Ray of Light on a Rainy Day

So much sadness these days, from personal loss to global tragedies, and I'm tired, so very weary of being sad. It's starting to feel chronic. That's why this email, received on a bleak, rainy day from a former contributor to my SF Chronicle Pet Tales column, was like a tonic for my heart.

Hi Eileen,

I want to share something that just happened, thanks to the article about Stella. One our more prominent philanthropists read it and contacted me about helping. She asked me to ask each class for a wish, which I forwarded to her. She just called to let me know she bought over 100 items for the Janet Pomeroy Center for the Handicapped. These go from small art supplies, to furniture, Karaoke machines, and a scoreboard for the gym.

I am so touched, and on a dreary day, thought you might be too.
~Ricky

What a positive reminder that there is goodness to be found.

Pennies From Heaven

It was a gloomy Saturday morning with a damp, gray fog that was doing a number on my curly hair. My neighbor had just picked me up from the Toyota dealership where I'd left my new car for a tune-up.

The car belonged to my mom; the quintessential vehicle owned by the quintessential "little old lady" who never used it for anything beyond grocery shopping and church. My spirited mom certainly wasn't that "little old lady" -- she just didn't have much need for driving.

That's why, when she passed away four months ago, her 2004 sea foam green Corolla had just 25,000 miles on it. And talk about mint condition. She detailed it religiously. Performed oil changes and tire rotations like clockwork. The exterior shines like a mirror and I'm sure the interior would still boast that new car smell if she hadn't taken her dogs, Lucy and Holden, for rides every morning when she drove to Starbucks. Someone would be extremely lucky to get this prize.

Turns out that someone was me.

Because while I proposed selling the car and splitting the money with my sister, she had other ideas. "YOU take the car," Jennifer insisted. "You're the one with an old car and long commute. I want you in something reliable." She absolutely refused to let me buy her out. That's the kind of person she is.

And so, I accepted her generous offer, albeit reluctantly. Because while I'm grateful to be spared the financial burden of buying a new car, I also can't forget HOW I got this one. The day I went to the DMV to transfer the title to my name, my hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly sign the documents. When the DMV clerk, an older Indian woman, saw that I had checked the "deceased" box, she immediately understood and her abrupt attitude changed. "It's okay," she said in a gentle tone, patting my trembling hands. "It's okay."

On this misty day, while waiting for my car to be ready, I was thinking of Mom. Remembering the last time we went out for dinner at Chevy's, and the last movie we saw together, which we both loved. It was "Up." Missing her. Wondering when this ache might lessen just a bit.

That afternoon, I returned to Toyota to pick up my car. And as I was driving home, I heard a strange rattling sound coming from inside that I'd never heard before. For Pete's sake, had Toyota messed up? As the rattling continued, I traced the sound to the driver's side and ran my left hand inside the empty door pocket. There I found a penny.

Now I've never subscribed to that popular psychic belief that pennies are messages from people who have passed. The explanation is that copper is supposedly easy for a spirit to manipulate, and if you believe in that type of thing, well, whatever. I've figured the most likely explanation was that people in pain were grasping at straws. Desperate for any type of message from their loved one.

Yet I can't deny that after Mom died, and without even thinking about it, I started finding pennies in the oddest of places. Underneath my watch on the dresser. On the exact spot where Holden's paw landed when he jumped down from the car. On the kitchen table, right next to my soy latte. And now, on this day when I was feeling particularly sad, in the door pocket of her former car.

Could the mechanic have dropped it? Possibly. Although I don't think they're in the habit of leaving money behind: usually, they're the ones squeezing every penny out of the customer.

Think what you will. Maybe I'm grasping at straws, too. But as I drove home, accompanied by that rattling sound, I found my spirits lifting along with the rising fog.

We Have Lift-Off

When my mother passed away, there was no question about it, none whatsoever. Of course, I would adopt her white greyhound, Lucy. I could no more give up Lucy than I could my own beloved fawn greyhound, Elvis.

Lucy is a sweet and affectionate little dog who curls up alongside me on the sofa and has invited herself on my bed. An unhygenic no-no, I always thought. That is, until the first time she snuggled her head in the crook of my neck and heaved a contented sigh. Not only did I not have the heart to push her off, I found I didn't want to.

There has been one major challenge, however: Lucy has been deathly afraid of the doggie door. No amount of bacon bits, begging, cajoling, pushing and pleading has convinced her to push the flap with her nose and go through the door. Like it was a doggie Guillotine or something.

And so, for almost four months, despite watching Elvis use the door, Lucy has gone through it only if I've Velcroed the flap open. Not a good thing in warm weather when flying insects are rampant. Or in the winter, with my furnace serving as a heater for the entire backyard. But it was either leave the flap open or come home to find my Oriental carpet transformed into a $600 pee pad.

Until this morning.

At 5:27 am came a moment to remember. After finishing her breakfast, Lucy tentatively approached the doggie door. Stopped. Sniffed it. Stepped back. Turned around and looked at me. “Good girl,” I coaxed her softly, using the word a trainer had advised. “Outside! Outside!” She stepped towards the door again. Sniffed it. Tapped it with her nose. And then, as I held my breath, she gently pushed the flap with her nose and stepped outside.

ALLELUIA!

And while it may not mean much to anyone else, I'm embracing it as the most subtle of signs that 2010 is off to a promising start.

Skipping Christmas

Four years ago, when I observed my best friend "skipping Christmas," it saddened me. That's because I knew that Pam was still mourning the loss of her beloved father, who had passed away that previous March.

