Requiem for Sharky

I want you to interrupt me. Climb on my lap between my hands and my computer screen. Make it impossible for me to write. Make it impossible for me to do anything but stroke your fur. I want you to insist on this because what I’m writing was drivel anyway, and even if it wasn’t, it’s not as important as you on my lap. I want—more than anything in this moment—for you to do that, and you can’t. Because you are gone. You are not here to interrupt this writing session, and so I must write it. I don’t want to write it.

On April 1, at approximately 11:00 am, Sharky left us. He’d been declining rapidly for a few months and had been in questionable health for almost two years prior. We’d taken him to the vet. Two rounds of blood work, urine tests, stool samples, and physicals resulted in nothing but more questions. Everything looked fine on paper, but he was wasting away. The best hypothesis the doctor had was that he had a tumor somewhere on his GI tract, causing the weight loss, starving his body of nutrients despite his healthy appetite. Because he had been eating, drinking, and in generally good spirits, the doctor suggested a wait-and-see approach in the hopes that he might bounce back a little before doing further scans or invasive tests. We really thought he might recover. We did everything that we could do, we think, but Sharky is gone.

I want to share his death story and I know it can be very upsetting (now I know) for those that have experienced pet loss. If that’s you, just skip this next paragraph.

This morning we woke up and found Sharky barely breathing on his cat bed. The scene was more unsavory, in truth, but I’ll leave it at that. We thought he was gone, but a faint rise of his chest sent a moment of hope our way. It didn’t stay long. He was clinging to life, barely. I picked him up in my arms and rocked him, crying and shaking. In utter despair. Then I caught myself in the mirror and realized my mistake. This was not about me. Sharky needed me, and I was a mess. I didn’t want his last moments to be tainted by my fear. I took a deep breath and composed myself. I calmed, somehow, and whispered in his ear that I loved him so much, more than I could have ever imagined loving a cat. And that it was okay. If he needed to go, it was okay. We loved him. He straightened suddenly with as much tension as his weak body would allow, and I knew his heart was giving out. Still, somehow, he breathed. Safe in my arms, he held on, but we couldn’t bear to see him suffer. Brad decided to take him to the emergency vet for either a miracle or a goodbye. I kissed him again. I said in his ear “Your magic will keep living.” I don’t know why I said that. It sounds like something Zelda would say when she’s searching for the right words to a complex thought, and it comes out all wrong but also makes sense. I meant that. The magic that was Sharky, which I’ll get into next, that will become something new. I believe that.

Brad never made it to the vet. Sharky passed in the car listening to calm music with his person by his side. He brought Sharky home, and we buried him under a lilac tree outside our patio window where we’ll see him every morning and at every sunset. The tree has purple blossoms. Brad used to think Sharky looked purple sometimes. His fur was a dusty gray with a hint of something else. Sometimes beige. Sometimes a soft lavender. He was our sweet kitty boy, and now he will be a lilac tree.   

In my writing, I’m trying to work on not telling you how I feel but to let the scene speak for itself. I’m having trouble restraining myself right now because what I felt—what I’m feeling—feels like it matters the most. I am devastated, and I want to hold my cat.

It seems that when we lose someone we love, we are left with three things: memories, regret, and guilt. The memories are the balm. Times of joy, comfort, laughter, and love. I just want to share pictures and talk about how Sharky was absolutely the most wondrous cat to walk the earth. But the memories also remind us of what we’ll never again experience. That regret is inevitable. We never have enough time with the ones we love. Never. I regret that I will never hold him again. Never look into his blue eyes and feel him looking back. Never hold him under his arms and legs and stretch his long body the way he liked. Never feel him resting against my chest, calming me, bringing my blood pressure down. Never hear his purr. Never talk to him. Sharky talked a lot, but now, never again, and it aches. It burns. I also regret my attitude toward him when Zelda was born. And that’s where guilt comes in. I am riddled with guilt for having resented my cats when I had a newborn, and yet, I did my best. The relentless needs of a newborn baby do not mix well with the needs of an aging cat. As a new, exhausted, overwrought mother, I had no resources left for Sharky, and I think he knew that, and it broke me. That’s really a topic for another day, but I’ll just say that about a year ago I felt my resources as a mother free up a bit as Zelda got more independent and I wanted to give all that lost time back to my cats and especially Sharky who was always so eager for our companionship, but that was really when he started to get sick. And so the needs grew again alongside Zelda’s needs as a raging toddler. And the needs of our jobs, and our families, and a global pandemic, and everything that never stops turning. But caring for the sick and dying—it requires that we stop, or at least slow down, doesn’t it?

