it spotless. Then Zach joined us and it all went to hell. The legs became his scratching posts. I’d come home from work and find cat puke stuck to the table top.  I tried covering the set, tried locking Zach in rooms, tried spraying him with water. Nothing helped. 

The obstinate little critter wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. What he wanted was to be outside. What he did if we didn’t do what he wanted was scratch everything in sight.   

Zach grew mighty and muscular. He attacked dogs. He attacked visitors. He brought me dead mice and pigeons. Even though I yelled at Zach all the time, he adored me. 

My kingdom for a head pat

His idea of heaven was a pat on the head and a warm patch of cement. If I was sitting outside by the pool, he’d amble over from wherever he’d been napping, usually this overgrown rhododendron in the far corner of the yard. He’d nuzzle my arm until I scratched him in his favorite place, the M marking on his forehead, then he’d crawl under my chair and nap in my shadow. 

I’d come home from work or running errands, and no matter where he was, no matter what critter he was stalking, Zach would hear the putter of the old car and come galloping out to greet me. No matter who else was in the car, he’d walk up to my driver’s side door and wait for me to climb out. He’d butt his head into my legs, and force me to pet him.  

He’d follow me to neighbors’ houses and pace outside until I emerged.  If the neighbor had sliding glass doors, he’d find them and rest back on his haunches and watch us.  I’d wave at him to let him know I was okay. I was not being held captive. I’d yell for him to go home. But he wouldn’t. 

At one point or another one particular neighbor, a lovely woman with spotless expensive furniture, would ask politely if I wanted to let the cat in. I’d look around her house, at the perfect ivory sofa, the polished coffee tables, and I’d shake my head and think of my own scraped up furniture.

“Wouldn’t be right,” I’d say.  I’d make my hand into a claw and make a scraping motion.

“Ah,” the woman would say. She’d nod her head knowingly, but she didn’t really understand. She didn’t have cats. She asked all the time if Zach could come in.

According to my vet, the average lifespan of an outdoor cat is ten years. She was always after me to turn Zach into an indoor cat, but I just couldn’t do that to him. It was always about quality of life for Zach, not quantity. He needed the outdoors.

Those crazy teen years 

 

When Zach hit his teens, he began spending more time inside. He got his outside kicks by lounging in the full sun on the sill of the bay window and watching the cars go by and the birds twitter past.  He started getting friendlier. He’d nose his way onto my lap when I’d watch television. He’d curl up next to me on the couch while I was reading. His new favorite place to sleep, rather than outside under a bush, was on the pillow, next to me.

By age sixteen, Zach had lost all interest in going outside. Instead, he’d follow us around the house. He started sleeping more. He lost muscle tone. He thinned out a bit. But he still had a zest for life.  We had two other cats by then, Winifred and Squeaky Mmm-Bop.  Zach drove them nuts. He’d chase them around the house. He’d growl. He’d lick them into submission. He was still the king, the alpha male. He knew it. They knew it. My girls and I knew it.

Uh oh

Around this time last year, Zach started sleeping on the floor because he couldn’t make it onto my bed any more. I took two blankets and made a nest for him. I did not use old blankets. I used the soft thick blankets I put on my bed and my daughters’ beds. 

Then late in the fall, Zach stopped using the litter box. He started relieving himself next to the box. At first, I was furious with him. I wondered if this was a power ploy. Maybe as he got weaker he needed to maintain his cat king authority by constantly re-establishing his territory? Sometimes I would catch him in mid-pee, and I would yell at him to stop. He wouldn’t. He’d finish, then rush past me and hide under my bed. I realize now that I was frightening the little guy. I was bullying him.  

One day I caught him getting set to pee. He didn’t see me. I stood in the doorway and watched him put his front paws into the box. He tried to lift a back leg, but he couldn’t get it high enough to get it over the side and into the box. He tried many times, and finally gave up and peed on the floor instead. 