But I know now that there is no such thing as "still mourning." Over time the mourning may lessen, subside, but it never stops.
And four years ago, I couldn't have ever imagined how difficult it was for anyone who has lost a loved one to experience that year of "firsts," such as the first birthday. Mom's was last Sunday. We have a family tradition that the birthday person gets to select their favorite meal and my sister prepares it at a joyous family celebration. Mom always chose tostadas. And so, last Sunday we invited her best friend to join our family tradition over a tostada dinner, and we spent the evening exchanging funny stories and memories. What could have been a difficult time ended up warming our hearts. It felt good. Right.
But no matter how I try to spin it, Christmas this year isn't good or right. Every Christmas carol, every twinkling light, reminds me that last year at this time our family was healthy, whole and happy. I now understand Pam's decision four years ago when she chose to skip Christmas. No cards. No gifts. No decorations or parties or carols.
"Your mother wouldn't want that!" my friend, Patt, chided me. And she's absolutely right. Mom would be the first to tell us to whip out her favorite Christmas album by Andy Williams and spin it on the turntable.
But the brain can't force the heart. And my heart just isn't in it.
Friends who have experienced this type of loss promise that with each passing "first" it gets easier, and one day joy will return to my heart. I believe them. Just last night Pam called to tell me how pretty her Christmas tree looks.
And while my family may never again feel whole, in time I'll learn to be happy, and future Christmases will be good and right.

One Year Ago: the Infamous Finger

It was the day after Thanksgiving and mom and I had made plans to go window shopping at a nearby outdoor mall. Walk off those pumpkin pie calories, admire the decorations, maybe do a little shopping, and enjoy a light lunch afterwards. So I wasn't surprised when she called at 9 a.m. to tell me she was on her way to pick me up. Ready to go shopping? You betcha!

But then she oh, so casually mentioned that her finger hurt. Just a little.

"What do you mean it hurts?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Oh, I tripped over one of the dogs last night before I went to bed and I must have sprained it a little," she replied. "It's no big deal."

My antennas went up. If it wasn't a big deal, why had she mentioned it? "Do you need to see a doctor?" I asked. "Should I take you to Emergency?"

"Naaaaaw," she snorted, "it's nothing, really. Let's go shopping."

Okeefine.

But when she picked me up 15 minutes later and I saw her middle finger, I had a slightly different take on the matter.

"OH MY GAWD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

Because THAT was her middle finger, completely popped out of the second knuckle and bent at a 45 degree angle. It was in complete alignment with her palm, crossing her index finger like a "t" and pointing towards her thumb. I was trying not to gag.

"You're exaggerating," she insisted. "It feels fine!"

Yeah, right sister. Off to emergency we went.

When we checked in and mom displayed her hand with the finger bent like Gumby on crack, I got to say "I told you so" because the response was universal. Everywhere we went throughout the hospital, jaws dropped, eyes popped and stomachs turned. "OH MY GAWD!" the man at check-in exclaimed. As did the woman in the X-Ray department, the emergency technician and the doctor who treated her.

"See?" I told her. "You've even grossed out the people in Emergency and they've seen it all!"

She shrugged. And after the doctor gave her a painful anesthesia shot in the knuckle, snapped her finger back in the socket, taped it to a splint and swathed her hand like an oven mitt, she had but one thing to say.

"So are you happy now? Let's go shopping!" And we did.

Soytini, Anyone?

You might call me a quasi-vegetarian. It's not that I have any particular ethics about eating things with a face, although once I begin reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, I may start singing a different tune. Just the book review had me gagging.

Mainly, I stick to a veggie diet because veggies are quick and easy and I'm impatient and lazy. Plus, I have to confess I do feel better without all that cholesterol and whatnot churning through my body.

But I'll be the first to admit that some foods aren't meant to be healthy, no matter how you spin it. Such as the brownie I once impulsively purchased at the Whole Foods checkout stand. Thick, chewy, creamy, it looked like a slice of heaven and I couldn't wait to sink my fangs into it.

Eeeeuuuu, eeuuuuu euuuuuu! I promptly spat it out and scrambled for a napkin to scrape my tongue of any offending brownie residue. What the hell? Perplexed, I retrieved the wrapper from the trash can and discovered that this wasn't just any ordinary brownie, no sirree. This was a "vegan" brownie and the major ingredient was - sacrebleu - tofu!

Now, I love tofu. Eat it almost every day. But nowhere in my world do the words "chocolate" and "tofu" belong together in the same sentence. Nor, as I discovered last week, do the words "martini" and "soymilk."

This I learned when I was preparing for my weekly guilty pleasure triple threat: indulging in a chocolate martini while watching "Ghost Whisperer" followed by my Netflix rental of the week. I know, pathetic, but I love it. On this evening however, I discovered I was out of the cream used to dilute my martini. Darn. But wait: I did have a carton of vanilla soymilk. And milk is milk, right? Heck, maybe I was on the verge of discovering a healthy martini!

Au contraire mon frere. Martinis aren't supposed to be foamy. Nor should they smell like socks, look like mud or taste like battery acid.

But I may be on to something just the same. Whole Foods, if you're reading this, give me a jingle. I have a recipe for the perfect drink to wash down your vegan brownies.

Skip it, You Say? REALLY?

Of course, I'm absolutely, unequivocally and undoubtedly certain that the new, more relaxed guidelines announced this week for breast and cervical cancer screenings were in no way, shape or form introduced, influenced or initiated by insurance companies.

I mean, really. Such a cynical and totally unfounded suspicion. Really.

Because really, I'm sure that insurance companies have absolutely no say in matters such as these, and the new cost-effective guidelines are purely for the good of all women and in our best interest, and there are no ulterior motives whatsoever.

I mean, really.