AGING

2019 March 26

Last month I turned 69. Spare me the eye rolling, comments about age being "just a number", and the "don’t say you’re old" remark. The fact is that for me, 69 seems old, I emphasize, for me. 

Allow me to explain. My Mum died at age 49. I was 26 at the time of her death. Both my grandmothers passed away in their very early 60s. These events set forth the idea that I would probably die by age 49, or 50. Perhaps not a rational conclusion to draw, but one I drew in any case. I spent the next 23 years following Mummy’s passing, certain that my own end would come in or around the year 1999. 

I remember my 31st birthday clearly. I was cutting my birthday cake at Dad’s house, when I began to weep. Daddy in his matter of fact way asked simply, "What the hell are you crying about?" When I told him it was because I was getting older, he pooh poohed me and said something to the effect, that everybody was getting older, that’s the way it worked. Maybe so, but did everyone live with this dread? This assurance that they would follow in their Mother’s footsteps? Probably not.

But, I didn’t die at 49, or even 50. Glory be! I am now 19 years passed what I thought would be my expiration date! I should be happy, right?

Well, for some of those ensuing 19 years, I have been happy, and relieved. I remember when I turned 50, my dear Dad tried to get my goat by asking me how it felt to be a half century old. (This was his way of turning the tables, since I had asked him that very question when he turned 50.) But, I wasn’t upset by the question, rather my response was something along the lines of, I’m amazed and thankful to still be here.

So, what changed that amazement and gratitude into fear and dread in the last couple of decades?

Ah, now we get down to it! 

LOSS. Loss of people, animals, places, things. Loss of abilities, jobs. Loss of memory. Loss after loss, piling on.

Yet, the losses that seem to make me feel old are the loss of memory, loss of job, and loss of abilities. My dear husband tells me that at our age we are "supposed to be retired". He doesn’t think that not having a job is something about which to be sad or mournful. For me, a job is a reason to organize my life, to feel successful, and an indication that I can still contribute. Part of the reason for not having a job is tied to loss of abilities, both mental and physical. And the mental aspect is definitely tied to memory loss.

Some days, I have to ask, "What day is it?"  I forget where I have put things. I get in the car, drive to the end of my street, and have to consciously THINK about where I am going, so that I turn in the appropriate direction. And it is something I must do with the approach of each intersection. Driving has been difficult since the seven car pile up in Virginia in October 2016, but that problem was an anxiety issue. This difficulty with driving stems more from memory issues. I often will Google map where I am going so that I can visualize the route as I drive. One month recently, I forgot to pay the electric bill. I joke that I have a "Teflon memory", but it really isn’t funny to me, it’s scary. I am scared that these little memory glitches are the beginning of a larger problem.

The physical matters that have recently reemerged, such as joint discomfort, difficulty walking distances, increased blood pressure, and sleep disturbances, I am hoping are related to the stress weight I gained back after taking a Nanny position for which I was not prepared. Before that job, which I took because I was bored "being retired", and because I was worried about the severe cuts we anticipate to our Teamster pension, I had worked steadily over the last five years to become healthier. Yet, now with additional weight returned to my body, I cannot stand for any length of time, so even that old joke about being a Walmart Greeter, isn’t funny - I certainly couldn’t stand on concrete floors for longer than an hour!

And the books we’ve been reading in book club are sad. "Our Souls at Night", "Leisure Seekers", "Saints For All Occasions", nobody old in these books is happy and living a productive life. I don’t want my life to imitate this kind of art. Where I lack contentment, and autonomy, unless it is planning suicide. That’s just too sad and depressing.

I don’t know how to navigate these waters. I am sacred that there will come a day when the losses will be one too many, and what is left of my Teflon memory will peel away. Then what? How does anyone find peace and contentment as they age? How does one adjust one’s expectations of self to fit with decreased abilities, physically and mentally? How do you keep fear at bay? And how do you prevent those decreased abilities from triggering a depressive episode? I want to age gracefully, but I fear that may be a huge failure!

I am grateful that I have Raymond by my side. Sometimes I give him a hard time about being a "Pollyanna", but he is so grounded, AND he always knows what day it is! He is a rock, and when one of us has some problem he points out that between the two of us, we’ll be OK. I hope he’s right.

2019 Jan 16

Funny the things you remember. 