I took him to the vet. I’d put off taking him because I was afraid. I was afraid she’d find a blood disease, or a tumor. I was afraid she’d tell me it was time to put him down. Zach was nineteen at this point. He was thinner. He was sleeping a lot. I knew he didn’t have a lot of time left. 

She took some blood and gave Zach three hundred dollars worth of tests. Turned out there was no tumor, no blood problem. He had massive arthritis in his back hips. That was probably why he wasn’t using the litter box. It hurt too much to climb into it. Otherwise, he was in remarkably good health for a cat the age equivalent of a ninety year old human. 

She looked at me carefully. I could put him to sleep if I wanted, she said. But really, there was nothing wrong him. He was getting old, that’s all.

   

I felt relieved. I told her I couldn’t put Zach down for being old. We all get old. We all eventually pee where we shouldn’t. That’s life. 

She agreed. She looked like she felt relieved too.

So my life, for the past few years smooth and uncomplicated, got a teeny bit more difficult. Last year, I was late or nearly late to work every day. Granted, punctuality is not one of my strengths. But last year it got really hard to leave the house every morning. Here’s why.

Zach liked his routines. He always relieved himself around 7:40 every morning, sometimes a little earlier, sometimes a few minutes later. The thing is, to get to work on time, I needed to leave the house by 7:45. Here’s something else. Cat pee damages floors. The longer you wait to clean it, the more damage it does to the finish. I stayed around and waited for Zach to pee so I could clean it up fast and minimize damage to the wood floor.

This process would work in reverse each afternoon. I’d come home, clean up the new pee, then head in to say hi to Zach. He’d get up, sometimes slowly but more often extremely slowly, and make his way toward me so I could scratch him right where he liked it, at the black M marking on his forehead. Then he’d lumber into the kitchen, pick at his food, rub up against my legs a little, and go back and nap on his blankie. That’s one thing Zach always did, every day for practically his whole life. No matter what critter he was tormenting, no matter whose yard he was tearing up, Zach always put a halt to what he was doing, and ran up to greet me when I came home. In April, that stopped. 

Now for the inevitable

 

He’d lost even more weight. He was the size of a kitten now. I could feel his bones when I picked him up. My girls and I wondered if he’d make it to his twentieth birthday, May 27.  A few days after Easter, Zach didn’t get up at all. I called the vet and asked what I should do. She asked me a few questions and agreed that she needed to see him. We talked about possibly putting him down. I made an appointment for the next day.

In the morning, Zach got up and walked around a bit. He snarled at the other cats. He rubbed up against my legs. He had a bit to eat and drink. I called the vet and canceled. I asked her if she thought I was a bad person for not keeping the appointment. She said I wasn’t, and that when it was time to put him down, there’d be no question whatsoever. I’d know. 

I started holding Zach more, only now I picked him up with a blanket because he was so bony. I figured if it hurt me to hold him, it must be even more uncomfortable for him to be held. He’d purr sometimes, but not that much. He’d get up to sniff his food a couple of times a day, but he didn't eat much. He’d snarl at the other cats if they were in his way. They’d run and hide. He spent most of his time on the nest of blankets in my room.  Every day, he looked frailer and thinner than the day before. He made it to his twentieth birthday. 

It was a Sunday afternoon in June. I hadn’t seen Zach go to his food bowl since the day before. He’d been laying on his blanket all day. I picked him up and brought him into the kitchen and placed him on the floor. He raised his head and sniffed at the bowl, then closed his eyes and lowered his head. I picked him up and brought him back to my room. I kept checking on him. He never once moved. Late that night I heard him get up. He moaned a little. I heard him walk down the hall. 

The next morning, I found a puddle of urine in the hallway. Zach was asleep on the floor right next to it. I cleaned it up. I cleaned Zach up. I put him on his blankie. I went to work and called the vet as soon as I could. I told her what happened. 

“It’s time. I know it,” I said. 