I keep wondering, fretting, did he know how much we loved him? How singularly special he was to us? To everyone who ever met him? But of course, no. He didn’t. He was a cat. I hope we gave him a cat-tastic life, and that he knew comfort and love in his last moments. I think he did, and for that I am grateful. I am also grateful that he does not have the mental machinery to question the rest of it. Pets, in their infinite mercy, don’t hold grudges. We went through some tough times in the past few years, but the magical thing about a cat is that if you welcome him onto your lap and stroke his head and scratch in that perfect place behind the ear, he’ll forget the rest and remember one thing—one thing that is true in that moment—he is loved.

Sharky was so loved. We adopted him after Brad and I had only been dating for a month. Our relationship was so new and fragile, in fact, that I worried Brad’s affection for me would be replaced by his affection for this new cat. That was how lovingly he gazed into Sharky’s eyes the moment he picked him out of the cage at Centinela Pet Supply. He’d been peering out at us from under an orange tabby who was perched on his head. (From the beginning, Sharky was patient with those more overbearing.) Brad said “That one. I want to see that one,” and the moment they looked at each other, that was it. They were family. And even though he was ostensibly “Brad’s cat,” I knew that he was mine, too. I was Brad’s person, and I was Sharky’s person, and we would be a family.

I was so madly in love with Brad so early on, and I think he with me, that our love imprinted itself right onto that cat. And it grew—broadened and deepened—as did our love for each other. And now he is gone. Now we move forward in a house with a missing piece. Brad and I have never been together without Sharky so to say we’ve lost a link that bonded us would be true but also incomplete. Brad is the only other person in the world who loved him as much as I did, maybe more, and that cannot be lost. It’s the love that’s the strongest. Strong enough to outlast a frail cat body when it’s ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. I just wish I could hold him one more time.

There are stories to be told about how you changed this world, Sharky. How you inspired family members to adopt cats because of the impression you made. How I was always certain that you were a boy in a fur suit and not really a cat at all. How your soulful blue eyes brought a gasp from anyone’s lips. Lots of stories. Too many to tell here, but I will tell them in time, Sharky. I promise. I will never forget you. Never.

It's almost a mental illness that we sign up for this. We adopt pets betting on two things: that we will love them with our whole hearts and that we will outlive them. Who signs up for heartbreak like that? And yet, I have learned more about life and death today than I have since the day Zelda was born. Confronting your death, my sweet cat, has been a most painful gift.

Memories, how precious they are. Regret, how inevitable it is and thus graceful we must be with ourselves. And guilt, how sharp. That I can do something about. I can care for the ones I love while they are still with me. I can tell them every day just how much I love them, so they never doubt it. I can turn my anger into patience, and I can be of service. I can let my cat get in my lap when he needs me. You taught me that, Sharky. You taught me so much.  

I thought we had more time. I really did, and so when he tried to climb in my lap last night when I was in the middle of a “brilliant” writing session, I didn’t let him. I redirected him to Brad’s lap, and I continued writing something utterly unimportant, and I will live with that regret for a long time. We thought we had more time. I had it in my head that we were going to get him to eighteen, but fate had something else in mind. We never knew his birthday because we adopted him when he was about six months old. We only knew he was born in the spring, and so let’s say it was today. Sharky Machine Sigl Light, April 1, 2007 – April 1, 2022. Not enough time, but every moment worth it. We love you, old blue eyes. Thank you for looking at us on adoption day. We were so infinitely fortunate to be your people. We love you. 

As I Lay Here

As parents of the modern age, we are to hold space for our children’s big feelings. We are to allow them, to enforce boundaries around them, to teach logical consequences when they lead to smashed vases or hitting. We are to be unruffled, inscrutable, calm, and wise. We are never to shame or strike our child. We cannot break their spirit.

I can’t help but wonder, as I lay here on my daughter’s bed after she swatted my arm and told me she’ll never be my friend, after she screamed and slammed a door in my face, after she wrestled the toothbrush out of her mouth, after she refused to put on Pull-ups following two straight nights of bedwetting in a home without its own washer/dryer and all but one broken machine in the community laundry room—I can’t help but wonder, what about a mother’s spirit?