Just now, sitting here on the couch with my dog, trying to ease myself out of a bad mood by talking to Deacon, while petting him, I suddenly, for no discernible reason, remembered my Grandma’s raincoat. I remembered that I claimed it as my own when she died. It probably didn’t fit me very well. I know it was too long, because I hemmed it myself. Seeing my amateurish stitches in my mind’s eye, now, these 50+ years later, I realize how odd I must’ve looked to my fellow 7th graders, but I felt beautiful in that coat! It was more of a fall coat, but rain resistant. It may have been a London Fog, because I have a blurry memory of the tag, though it meant nothing to me at the time. It was lightweight against the chill of autumn breezes. Colorful, but in a muted fall palette and laid out in small, uneven, rectangles, with dark borders, a kind of stained glass effect. When I think of that coat, Dolly Parton’s song "Coat of Many Colors" is the background music playing in my head. 

And remembering all of that, just now, brought tears to my eyes.

I wish I could say whether the tears were for Grandma, for the memories, for myself, or some combination, but I am uncertain of their true origin.

I wonder if she bought that coat because she felt beautiful when she wore it. I wonder, did she love the colors, and the feel of the fabric, the soft velvet collar? It was unlike most of her other coats, which were camel colored, or brown, or black. It was quite a departure from her mink stools, which I found creepy even as a child, with the poor creatures faces still attached, albeit with glass eyes replacing the real thing. I wish I could even say with clarity, that I claimed the coat because it was a connection to the Grandma I lost at age 12. I cannot. But, I am grateful for whatever quirk of memory lead me to reminisce about Grandma "Up Morningside", as we called her, on this dreary afternoon.    

This was my mother’s mother. My very proper Grandma, who wore gloves and a hat when she went to church, or shopping downtown. My Grandma who smoked Herbert Tarreton’s, but never in public, because, "A lady never smokes cigarettes in a public place, and never on the street!"  My Grandma who prayed the rosary, quietly, each evening after dinner, sitting in her Queen Anne chair, in the living room of her and Pap-Pap’s apartment. My Grandma who watched Lawrence Welk and Bishop Sheen on TV. My Grandma who went to mass every Sunday, on Holy Days of Obligation, and on anniversary dates of the deaths of loved ones. Grandma, whose paternal grandparents came form Ireland, and whose maternal grandparents were from Ohio and New York, and whose Mom & Dad were born in Minnesota and Ohio, respectively. my Grandma who was herself from a large family, being child number 5, of 7. My Grandma who married a man called "C.V.".  My Grandma who gave birth to one child, either stillborn, or who died as an infant. She never spoke of the child. This is the Grandma who adopted a 6 month old girl from Rosalia Foundling Home, and named her Jean. This was my Grandma who never hugged the grandchildren. She was kind, but not warm, or open. This is the Grandma, at whom I lashed out verbally, at age 10, hysterically screaming and crying that she liked our cousin David better than she liked us, "your own grandchildren". Poor Helen! Grandma, I am sorry for being needy, and dramatic!  

Most of what I know is after the fact. But the few true memories I have, that bubble to the surface occasionally, keep me warm, like that coat.  

2018 March 4 Regret & Gratitude

2018 March 

Gratitude and Regret

In my Facebook feed on the evening of March 3, I read that Fr. Angelus Shaughnessy had died. The sadness I felt was overwhelming. Not because he had moved off this earthly plane, at age 89, but rather, because I had failed to reach out to him. 

Fr. Angelus’s presence in my psyche has always been strong. Perhaps because I tend to see connections in places and between people that others do not. Perhaps, because I met him initially during my 'formative' years. Perhaps, because he reached out to me when I opened my soul to him, at a time when I was still in grade school, but was certain that I was a horrible sinner. Perhaps, because he seemed to "appear", like when I was going down the dial on the TV and there he was, saying Mass and preaching! Perhaps because he was the first person I ever heard use the expression, "An encounter with Christ". All I know, is that Father Angelus, has remained a touch point for my mind and heart for most of my life.  

This started out to be writing out my feelings of regret. But, perhaps it will be about gratitude, too.

Way back in the fall of 1963, I attended a Youth Retreat at St Augustine’s Church. The details of why or how slip through the mesh that is my memory, but several things stand out about the experience.