I took the first appointment that I could: 3:30 that afternoon. I called some friends because I felt like I should tell someone. They offered to drive me. I said no. It wouldn’t be right. Zach hated strangers.  They stressed him out. He loved me. He loved my kids. My kids weren’t around, so it needed to be me. Just me. I didn’t call my girls. I figured, What was the point? I’d be calling them after. Why torture them? Plus, what if I couldn’t go through with it?

All day, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Maybe I’d get home and everything would be like it had once been. Zach would be on the bay windowsill sleeping in the sun. His ears would perk up as he heard the Honda pull into the driveway. He’d greet me at the door. 

Instead, I arrived home and found Zach lying on floor near his blanket. He didn’t look up when I said his name. He didn’t purr when I bent down and scratched his head. 

Saying good-bye

I didn’t bother searching for the cat carrier. I scooped Zach up in his blankets and we left the house.  I walked around the yard with him in my arms. I pointed out the bad tree where the crows used to sit and scream at him as he hunted for intruders. I showed him his favorite napping place, a rhododendron bush with secret dark passages where the branches met the ground. I showed him the sky he loved to study. I showed him the dark driveway where he’d stretch out in the sun.

He just lay in my arms, his eyes vacant, mouth open slightly. Except for the rise and fall of his belly, he was unresponsive. 

I put him on the floor of the front passenger seat and started the car. As we moved up and down the hills that led to the vet, he moaned. I worried that he was uncomfortable.

“It’ll be okay Zach. I promise.”  I tried not to cry but my eyes kept blurring up. It was hard to see the road. 

I started shaking as I pulled into the parking lot. By the time I entered the reception area I was bawling. The receptionist sized up the situation and before I could walk to her desk she was by my side, leading us to a private room. The doctor was there within seconds. 

I placed Zach on the metal table. She weighed him. He was only nine pounds. At his most ferocious he’d weighed eighteen. He was thirteen pounds when I’d brought him in last fall. She checked his vitals. She nodded, and said, yes, it was time. It was just going to be a matter of a few days, tops, anyhow.

She left the room while I said good-bye to Zach. I didn’t need much time. I’d been saying good-bye to him for months. I doubted he even knew I was there. His eyes were distant. He didn’t respond when I touched him. 

I patted his head right where he liked it, on the M above his eyes, as the vet injected him. I kept telling him I loved him. I don’t think he heard me. He was already somewhere else. But I kept saying it, just in case I was wrong. I’d stopped crying.

His pupils dilated and that was it. 

I kissed his M, and the doctor took him away. The receptionist came in to let me pay the bill privately so I wouldn’t have to be around strangers who might not understand or care. The bill was eighty-one dollars. There were two items. Euthanasia: $81. With Sympathy, $0. 

A few minutes later, the doctor brought him back. He was curled up in a white cardboard box with tape at both ends to hold the cover in place. Someone had written his name on the lid in black marker, and had drawn a heart next to it. Seeing that made me cry again. 

I brought Zach home and buried him myself in the backyard in one of his favorite resting spots, under a pine tree near where the pool deck used to be. Friends offered to come over and help, but I said no. He was my cat. He didn’t like strangers. He liked me. I needed to honor that and see things through to the end. 

It was hard saying good-bye to Zach, but it wasn’t hard burying him. I used to have a perennial garden in the back yard, and still have some silly cement statues lying around. I poked around in some overgrown bushes and found a statue of a smiling lion cub with one paw in the air. I dragged that over to the grave site.  Until I find something better, that’s what will stay there. I can see the statue from the window over the kitchen sink. It’s cute and playful, like Zach when he was a kitten. 

Sometimes I stand at the kitchen window and remember. 

I think of my grandmother, who found Zach for us. She’s gone ten years, though it seems like just yesterday we were having Sunday dinners together.  I think of my little girls, all grown up now, both far away with cats of their own. For just a second, I allow myself to think of the sociopath who tore our lives apart back in 1991. Then I push that rottenness from my brain and remember the four-legged critter who helped us heal. 