As I lay here, exhausted, confused, unsure how to counter all of these big feelings and tested boundaries, unsure how to remain unruffled, I feel my own spirit hurting.

Toddlers abuse you, and then they pull your arm around their little body as they try to fall asleep and tell you that they love you and you swell with gratitude, and that’s kind of abusive too. Manipulated by raw emotion, like being subject to a storm, and in the middle of the storm is your own heart. Abused, but the storm is innocent.

As I lay here, I remind myself that raising a toddler is about more than preserving the precious spirit of a child. Sometimes you have to let them spit out the toothbrush, because you have a spirit worth protecting, too.

Say Yes

Today, my three-year-old expressed great interest in helping me do the dishes.

Let me step back.

Today, my three-year-old, as she often does, sabotaged my loading of the dishwasher by insisting on closing it before I had finished loading it. I grew frustrated, as I often do. But today, I knelt down to her and said, “Why aren’t you listening to me?” She didn’t respond. I took a breath and reminded myself that she doesn’t have an obligation to listen to me. I don’t want to raise an obedient child. I want to raise a helpful, kind, curious, willing child. So I rephrased my question as a statement. “You know, Zelda, if you want to be my sous chef in the kitchen, a sous chef has to follow instructions from the chef. It’s an important part of the job.”

Let me take another step back.

She helped me make scrambled eggs that morning. She cracked the egg, stirred the yolk, poured it in the pan, sprinkled cheese. Hence, my sous chef. I learned to say yes to her interest in cooking a few weeks ago in an effort to get her more willing to eat vegetables. I thought, maybe if she helps cook them, she’ll take pride in eating them. The experiment hasn’t resulted in vegetable enthusiasm yet but she loves helping with her eggy weggs.

So there I am, ready to usher her out of the kitchen for fiddling with the dishwasher for the tenth time that morning so I can clean with the speed and efficiency to which I’m accustomed. I am a machine in my kitchen routine. But I considered her enthusiasm about the eggs and wondered if the same curiosity existed for the dishes, but maybe she didn’t know she could participate. Maybe she didn’t have the ask.

I said, “If you can follow my instructions, do you want to help me with the dishes?”

Her face lit up. “Yes!”

I gave her each dish and told her where to put it. She held the plates so carefully, looked for the right slot in the metal drawers. Like a puzzle, she tried to discern how a round mug could fit in a square grid, and then she smiled like sunshine to discover that it did. “Snug as a bug,” she said.

The dishes were deposited haphazardly in the washer. Wayward plates and bowls wedged in inefficient patterns. I could have fit twice as many dishes in there had I done it myself and in half the time, but as we stood over the sink to give a frying pan a good scrub, my daughter looked up at me, washed with content, and said “I love doing the dishes with my favorite Mommy.” Then she put her head on my shoulder, and I cried.

Say yes to the inconvenient things that help someone else. Say yes to teaching, and discover joy in what has grown to be mundane.

Toddlers are exhausting and messy and frustrating for a fast-paced, orderly world. But slow down, meet them where they are, say yes, and I guarantee you there will be magic.

They don’t like tantrums either.

When she’s a teenager refusing to do the dishes, I’ll hearken back to this day that she might not remember. All of these days, these moments, that shape her but somehow seem like they’re meant for me. Like it’s my destiny to be the keeper of memories that she will forget. I’m humbled to play such a part. There may be nothing I can do to reach my teenager in the same way I reached my toddler today. I’ll just go back to my efficient solo act of kitchen cleaning. The machine who slowed down for a little while because someone asked her to, and she said yes.

Be

On January first of this year, I gave up social media. Well, truth be told I made the decision a few days prior but thought the first made a nice clean break so gave myself a few days of last indulgence.

I had read an article in The Atlantic with the subtle title of “The Singularity is Here: Artificially Intelligent Advertising Technology is Poisoning our Societies.”

The link is probably behind a paywall. Sorry. The gist of the article is what you already know. The algorithms, largely existing on and powered by social media, have gone from sophisticated aids of capitalism to insidious tools of one big social lobotomy. Through social media—the lucrative stickiness of having one’s opinion echoed back to herself over and over again in perfect conditions—we are being manipulated not just into buying that double stitch leather jacket you didn’t need, but so much worse. There is no room for nuance, discourse, for the type of wisdom that welcomes, indeed relies on, contradiction. If you don’t make sense, if absolutely everything you telegraph doesn’t toe the line, left or right, you’re admonished. Ridiculed. Canceled.