I remember Father Angelus, and Father Carl. I remember a prayer book called, "Youth Before God". I remember going to confession, with Fr. Angelus as my confessor. I remember baring my soul as I had never done in the confessional prior (or since, I imagine). I remember the actual feeling of lightness as my sins were forgiven; a feeling of joy, peace, and contentment. I remember that the experience was so intense, that I wrote Fr. Angelus a letter afterward. I remember, too that I very much wanted to purchase the prayer book at the retreat, but I had no money.  I did, however, have a kind, generous, caring Grandmother, who was probably the one who initially got me interested in going to the Youth Retreat. So, I went to her, and explained how I wanted the prayer book, but didn’t have the $4.35 to buy it. She gave me the money. I, in turn, wrote a letter to Fr. Angelus, explaining my desire to buy the prayer book, and recounting the incredible incident I experienced by way of my confessional event at the retreat. I mailed the letter, and imagine my surprise, when less than a week later, Fr. Angelus showed up at our front door! He brought with him the prayer book I so desired, and stood on the front porch with me, explaining that what I had experienced was what he called, "an encounter with Christ". 

Now, reading this, I am struck by how profoundly that experience touched me. I remember little else from the retreat, except for the time in the confessional and the feeling of pure peace and joy that developed in that moment, and the kindness of two adults toward me. Fr. Angelus, who took time to deliver the prayer book, and then took time to talk to me, never discounting or disparaging my experience, but treating me with kindness and respect. And, my Gram, who indulged me, gave me the money I needed, (probably at some personal sacrifice to her own budget), because she loved me, and wanted me to grow spiritually. 

My Gram did that kindness for me in September or October of 1963. She left this world in December that same year. That was a realization that only came to me as I was writing this. 

As for Fr. Angelus, many times over the course of my life, I have thought of him, prayed for him, and wanted to reach out to him. I remember once, stopping at the Franciscan office and asking about him. It must’ve been around the summer of 1967, because I was at St Augustine’s to make arrangements for the transfer of my records to Peabody High School. The woman in the Franciscan office told me that Fr. Angelus had volunteered for a missionary position in New Guinea the previous year. So, I read what I could find about New Guinea, but I never wrote to him. 

Then, years later, I was perusing the TV offerings one day, and came upon a channel I had never heard of, EWTN. There was a priest offering Mass, and he looked very much like Fr. Angelus. Indeed, it was him! He was in Alabama. If I wanted to, I could tune in to Mass and his homily, right in my living room. Then, as happens, years passed. I searched for him on EWTN, and he was gone. But we were now in the age of the internet, so I could look him up online, and I did. When I rediscovered him, online, the information was that he was in ill health at St Conrad Friary. I thought of him often while we were traveling, but again, never reached out. 

When we returned to western PA, I assumed Fr. Angelus to still be at St Conrad, though I never investigated. 

Turns out that he had a couple of bouts with cancer, though after one, he was pronounced "a cancer survivor", according to something I read today. In any case, I never reconnected with him, even though he was there in my head and in my heart, intermittently, lo these many years. That is a regret. The rest - is gratitude.  

grief / joy

2017 November

Grief/Joy

Recently I reread a post to our now defunct travel blog, in which I memorialized Greyla, who had been our 'final' dog and also our travel companion. She left us in November 2014, eleven months after my Daddy died. Daddy was diagnosed with stage 4 non-small cell lung cancer in February 2013. We left Florida, and returned to Pittsburgh, in order to spend time with him. During our stay in the only campground open in winter in the Pittsburgh area, our then nearly 14 year old dog, began to present symptoms which lead to her having major surgery just a couple of weeks before her birthday. At the time, I told God that I could not handle losing both my Dad and my dog in the same year. 

Seemed like God decided otherwise. My Dad passed away in January, 2014. We had Greyla with us until November, 2014. Both gone in the same year, granted eleven months apart, but still… I supposed that God decided eleven months was enough space for healing. It really wasn’t.

All of this has resurfaced in the past couple of days. I have begun to revisit the cumulative grief, and to a lesser degree, the joy, that we experience when we open our hearts and allow ourselves to love.

The catalyst for the current examination of joy, and grief results from our current experience as foster parents to a lovely, sweet, gentle, 12 year old black Lab, named Coco.

Coco was taken to the Beaver County Humane Society by the son of her previous owner, with the request that she be euthanized. The shelter staff explained that they could not, in good conscience, euthanize her simply based on her age, but offered to take her into the shelter, and try to place her, if they would sign Coco over. 