Once I had a warrior cat named Zach. How lucky am I? 

Anatomy of a DNF, version 10.6

I woke up at 5:18 this morning, though the alarm was set for six. It’s the pain that did it, a jabbing that started behind my right ear and shot up to my right eye and down my neck. It passed so swiftly that I wondered if I’d dreamed it. So I drifted back to sleep and bam, there it was again.  

Startled, I sat up and debated my next move. If I got up and took some meds, I was up for the morning and I knew it. I slid back under the covers, and rolled onto my side, hoping the new position would calm my head so I could get those extra thirty minutes of snooze time. Not five minutes later, the pain attacked again.  

I climbed out of bed and padded into the kitchen, gulped down some pills and water, and made coffee. Outside it was dark and silent. I turned on the computer and checked the weather in Hollis, New Hampshire. Perfect running weather: mid-60s and overcast.  

“That’s a good sign,” I thought. “Everything will be just fine.” 

I still had four hours until the race. Anything can happen in four hours. People on the cusp of getting over stomach bugs can heal remarkably well in four hours.  I’d certainly felt much better last night than I had the night before. Obviously, I was on the mend. Maybe this last pain surge was the end of it.  

I showered, dressed, and packed Body Glide, water, and a change of clothes.  I double-checked that I’d printed out the directions to the race. I was already fed up with the spears that still insisted on poking at my skull and neck. I didn’t want to add getting lost to my worry list. I took another pill and checked the label on the side of the bottle. Wasn’t this stuff supposed to kick in a half hour ago?

Now my stomach was gurgling but I was afraid to eat. I wondered if I needed the calories anyhow. Maybe muscle memory would be enough to get me through the run. I considered the extra weight I’m packing. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t need to eat anything today anyhow. I certainly have enough extra nutrients stored away in my thighs and upper arms.  Geez. Hibernating bears survive winter on less fat than mine.  

I packed a banana and some peanut butter toast though, just in case. 

I drove north. The sun had risen. The highway shimmered. The surrounding landscape, undulating trees, sunburned rainbows, breathed and glowed. I played Bruce Springsteen and sang along to drown out the acid bubbling up my digestive tract. At least the skull attacks had finally subsided.  

I got to the start and watched the runners. Wondered who’d be lagging behind at the end with me. Some wore race T-shirts. We talked about races we’d done. Most hadn’t done this half marathon yet. 

“I’ve done it plenty of times,” I say. "But I don’t know how today will go. Stomach bug.”

Everyone gave me a version of the same hollow line: “Oh you’ll be fine.”  Then they’d leave to go talk to someone else and I would too.  

The race started on a driveway next to Hollis-Brookline High School. You run a tenth of a mile down the driveway, then take a left, then a right, then another right and loop back. You hit the high school again at the two-mile mark, and then at the finish, the 13.1 mile mark. 

I’ve run this course at least a half dozen times. As I wait for the announcements to commence, I remind myself of that. I used to meet up with a New Hampshire friend here, and we’d run the course together as part of training for some of our marathons. It’s pretty and shady. There are horse farms and orchards and lots of steep hills.  

I groan at the thought of those steep hills. I clutch my stomach and position myself way at the back.

My plan is to start slowly, and take inventory. Check my legs, stomach, head. If I don’t feel capable of completing the run, I plan on dropping out at the mile two mark. I’ve never dropped out of a race before. I’ve always finished what I’ve started. But if dropping out is the right thing to do, then so be it. I’ll live. Right?

We sing the Star Spangled Banner then move downhill, all 1,200 of us. I run gently and wait for the magic to happen; for my legs to loosen, my stomach to tighten, for some electricity to shock my system. But there’s nothing, except this thought, “If you weren’t signed up for a race today, you would be resting. You know better. You need more time off.” 