I’m not here to rehash the article nor am I here to rally against cancel culture. Social media has problems; we know this. It’s also done a lot of good and amplified previously unheard voices. The point is, it’s not for me anymore. Having little to do with the reasons outlined in the article, however harrowing and eye-opening they may be.

The truth, for me. is that social media preyed on my greatest fear—being forgotten. Certain I have always been the type of person who faded easily, I have done what I could over the years to make myself more visible. Bright hair. Colorful clothes. Bubbly personality. ACTOR. “See. Me. Remember me. Define me.” What I didn’t let myself realize is that in promoting this persona through social media over the past two decades, I have allowed myself to believe it’s truly who I am. The selfies and the quips. The number of likes. Red notification bubbles. The higher the number, the greater the rush of my fear abated. I am remembered. I am seen. I never knew—I never allowed myself to know—that all along, fading was kind of my thing. My power.

When I picture ideal writing conditions, I see a dark place with a small light and no one around. I am alone, hidden, perhaps even underground. I am burrowed, and in this place my mind is free.

I have the inclination to retreat so far into myself that I forget how to speak. It’s why I don’t smoke pot anymore because that’s what happens. I lose the ability to speak. I am so far inside myself, it’s like I’m watching a movie of my own life, and I can’t converse with the characters on the screen even if they’re yelling at me to do so. I clearly have a tendency toward the internal. I am pointed in, and it has led to a lot of fruitless navel gazing. Frankly, I’m tired of that too.

I don’t want to promote my life anymore. I don’t need to know where my lab partner in high school went on vacation last year, or that the guy I met at a wedding ten years ago just lost his dog. If I must look up our mutual friends to be reminded of how I know you, why am I telling you about my precious life milestones? So that I’ll know there is someone out there who remembers me. Only now do I realize, it’s who remembers me that matters most.

Look, some bodies can handle alcohol and some can’t. Some minds can handle social media, and some are not a good match. If being easily forgotten is one of your worst fears, you too might find yourself kissing the robes of the Facebook demon that has promised you a concrete and self-perpetuating platform for memorability. They like me. They really like me.

Here’s what I’ve done since I gave up social media:

-       Finished a daily crossword puzzle

-       Crocheted a purse, two pillows, a basket, a hat, and one sock

-       Talked to my husband more

-       Practiced French on Duolingo daily (could be argued this IS a form of social media but I won’t be the one to argue it)

-       Played an actual board game (Ticket to Ride).

-       Decreased my screen time by 50%

-       Read more books

-       Journaled

-       Did I mention the crocheting?

Here’s what I haven’t done more of since I gave up social media:

-       Write

I’m working on it.

I’d like to get back to blogging. Gosh, Blog seems like such an antiquated word already. I remember the first time I heard it. I was on an escalator rising out of the DC metro and my college friend wanted to tell me about a blog she discovered and I was struck by a distinct sense of wonder from encountering a brand new concept in the world. A blog. Now it’s something that sounds almost as old as VHS.

Still, it was for me. Blogging was never about showcasing myself. I never put that pressure on it. I enjoyed having a place to say things that took a bit more craft than a Facebook post and a lot longer than a Tweet. I do feel I have always had things to say. Over the years I’ve had a couple of posts go “viral” and yeah, there was a bit of a thrill in that. But it faded eventually. The urge to write never did. Blogging helped me be a better writer. A safe space to verbally spew with the tiniest bit of public accountability.

I won’t even be advertising this post anywhere since I’m not going to share it on socials. I imagine my mom might read it, so maybe it will find some eyes. She shall be my publicist from here on out. It doesn’t matter though. I’m taking something to heart, and that is that it’s okay to be a little bit invisible, especially for an artist who is interested in more than the self. In the messiness of being alive. The tension of two people trying to do the right thing with the exact opposite actions. I am very vivacious and colorful to my daughter, my husband, my nearest and dearest, even if my hair is no longer purple. They see me, and that’s enough. 

For my part, I’m going to burrow for a while, not necessarily to reflect. Like I said, my mind is almost as weary from pondering as it is from telegraphing. I just want to be. Just be. Perhaps the pandemic was the invitation to do that, and for fear of the looming isolation, I flung myself further out into the internet to seek connection. I’ll take the invite now (though would happily bid farewell to the pandemic). I’ll retreat. I’ll find my dark hole, with my little candle and my imagination. I’ll just be . . . perfectly content with the possibility that no one else in the world will ever know about it.