Coco’s entrance into our lives and hearts came a couple of weeks later.

Ray and I often do cat transports for Beaver County Humane Society, and also happen to be friends with the veterinarian currently working at BCHS. Those two things worked together to effectively draw us into the world of fostering, which we had never even considered prior to August.

Before Coco came into our lives, I had been adamant that I was done as a dog parent. I had loved Blue, Jake, Baxter, Katie, and Greyla. I had cried tears of loss with each of them, but especially with Blue, and Jake, and Greyla. I had changed. I now appreciated having a clean house. I was so certain that dogs were part of my past, and not of my future, that we adopted a bonded pair of kitties. "Yes!" I declared,"Cats are so much easier than dogs." And I enumerated all the ways in which that was so. 

Yet, when we sat in the visitation room, at the shelter, in August, with Coco, she began to worm her way into my heart, stink and all! Jump ahead, from our initial meeting with Coco, on August 16, to the day we brought her home, on August 19, to how we have fallen in love with her, to very recently, when we became worried about her health. 

A few weeks ago I began to notice that Coco’s breath was getting very stinky. My concern was that she might be developing a renal issue, although her fluid intake and output remained consistent. Then last weekend, I noted that her water was tinged pink after she had been drinking. I tried to examine her mouth, using a flashlight, but couldn’t really notice anything wrong with any of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, or her gums. But then, I am not a veterinary medical professional. So, I contacted the one person I could access easily at the BCHS, via messenger on Facebook. She, in turn, contacted the medical person from the shelter. 

Then later, during business hours, I was at the shelter for a transport, and spoke with one of the technicians, who said that there would be no Vet available until Tuesday, since the shelter is closed for business on Sunday and Monday, and this was Saturday afternoon. I said that I understood, and that I would’ve texted the Vet personally, but really didn’t want to impinge  on our friendship, especially since it didn’t seem to be life threatening, and the amount of pinkness left behind in her water seemed to be lessening. Of course, her breath was still atrocious! But, it kind of was beginning to match her general metabolic stench, for which we have not yet found a cure.

Weird, huh? Coco is old, and stinky, but we love her! She is simply a sweet, gentle, amazingly non-reactive, dog. She is sweet with our kitties, and with our next door neighbor’s kitties, as well. When we are out walking, and dogs bark at her, she never reacts. She is the most "chill" dog we have ever known. She is very predictable in her day to day habits. She eats what we give her. She takes her medication, her supplements, and anything else we offer her, without any drama, or problem. She actually prefers when I place the paste-like probiotic she takes, in the palm of my hand, and allow her to lick it off, rather than placing it in a syringe and squirting it into her mouth. She never has attempted to get on any of the furniture, or the bed. She dislikes being too warm, and often opts to lay directly on the tile floor, instead of on the rug, or on her bed. She barks only when she is needful to go outside to pee or poop, and then it is generally one, sad, plaintive "wooof". She is simply, a good dog. And I love her! And, she loves me. She usually will follow me to whichever room I am in, and when I go into the bathroom, she stares at the shut door, until I once again emerge. 

So, grief and joy… currently the grief is because we will, in all probability, lose Coco sometime within the next 2-3 months. She has an infected, cancerous growth under her tongue. I can, today, type that without immediately being reduced to a sobbing mess. She is on antibiotics to try and get the infection under control. So far, her appetite is not affected, nor is her ability to chew. She does not exhibit signs of pain. So, the plan is to offer palliative care, observe and treat any pain development, or appetite issues, and help her to feel loved, cared for, and comfortable, until the end of her days. The joy currently comes from remembering how sad and forlorn she looked in the kennel at the shelter, and knowing that she has been happy here, with us. The joy comes from waking up in the middle of the night, and hearing her snoring on her bed, in the corner of our room. Joy comes from simple things, like taking her for walks around the neighborhood, watching her scarf up her kibble and bone broth, seeing her stroll to the kitchen after our walk, because she knows that’s where the treats are, and she knows that she gets a treat when we get home. Today, joy came from watching her catch 6 hulless popcorns in a row with missing. Joy comes from knowing that she has known love in our home. 

But, grief and joy come and go, and not always in balance.

Hearing the diagnosis on Tuesday afternoon was a gut punch! And it opened unexpected flood gates to past grief. But, I am blessed to have a good friend who offered support, and insight. I am also blessed to have a "pollyanna" husband, who even in the midst of this circumstance, which affects him too, was able to find good. It is a hard situation, but we have been through hard events before, and come through, so I have faith that we will ultimately be OK. 