But the thing about running distances is this, sometimes that’s the way it is at the start of a run. Your head and body aren’t always in sync right away.  I’ve had plenty of runs where I’ve felt crappy the whole entire distance. But still, today feels different. It feels wrong. 

At mile one, my legs are clumsy and thick. I slow even more. I keep my head down and move forward. I feel like I’ve already run eight miles. 

“Why are you out here?” I keep asking myself that and I don’t have an answer. My legs hate me. My stomach is burning. I make it up the first steep hill at mile 1.5, but as I head down to mile two, I’m clutching my guts. I know the run needs to end. Stopping is the right thing to do. There’s no doubt at all.  I am about to experience my very first DNF – Did Not Finish.

I reach the mile two water table, gulp down a cup of water, and take myself off the course. People smile kindly and start saying nice things to me but I look away. I don’t want to hear them. My eyes start filling up. I take off my race number so I look just like any other spectator.

I knew going into the run that I might have trouble finishing.  I knew the race would hurt. But here’s the thing. I never expected the dropping out to hurt more. 

Showing up matters: Here's proof

I had a tough time running this summer. The heat and humidity chewed me up, spit me out, and left me writhing on the pavement like an ant under a magnifying glass.  

I’d lace up my shoes and set off optimistically enough, thinking that maybe today would be different from the day before, the week before, the month before. But August was as bad as July was as bad as June. I’d start running, but would heat up so quickly I’d be forced to switch to a dull jog, and then would give in to long hot walks. 

Almost every run was awful. I honestly don’t know why I kept trying. Time and again I’d get out there only to end up like the Wicked Witch of the West, flattened and melting.    

I’d wonder if it was time to throw in the towel and throw out the old running shoes. I’ve been running closer to forty years than thirty now. I wondered if maybe my body was telling me I was done.  My knees ached. My stomach churned. My heart rate was off the charts every single run. 

Was it time to say good-bye to my one immutable constant, my friend through fat and thin, misery and joy, high school, college, first career, second career, and beyond? Was it time to bid my running life a fond and sad adieu? 

When you’re past fifty and when your runs are consistently poor, it can’t help but cross your mind that maybe it’s time to give it up. Put that part of your life behind you. Move on to other less taxing pursuits.  

I’m not quite ready to give up my Brooks just yet though. Running is like breathing for me. I need it. It’s a part of who I am. So I’ve been looking for ways to help myself get through this slump. 

I switched up my running routes.  I ran shorter distances. I ran longer distances.  I ran tons some weeks and some weeks ran nothing at all.  I cut back on cross-training. I rested more. I signed up for a couple of races, not because I was hoping to win anything, but because I wanted to mix things up a bit and be around more people with similar goals.  I figured maybe that would help too. 

Usually, when I sign up for races, it’s a pretty big deal. I train a lot. I obsess over how fast – or slow -- I run. I worry I won’t live up to my expectations. So this is different for me, signing up for a race just to run with lots of other runners. These races would be like any other long run, I figured, only I’d get a neat-o running t-shirt, and have water stop support.  

My first race with this new outlook was yesterday.  My only goal was to finish uninjured. My plan was to listen to my body, enjoy the scenery, go slowly enough so I could say thank you to all the volunteers, and smile as much as I could.  

I got to the race feeling happy and relaxed. I had no pre-race jitters because for me, this wasn’t a race.  It was just a long run with water stops. It helped that the race was so low-key. It was in a quaint hilly town in central Massachusetts.  There was no official starting line. There were no serious and imposing- looking timing mats. There was no spray painted mark to toe. No duct tape to stand behind.  

Shortly before the race began, a couple of hundred of us stood around in small groups on a quiet lane lined with Revolutionary War era homes and wild flower gardens. It was House Beautiful meets Runner’s World. Then some guy somewhere in front of us shouted out “Go!” and we went.  The crowd quickly thinned out. My friend W and I stayed at the back and trotted along blithely while nearly everyone ran past us.