Something I Found at Home

This post first appeared on Running to Tahiti on April 29, 2020

I miss my grandfather. He was a handsome Austrian fellow with piercing blue eyes and a mischievous grin. He died when I was 17 years old, and I miss him. Here are some of the things that made him cool: He was a veteran of World War 2. He fought in the Pacific and looked better in a sailor uniform than Frank Sinatra. He taught me how to play poker; that was family game night. He used to swear in broken German. My grandmother would swear back in broken Italian. His name was Nick Sigl but spelled Nicolaus. Isn't that the coolest spelling? Nicolaus Sigl.

He used to make this dish called Grout Fleckla. For years I have been haunted by the fact that I don't remember much about the dish except that I loved it. It was savory; I think it involved noodles and maybe onions? In addition to my frequent requests for Grout Fleckla at family dinners, I asked him to make it whenever there was any kind of cultural event at my school. I can't say I've ever had a strong sense of cultural identity, but there was Grout Fleckla. It was distinctly Austrian and distinctly Sigl.

I have known for some time that it could not have actually been called Grout Fleckla, but that was the phonetic experience captured by my young brain through my grandfather's thick German accent (only employed when he actually spoke German). His command of the language may have declined over the years, but his commitment to the accent never wavered. It never occurred to me that in the 21st century, when I have any number of ways to look up the correct name of the dish, I have not. I don't know why that is. Maybe the feeling of having lost something takes a stronger hold in our brains than the possibility it could be found. It was fabled in my memory, which felt precious because only I could hold it — look at it. I decided that the recipe—whatever it was called—died with him, and I've mourned it ever since.

In March of 2020, in the beginning of quarantine, I decided to make a frittata. I don't cook much, but quarantine made some kind of a chef of all of us. Frittatas are usually my husband's specialty, but he was playing with the baby, so I was on frittata duty. Frittatas in our house aren't just crust-less quiches; they involve noodles. We will not go carbless in the Light house. Frittatas come about when we have leftover pasta and the next morning we put them in a cast iron skillet with eggs, cheese, and veggies. I started by sautéing a ton of onions and garlic. While they caramelized, I rifled through the fridge in search of veggies and saw we had a head of cabbage. I chopped that up and threw it in. Once the cabbage softened, I added the noodles.

And that's when it happened.

I'm getting all flustered thinking about it. Something happened in my nose. The smell of sautéed onions and garlic mingling with the cabbage and noodles sent me into an overwhelming sense memory of being with my grandfather and eating Grout Fleckla. Oh my God. Of course. It wasn't Grout. It was Kraut. Cabbage. And for the first time in nearly twenty years, it dawned on me, I can look this up. I could have, for years, found a way to look this up. I've stalked old boyfriends with less information, but now, I had cabbage. I didn't even have to type kraut, actually. As soon as I entered German noodle dish my results came up. Krautfleckerl. “An Austrian pasta with caramelized cabbage.”

I felt like I found my grandfather. I thought he was lost. Now I can visit him in more than just a dream. I can taste this dish again, and memories are so much easier to access with your mouth and your nose than with your brain. I finished the frittata, but the next night I looked up a proper recipe and made Krautfleckerl. As I served it to my family, I could picture my grandfather holding a large aluminum tray full of the savory noodles, wearing a bomber jacket with a fur trim, and polyester pants, helping me bring a bit of Austrian, a bit of Sigl, to share with whomever might be interested. If that's you, if you're interested, here is the recipe for Krautfleckerl. Though I might always call it Grout Fleckla.

Ingredients:

• 1 white Onion

• 1 (head of) cabbage

• 1 tsp. of caraway seeds

• 1/2 c butter

• Pasta, your choice on the shape but I think goes best an egg noodle

• 1 bunch of parsley

• Salt

• Pepper

• 2 cloves of garlic

Preparation: Cut the cabbage (white, without stalk) into squares, cut onion finely and chop garlic. Let the butter and the caraway caramelize in a big pot. Now add the onion and the garlic. Stir. Add the cabbage, salt and stir again. Let it steam for about 30 minutes with a closed lid. Bring sufficient water to a boil, add salt and cook the pasta until al dente. Strain, rinse in cold water and allow it to drain well. Chop parsley. Mix the pasta with the cabbage and stir. Add the rest of the butter and season with parsley and pepper. Serve warm.