In the meantime, we will walk our sweet old girl, brush her, give her treats and medicine, put bone broth on her food, cook her brown rice because she likes it, let her sleep where she wants, listen to the sound of her snoring, help her to live a happy, loved rest of her life, and be grateful that we brought her into our home, our lives and and our hearts!    

    

Driving Anxiety

2017 November 18

From a Facebook post by Anxiety & I:

"The thing about an anxiety disorder is that you know it is stupid.You know with all your heart that it wasn’t a big deal and that it should roll of of you. But that is where the disorder kicks in; Suddenly the small thing is very big and it keeps growing in your head, flooding your chest, and trying to escape from under your skin. You know with all of your heart that you’re being ridiculous and you hate every minute of it. The fact that many people don’t recognize or have patience for your illness only makes everything worse."

__________________________________________________________________

THIS! 

This is so true. 

My experience with anxiety/panic has become intensified since our involvement in a seven car collision in late October 2016. I cannot say that I never experienced anxiety related to driving prior to that incident. I can say that the anxiousness was never debilitating before. I could always mollify any anxiety by preparation. If I blocked out a course to follow, I was usually OK. If possible, when time was not a factor, I often would travel secondary roads. The advent of Google Maps and street view, which allowed me to familiarize myself with roads and landmarks along my route, was a definite boon. Yet now, today, well over a year past the accident, I find myself becoming a total basket case when required to drive on certain 4, or 6, or more lane highways, particularly in high traffic situations.

I know that what I am freaking out about is performing a common action (driving a car, in traffic, on a multi-lane highway). I know this is something I have done without incident in the past, and hope to do without incident in the future. BUT, in the here and now, I am flooded with anxiety that expands and grows until the panic is all I am aware of,... well, that, and the tunnel vision, the inability to breath normally, the sometimes crushing chest pain, facial tics - and the fear - and the anger! 

I get angry!

I get angry with myself for feeling this way. 

Angry at other drivers who don't seem to have any fear of anything! 

I get angry with passengers who don't "get it", with family who seem completely unable to understand why their wife, sister, friend, is hyperventilating behind the wheel.  

Angry - mostly at myself for allowing(?) this disorder to consume me and become such a huge part of my life!

I am angry now, just thinking about my inability to simply drive on a multi-lane highway to go visit my pseudo grand kids, my friends, even my nearby family. If I can't get there on a "back road" - a 2 lane road, with top speeds of 45mph, I can't go! Oh, there are a couple of local 4 lane roads I drive on, but never with complete ease or with anything resembling relaxation. 

This is NOT how I planned to spend my retirement! I hoped with free time, would come visits to friends and family; jaunts to the Great Lakes, searching for beach glass. Instead, my panic keeps me prisoner.  I want to be able to get in my little Subaru and drive to have lunch with my friend in Ohio; to visit N and G, outside Montreal; to travel to the UP again; to vacation with my brothers and sister anywhere; to finally meet up with people who have become good friends via the Internet. Those things are not going to happen as long as anxiety wells up, leads to panic, and as in the latest attack, cause me to think I am having a stroke, because of the tics I can feel happening in my face. Those came along with the shallow breathing, the crushing pain in my chest, and tunnel vision. Add to the mix the fact that my brain seems to lose the ability to think rationally, to view the problem and find any solution. Even if the person next to me becomes aware that I am in dire straights, unless they know to give me specific, detailed instruction on how I should proceed, what they say will not penetrate my brain in any useful way. It truly is a nightmare, and when I am in the middle of it, it feels as if there is NO ESCAPE!

When I try to ignore it, to press on, as I did on the way home from the family vacation my brother invited me to share, I ruin the experience for everyone because of my crippling panic. Where the post says, "You know with all your heart you are being ridiculous and you hate every minute of it," that is absolutely the truth! I knew I was NOT having a stroke, as I drove along I-64, outside of Norfolk. I knew I was being "ridiculous" and I DID hate every minute of it! But, I was powerless to stop it! 

ADAPTATIONS/ADJUSTMENTS

Adaptations/Adjustments

Our Eva, one of the bonded pair of kitties we adopted from the Animal Rescue League, through their foster Mom, Jackie, in January 2016, is back in our home again. She had been out and about to places unknown for part of the summer and fall. She escaped in the wee hours of the morning, on August 24, and remained an escapee until this past week, when we were reunited.