Watching hordes of runners pass me by at the start is pretty much the norm. Maybe you’re thinking, “It’s a race. You should be upset that people are passing you.” Nah. That’s not how it works for me. I always start slowly.  If you’re a seasoned distance runner, you understand. Running distances is about constantly measuring distance against energy.  You go at your own pace, figure out what works for you, and tweak as you run. What works for me is starting slowly. Plus, remember. Yesterday was just another long run.  

The race was billed as “moderately hilly.” I’d heard from my friend W that it was actually pretty mountainous. I’d spent all summer running – er, walking --  on mostly flat stuff. I didn’t know what my body would do when it met up with lots of hills. I wanted to make sure I finished this run with my knees still attached to their ligaments.  I was definitely taking it easy and sticking to my plan to enjoy a nice, long run.

  

We scooted downhill for a half mile or so, then came to our first uphill, a narrow road with a surface that reminded me of chocolate cookie crumbs. W and I parted ways at that point. We’ve run many races together. Our paces are quite similar, but we each have different ways of getting through our run. We usually start together then split up. We often see each other along the course, but we rarely run exactly next to one another the whole distance.  We promised to find one another at the finish. 

It had been raining all night and the morning was silent and fairy tale foggy. There were runners ahead of me and runners behind me. The air was soft and cool. I drifted past apple farms and weathered colonials, heard horses braying and roosters crowing, caught magnificent views of distant forests alive with greens and yellows and blazing oranges. We runners were high above the mist at many points. The trees were fiery ghosts far below us. 

I came upon two younger runners chattering roughly, like crows. Their sounds jangled my nerves and interfered with the twitters and crackles from the wet branches all around. We hit a series of steep hills that ran from mile 6.5 to nine.  They slowed down to walk and I kept my head down and sped past. I had to get away from them. I liked running in this mellow dreamland. Their voices were too strident and real. Plus, the hill was a beast and I didn’t need to hear them talking about how crappy they felt. 

Ahead of me, many people were walking. It would have been so easy to stop and walk. I kept my eyes on the pavement to avoid temptation. As my breathing got ragged, I shortened my stride. I tried to ignore how much my feet had to bend to make contact with the pavement. The slant of the road was absurd. It was a five percent grade at that point, according to mapmyrun.com. 

No New England road should ever be that steep, I remember thinking. I wondered how the residents of the street made it home in snowstorms. The nuttiness lasted a half mile and it took forever to run it. I probably would have gone just as fast if I’d switched to walking, but I wanted to be able to say I’d run the whole way.

As I approached the eight-mile water stop, on the side of yet another outrageous incline, the volunteers yelled out that I looked great.  I laughed out loud at that and yelled back, “Please tell me this hilly stuff is done!” They laughed and said there was just one more hill left. Just one. Ugh.

I found it just around the next corner. But halfway up that was another water stop, an unofficial one manned by a couple of runner moms and their daughters. The kids, maybe second and third graders, were passing out Gatorade. The girls flashed me huge grins and the moms screamed that I looked fantastic. They really truly screamed it. Like I was Bruce Springsteen or Lady Gaga. That made me smile. 

I told the kids that their water stop was the best one of all, thanked them for saving my life with the Gatorade, and continued on. Those kids looked at me like I was some sort of goddess. I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy about running on such ridiculous terrain.  

At the top of the hill was the mile nine marker. A nice older gent in a volunteer cap, yelled out it was all downhill from there on. I yelled back, “Yeah! Just like my life! Har har!” He laughed back. I thanked him for being out there, and made my way down.  

I recognized this road. It was the one we’d driven into town. I picked up a little speed but didn’t try to push anything. It was just a long run after all. I wanted to end today’s run feeling good. My breathing was normal and I marveled at the fact that at my advanced age I could still run ten miles as easily as though I’d just walked to the corner.   

