Hannah

 

Black, curly madness

waiting at the door,

when she became too excited,

she peed on the floor.

 

Unconditional love and licks

were her claim to fame.

The Festival of Lights

helped create her name.

 

Always ready for treats

and as sly as a fox,

except when she explored

the cat’s litter box.

 

A constant companion

for two little boys,

her bark would sound

with the tiniest noise.

 

With passing years

her sparkle faded,

her steps grew slower

her family waited.

 

One last hug,

loving touches, gentle words,

a final breath

is softly heard.

 

 

Good-bye,  sweet Hannah

When family lives miles apart, it’s so difficult to lend support when hurt comes knocking at their door.  Today was one of those times.  My oldest daughter and her family had to put their beloved dog Hannah to sleep.   Most of us who are animal lovers have been through this and I don’t have to detail how painful it is to say farewell to a special pet.  Aside from early morning phone calls and a sharing of tears, I had nothing else to offer.  Just this silly but heartfelt little poem.

I nicknamed Hannah “Banana Dog” because, for some odd reason, when I visited and called out that name she went absolutely bonkers, running to greet me and tearing through the house like a lunatic before calming down.   I also nicknamed her “CSE” for the times she pillaged the cat’s litter box.  Don’t expect me to explain, use your imagination.

My daughter and her husband got Hannah shortly after they moved to Florida, several years ago.  It was during the holidays, close to Hanukkah, and both were missing their New York families when they happened upon a little black ball of excitement and decided to take her home. 

They gave Hannah a wonderful life and she blessed them in return by being an exceptional dog. 

Except for the litter box fetish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Signature

Doorway…

 

Another night of unsettling screams.  Cursewords mixed with prayers spread throughout the darkness.  Any chance of sleep was fleeting, just like the memories escaping from the room down the hall.  It would go on for hours, frenetic energy, fueled by a demon who made her keep searching and held the person she once was…hostage. 

I stood outside the doorway to her room, waiting for that one right moment to enter, hoping she might remember, armed in case she didn’t.  Tonight, my weapon of choice was a plate with oatmeal cookies instead of the graham crackers that she hated.  For a moment, I was a little girl again, clutching a teddy bear for comfort,  wanting, needing a mother who wasn’t there.

 

 

 

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #53: Pitch Perfect

This week your Flicker of Inspiration prompt is to give us a pitch. A perfect pitch. Think of the description on the back of your favorite novel, the words that make you buy that book for your Kindle, the short paragraphs that let you know you MUST read that book.

I worked cookies into my pitch because of the role they played when I was caregiver for my late mother, thus the name of my book, “Another cookie, please!”.   Just about every combative situation (and there were many) could be dealt with by distracting her with a cookie, preferably chocolate chip.  Once, I made the mistake of handing her graham crackers which she promptly flung back at me.   The crackers made it clear across the kitchen table.  She had a good arm.

 

Signature

It’s all…relative

halloween-ghost-of-disapproval-stacy-mccafferty

One thing any writer quickly learns is that the words you share aren’t always met with approval from others, especially family members.  However factual a story that one relates might be, there is always a different perspective from another source.  So be it.  Everyone is entitled to their opinion and I respect that.  Respect what I have to say as well.

The years in dealing with my late mother as she struggled with Alzheimer’s were beyond difficult, the same as it is for anyone standing helplessly by as the disease creates a stranger where a loved one once stood.   It was during that time that I made the decision to document every incident and write my book of memoirs.  I don’t have to get long-winded about the amount of detail that goes into writing any book but one must always state the facts, without exaggeration, without innuendo and without malicious intent.  But, for me, there are times when some undercurrent of anger becomes pervasive.

I have journals with endless notes that chronicle my late mother’s medical and other issues as well as any interactions with her siblings.   Here on my blog, I’ve shared several chapters of my book and it was no surprise to me when a ghost-relative landed on a particular post while doing a Google search and elected to voice their opinion.  They were certainly entitled to do so but…the facts remain and I firmly stand my ground with anything that I’ve written.

There are always multiple sides to any story and people will believe what they choose, what makes them feel justified in a given situation.  As family relationships ebb and flow, the emotional tide of reason is anything but constant.  Enter an illness and all too often the confusion and fear associated with fleeting mortality tends to impact sensibilities.  Blood connects us as families, for the most part.  Years without communication drastically changes those dynamics. 

That is… until curiosity is piqued by an Internet search.

  workshop-button-1From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop…Update and republish a blog post you wrote during the month of May in a previous year.

I wrote this post in May of 2012.  Nothing has changed since then and it never will.  Mixing memories with any so-called perspective involved doesn’t result with the true facts of many situations.  Especially when it comes to already-fractured families and, sadly, when a serious illness is involved.  What should bring people closer together often widens the rift of separation. 

Signature