Now is a period of adjustment. 

The adaptations are not just for Eva, though a few things that directly affect her have changed since she left so abruptly. It is also, a time of adjustment for Tubbs, Eva’s playmate and friend. There are modifications to be made by the humans in the house currently, as well, since there is an additional person present for a few months. It seems as if the only creature with no need for any adaptation relating to Eva’s return, or the presence of another human, is Coco, our foster dog. Coco is about the most 'chill' dog I have ever met! Relatively non-reactive, in any circumstance.

There have been some big changes related to the cats: their play areas; the placement of their litter boxes; location change for feeding of dry cat food. Some of these modifications happened bc of the need to keep Coco from eating the cat’s food. Some reworking, like their play area, and moving litter boxes happened because of our friend coming to visit. We needed to give PK a room on the second floor, and use of the half bath next to her room. The room chosen for her stay is at the rear of the house, and formerly contained the large cat tree. The cats previously had use of both bedrooms on the second floor as a romping area where they chased one another to their heart’s content. The half bath was where one of their litter boxes lived. Tubbs seemed to be adapting to the cat tree being in the front room, and the placement of the litter box in the corner of that room, as opposed to in the half bath, since PK’s arrival nearly two weeks ago. Of course, all of this was before Eva returned. Since her return three days ago, I’m guessing this has been a lot for her to habituate to. PK, too has to make adjustments now that there are two cats attempting to reclaim what is meant to be her room.

Poor Eva seems a bit more skittish than she used to be. She always was profoundly reactive to sudden movements, and to loud noises. She is even more so now. She used to be a very quiet cat, who rarely meowed, and when she did it was very softly, barely audible. Never once did I know her to hiss or to growl. All that has changed. It makes me sad to wonder what kind of situations she faced that she has developed into a hissing, growling, loud meowing creature. She and Tubbs were best buds. Not so much, at present. To his credit, Tubbs seems to be able to give Eva wide berth when she needs it, yet continues to approach her periodically, as if trying to jog her memory -- "remember when we used to play like this?" 

I see gradual, tiny improvements in Eva each day. Last night, I went to bed before Raymond, and I was surprised when Eva jumped onto the bed, curled up next to my tummy, allowed me to pet her, and purred, contentedly. It didn’t last very long, though. She heard PK coming down the stairs into the kitchen, and that was enough to cause her to bolt. 

An advancement came today, as she ate both her morning and evening wet food in the place where we have always fed the cats. Another positive development happened when Eva stayed put, eating her wet food this evening, after Coco entered the kitchen. Coco sat with her hindquarters very near to Eva’s, and Eva stayed, eating. Yesterday, that action would’ve caused Eva to dash from the room. In fact, yesterday, Coco simply entering any room where Eva was, would cause her to run for the basement.

I guess readjustment comes in baby steps. I truly hope that Eva regains her sense of peace and trust, especially where Tubbs is concerned. Still, it has only been 3 days, and she was gone from us for 67 days! 

EVA'S RETURN

2017 November 11

One of our two cats, Eva, AKA 'Eva Diva', has been returned to our home, after spending nearing eleven weeks at large. We are ecstatic to have her home again! The strain we felt, caused by her unknown fate, was horrible.  Many people encouraged us continue to be hopeful. They sited examples of cats who had been gone for up to a year before suddenly reappearing. But, as time passed, we were less and less hopeful that our Eva would ever return to us.

We fielded and reacted, over the months, to phone calls in response to the flyers we plastered around our area, as well as posts on various social media sites, and correspondence with various area shelters. We made trips at 10pm to investigate "a cat on the deck that might be yours", as well as long drawn out vigils in the very early morning in front of a house where, "I have been feeding your cat for a month". None of these produced even a glimmer of our Eva. 

We set up a trap, baited with sardines and dry cat food, and included clothing with our scents.

We climbed through the woods, searching tree tops.

Kind neighbors searched the Park nearby each time they walked their dog, and walked around the area, calling her name.

We went door to door in the neighborhood and a couple of blocks beyond, passing out flyers with Eva’s name and picture.