In no time at all I saw a few orange traffic cones leading to a roped off section of driveway, where some middle school girls stood holding clipboards next to a timer. I figured this must be the finish line, though I was uncertain of exactly where to stop. I trotted to the girls and they wrote down my bib number, handed me a bottle of water, and congratulated me on finishing.

I made my way back to the road and cheered on my friend as she finished. We guzzled our water and wandered through the farmers’ market set up just down the hill, eventually making our way back to the school cafeteria where we had picked up our race numbers. 

The race results of the earlier finishers were taped on top of a cafeteria table. Our results weren’t in yet. I read through the posted results to see if I knew anyone else who’d run that day. I didn’t, but something else caught my eye. I called W over to verify what I’d seen: So far in our division, only one other runner had finished. 

“You know,” I whispered, “It’s possible we could place in our division.” We laughed out loud. People turned and stared. 

 

Well, as it turns out, we did place in our division. I came in second, and W finished third. I’m still shaking my head and laughing about it today. 

Yesterday, I went into the run expecting to come out with some aching legs and hoping for a smile on my face. Turns out I got that and a whole lot more. Now I remember why I continued to try to run this summer, even when things seemed hopeless: Because after a while it does get better.  It really truly does.  You just have to keep going, that’s all.

On Lady Gaga, Andy Williams, and me

I spent the afternoon surfing the net. When I wasn’t on youtube watching crackly Andy Williams clips, I was searching google images for pictures of fat Lady Gaga, who looks just fine to me.  It was one of those afternoons when I meant to be productive but just couldn’t focus. 

Plus, Andy Williams passed away today. He was a big chunk of my childhood.

Young Andy Williams reminds me of my dad back in the 1960s:  Same taut skin, same hair, same bright grin. I had so much fun today, watching Andy talk so sweetly with little Donny and Marie Osmond. I’d like to think that my dad and mom talked with us kids in much the same way, but that would be so absurd and of course a gigantic lie. They were a little more human than Andy Williams’s television persona. 

Though my dad could give Andy a run for his money when it came to entertainment. My dad was great at banging out pop hits of the sixties on my parents’ prize possession, our Gulbransen piano that my dad got at a bargain price from some friend of a friend of a friend. The piano was the French provincial centerpiece of my mother’s French provincial living room. To my little girl eyes, our three-decker front room was a princess palace.  The good room, which was what we called this fairy tale place, was all gracefully carved chairs and marble topped tables and gold-accented mirrors. Our piano was topped with a plaster bust of Mozart, and next to that a gold-colored chalice artfully overflowing with plastic fruit that always made my mouth water. 

We were not allowed in that glorious sparkly confection of a room without parental supervision. Seriously.  I remember poking my toe into that room from the threshold of the adjoining television room just to see what would happen, and getting yelled at. 

Every night we were allowed in the room while my dad or mom played the piano. My mom loves the classics. One of her favorite pieces has always been Debussy’s “Claire de Lune.”  Even now, she never uses sheet music. She knows all her favorites by heart. Her touch is nuanced and light. As a kid, I  thought she was magic.  Though I took piano lessons for years, I’ve never been able to replicate my mother’s  fluidity and grace. 

My dad’s musical talents were and still are more pedestrian. He plays the songs of the masses. He is the master of the choppy left-hand chord. He loves his college fight songs, his Irish folk songs, and back on View Street, he adored his classic pop songs and he loved to sing. The three of us, me, my dad, my sister, would squeeze onto the piano bench, with him in the middle. We’d sing along to “Moon River,” “I’m a Lonely Little Petunia,” and of course “Daddy’s Girl.”   

Today, mentally anyhow, I’m back on Vernon Hill, in our second floor apartment. I’m sitting on our braided rug, eyes fixed on the black and white television that sits under the shining maple mantle, where the fireplace is supposed to be. It’s just the four of us, my parents, my sister, and me. 