Yet, ten weeks and five days passed, and we had no idea what had become of Eva. Ray, ever an optimist, insisted that she simply had been picked up by someone because she was a sweet, friendly kitty. While, I, the depressive, pondered the possibility that she had been killed by a coyote, or worse. 

Then, on Tuesday evening, November 7, we went to Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead, for a concert. I turned off my phone, so as not to have it be a distraction from the music. There was also a Penguins game that evening, and as I shut my phone off, I saw that the Pens were ahead, 2-0.

During intermission, Ray went off into the crowd, while I stayed my seat, pulling out my phone, intent on learning the current score of the Pens game. Imagine my shock when I turned my phone on and saw numerous messages in a variety of formats, from Jackie! (Jackie was the young woman who had fostered Eva & Tubbs after they were spayed and neutered by the Animal Rescue League) The very first thing that caught my eye was a picture she sent. A picture I KNEW immediately to be Eva! 

It seems that someone of one of the social media pages had made the connection between a cat their grandfather had taken in after feeding it for awhile outside, and my and Jackie’s posts of "lost Eva", on social media!

I was ecstatic! I called Melanie, the woman whose PapPap currently had Eva. I messaged, and then called Jackie, who confirmed what I thought : THIS IS EVA !!!!!!! 

When Ray returned to his seat, I filled him in on everything that had transpired. He, too, was 99.9% certain that this was indeed, our Eva! 

Because we were in Homestead, and our kitty was in a warm home in Harmony Township, Melanie and I planned to meet up the following day, after she got home from work, at her Grandfather’s home. It was going to be a long day of waiting, especially after such a long time missing Eva. But, I understood that Melanie wanted to be present when we came to identify Eva, especially since she orchestrated the reunion. But, also, because her PapPap had grown fond of Eva, and he is of frail health, and she was concerned for him. 

Melanie called, and we planned to meet at her Pap’s house at 6PM. Her Pap is a sweet, kind soul. He was gracious to us, even as he teared up over Eva, whom he called, "Bubbles". But, I’m getting ahead of myself…

When we came into the living room, PapPap was sitting in his recliner, watching TV. Eva was sitting on the sofa, behind and to his left. Melanie was present, as was her husband, sitting at the other end of the couch from Eva. 

Eva had her head down as we entered the room. I saw her, and said, "Eva... Eva Diva", as I would’ve if I were calling her to come eat. When she heard my voice, her head snapped up, she looked directly at me, and her already big eyes became saucers! It was amazing! After months of looking, seeing cats who were sort of like her, but not her, this was simply a miracle! 

We spoke with Pap at length, letting him know how grateful we were for his kindness, and his empathy toward Eva, and how we had grieved her escape since late summer. We wanted to tell him he could come visit her, since we only live ½ mile away, but Melanie had asked me not to make that offer. Pap struck me as a sweet, kind, gentle human being who is perhaps in frail health at this point in his journey. He was concerned that we had a litter box for "Bubbles", "because, you know, she’ll use it!"  I was touched deeply by his concern for this "stray" cat he had been feeding and then brought into his home because the weather had turned too cold/wet for her to be outside! After the emotional ups and downs over the past ten plus weeks, while Eva was missing, this neighborly, compassionate, considerate, elderly man restored my crumbling faith in the goodness of people.

Eva, our little Diva kitty is HOME!!!! 

A Day Trip

2017 October 20

A Day Trip

We are on a two week vacation in Corolla, NC, the far north end of the Outer Banks, in Currituck County, North Carolina. By "we", I mean my three brothers: Vinny, who rented the house and invited us along; Dave, who lives in Vinny’s house in Pittsburgh; and Mike, who lives in a different neighborhood in Pittsburgh. 

Even though Ray and I spent nineteen months living in our RV on Hatteras Island, I had never been to the Shackleford Banks of NC, and thought this might be a pleasant excursion for us. So, I spent some time planning and figuring both the time and distance elements, and asked the brothers if they’d be up for a "day" trip. Vinny declined, but Mike & Dave were up for it, so I made reservations on the ferries from Harker’s Island to Shackleford, and Cape Lookout, as well as for the ferry from Cedar Island to Ocracoke, for part of our return trip. We knew the drive through NC would require us to depart no later than 5 AM, as the map app said it was a 4 hour and 40 minute trip across NC and south to Harker’s. The ferry service said to arrive 30 minutes prior to your departure time, which we managed easily.