  

Back in the sixties my father was tan and trim. My dad made his living as a teacher, so he was out of school before three. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays after work he’d head straight out to Westborough Country Club for a couple of hours of golf. He played every Saturday and Sunday too, sometimes working in fifty-four holes in one weekend. He’s still a little obsessed with his sport and still trim, though not as tanned because he uses heavy-duty sunscreen now.  

Today, when people ask me how I’ve developed such a strong exercise habit, I tell them about my dad and his golf routine. That’s what I grew up thinking was normal. You spent part of the day working, and part of the day playing.  Until I was in high school, I thought everyone’s dad played golf every day.  

My mother was and still is small and thin. She’s never been a big sports person, but she’s always loved to read and used to love to smoke.  Smoking helped keep her thin. Though my mom wasn’t into athletics at all, her legs could have been runner legs or ballerina legs. They were and still are that shapely. My mom and her two sisters, both now passed, used to joke that the three of them had the best legs in the city. I think they were right.

      

My one sister is much younger than me. She’s built like my mother, only smaller and thinner.  

And then there’s me, the one who doesn’t belong. Here’s me at age five watching Andy Williams and the Osmonds sing “Lida Rose:”  I am thick and meaty and sit cross-legged on the floor. I grab at my stomach and say to my parents, “Look, I have three rolls!”  Of fat I mean. I’m proud because the day before, I had four rolls. Five years old and that’s what I’m thinking. Interesting, eh? 

My mother told me I didn’t start out fat. I was just six pounds at birth. In early pictures, I look exactly right. I have sweet baby cheeks and dimpled arms. In my Polly Flinders holiday dresses, I look like a child model.  

Then my sister was born. She was an underweight, ill preemie who needed lots of attention. Though I was three when she was born, I still needed attention too. According to my mother, I found the best way to get it was to eat lots of Oreo cookies. The cookies were stashed in the silver bread box on the counter in the pantry. The pantry, a narrow room lined with cabinets on one side, was off the kitchen and set far back from the television room. 

It was quite easy to steal cookies. While my parents watched Andy Williams, I’d get up and pretend I was going to my room for something. My room was next to the pantry. I’d sneak in there instead and start gobbling away. Sometimes, my gluttony would get the best of me and I’d lose track of time and place. Discipline wasn’t exactly my forte back then. My mom or dad would sneak up on me and catch me in the act. They’d yell at me, but that didn’t deter me. I just learned to get sneakier and quieter.  

I was put on my first diet before I was four. The doctor who put me on the diet was my pediatrician, Dr. Riordan. I think I liked him. I was never afraid of him, I remember that much. Two other things I remember: He was fat and he was a smoker.  Yup. A fat, smoking doctor put three-year-old me on a diet.  And my parents were okay with that.  

Nothing really changed after that, except that now the milkman brought two bottles of milk twice a week instead of one: a huge full-fat bottle for everyone else, and a small bottle of skim for me. To this day, I can only drink skim milk. The full-fat stuff makes me gag.  

I was thinking about being little after I read about Andy Williams, and that, combined with reading about Lady Gaga’s twenty-five pound weight gain brought me back to being little and fat and the outsider.

I was one of the fattest kids in my class for most of my childhood. I can recall the exact name and address of the one girl in my grade who was heavier than me. I think that says just about everything about my mindset back then.

“At least I’m not as fat as L.” I remember thinking that all the time, even in first grade. I remember being uncomfortable when she was absent, because when she was out, I was the fattest kid in school. 

Over the years, my weight has gone up and gone down. I’ve learned quite a lot about people during this process, because fat me gets treated differently by others than thin me, even though I’m always the same person inside.  I’ve experienced cruelty and apathy, which is a kind of cruelty I think, when I was heavy. I’ve been fawned over and treated like a princess when I was thin.   

I’m curious to see how this whole Lady Gaga weight thing plays out in the press. I hope she stays true to herself and makes choices about her weight based on what she wants, not on what others expect. That’s what I’ve learned works best for me.  

Plus, there are a lot of little girls watching, and their moms and dads too.  Maybe they’ll all learn something.