We discussed with the ticket agent the times for pick up from Shackleford to go to Cape Lookout, as well as the time needed to drive from Harker’s to Cedar in order to arrive in time for the 4 PM ferry from there to Ocracoke. It was decide that we would spend just about an hour on Shackleford, followed by the ferry trip to Cape Lookout, where we would spend about two hours, so that we would allow enough time to drive the distance to Cedar Island for the return journey.

We had beautiful weather, not too hot, a gentle breeze, and we enjoyed ourselves. The only thing we might’ve done differently would be to reverse the time spent on each island. It would’ve been nice to have additional time on Shackleford, to walk the trail at the center of the island, because that was where the wild horses were spotted. It also might have been better to plan our arrival on Shackleford to coincide with low tide, which might’ve made for better shelling. (Alas, my search for a whole and complete Scotch Bonnet remain unfulfilled!) Due to the restraints of the ferry system currently on their winter schedule, our options were somewhat limited, if we planned to ferry to Ocracoke, instead of driving back the same way we came.

In any case, we arrived at the ferry in Cedar Island in a timely fashion, and I was congratulating us on how well everything had gone, and how it was wonderful that we had managed to navigate without any glitches or wrong turns!

By the time we departed the harbor at Cedar Island, I was looking forward to napping. According to the ferry schedule, the ride to Ocracoke would take 2 hour, 15 minutes, and I planned to sleep for as much of that as possible. I was very tired, because, for some ungodly reason, the morning of the trip I had awakened at 1:37AM, and had been unable to fall back to sleep before our planned 4:45 AM departure from the rental house. It had been an exceptionally long day, and the fact that I was the only driver was adding to my stress. The saving grace was that there weren’t any major interstate highways or major traffic arteries to be dealt with along the way. I managed a 30 minute nap, which was good, but not optimal.

We arrived on Ocracoke 15 minutes ahead of schedule, made a quick stop at the Lighthouse for Dave to shoot a couple of photos, then off to the other end of the Island, in hopes of catching the 6:30 PM ferry!

Alas! That was not to be. There was a car in front of us refusing to drive the speed limit, and just enough traffic coming in the opposite direction to prevent me from passing her. The upshot was that we missed the ferry by about 30 seconds! So, we sat, first in line for the 7PM ferry. Not what we hoped for, but, still not so bad. And, really, our first actual glitch of the day!

We boarded the ferry to Hatteras and departed Ocracoke at 7 PM, expecting to arrive between 7:45 - 8:00. 

Dave & Mike were both trying to nap, after inquiring as to my need for   

a navigator for the balance of the trip. I assured them both that I was now in familiar territory, so they could rest & relax, which they were attempting.

The ferry ride was relaxing and I was comfortable since this was an area with which I am familiar. That is, until as I could see the lights of Hatteras off in the distance, and the ferry began to make a sound I had never heard it make before. The sound was reminiscent of gears grinding. It was not a sound a non-swimmer wants to hear while sitting in her car, in the pitch blackness of the night, still a good distance from shore. 

The sound repeated several times, as the ferry backed up, and turned in a slightly different direction. This scenario played out several times. At one point when we finally seemed to be moving in the appropriate direction, I feared we were going to crash into the ferry headed in the opposite direction!  At no point in this drama did anyone attempt to explain to the passengers exactly what was happening, or why. It was all the more unnerving because of our exhaustion, I’m sure. I have made that ferry crossing numerous times in my life, including times when our ferry followed behind a dredger because the channel was too shallow. So, I do know that there can be issues due to channel shifting, but my fevered imagination was cooking up scary stuff during that exceptionally long ferry ride! We docked in Hatteras Village at 8:30 PM! 

We then had to drive the length of Hatteras Island, across the Bonner Bridge, and north on 12, 158, and 12 again, to reach our rental home in the Villages at Ocean Hill! We arrived in the driveway at 10:35 PM! 

L—O—N—G  day to say the least! 

If you plan to travel to Harker’s Island in order to visit both Cape Lookout and Shackleford Banks, I would recommend finding accommodations for an overnight stay, especially if you plan to ferry from Cedar Island to Ocracoke. 

A better plan might be to plan a visit and vacation somewhere along Emerald Isle, and day trip from there. Traveling from the far reaches of the norther Outer Banks to the Cape Lookout area might work better during a time with longer daylight hours, especially, if, like me, you don’t like driving in the dark. 

It is definitely worth the trip.