I thought about the day I’d gotten Gizelle. Even though my mother was struggling with addiction at that point, we were still best friends. She was still there for me. And now Gizelle was reaching the end of her life, and for the past six years, my mom’s addiction had gotten progressively worse until one day I’d woken up and realized we weren’t close anymore. Mom had missed family reunions and weddings, a friend’s funeral, Mother’s Days, Thanksgivings, Christmases, her birthdays, our birthdays. She wasn’t there and often if she was, she wasn’t sober. Sometimes she’d just offer to send money or a gift to us in an attempt to still be supportive, and while that was generous of her, it wasn’t a substitute for having her around. I’d much prefer having her around. I wondered if she would be at my wedding, or see me have kids. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just get her act together.
Dad was less openly emotional when it came to Mom. He always listened if we needed to talk about her, and I’d never once heard him say anything bad about her, despite her always talking bad about him. I knew he thought we shouldn’t play the pity card, that we shouldn’t be victims, and that we should be strong and grateful for the things we had. But that night Dad responded.
“Does it help you to see Mom like she has a disease?” he said, staring down at his cards. “You know—maybe a little like the one Gizelle has?”
It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d heard addiction referred to as a disease. But it was always hard to see my mom as truly sick. Over the years I’d watched her struggle in countless ways—through rehab, DUIs, broken promises, jail, halfway houses, therapy, doctors, AA meetings—but the addiction had always won. I’d heard all the promises—“I’m better! I’m fine! I’m going to meetings! I’m going to visit you! I’m going to teach aerobics again! I’m going to volunteer at the animal shelter! I’m going to move to California! I’m going to visit you! I’m going to visit you and Gizelle!” But she never did any of these things. I never believed her anymore. It was too hard to have a relationship with someone who seemed to lie about absolutely everything.
But what if, deep down, she wanted all of those things to be true but just couldn’t figure out a way to make them true? What if she really was sick, lost in her own mind and unable to get out? What if drug addiction wasn’t embarrassing at all? What if I could try to see the struggles my mom was facing and rather than add to them, try to see her with empathy and compassion—the way we view people who are plagued with sicknesses? On one level addiction is so self-indulgent, so it’s tough to see it as a disease, but I also know it takes more than willpower for people who struggle with it to get better.
It made sense that Mom was sick. Like cancer, addiction had side effects, side effects that morphed her body into someone unrecognizable and prevented her from acting normally. Like cancer, it was confusing to understand and heartbreaking to watch. Like cancer, some got better. Some didn’t. Like cancer, maybe it was okay to just be sad about it. Maybe it was okay to accept that there was nothing I could do to change it.
Many people argue addiction isn’t a disease, that it’s a choice. Even some alcoholics say they don’t want to be called someone with a disease. But I think that if addiction were a choice, my mom would be better by now. I don’t think my mom wants to keep picking the drugs and the alcohol over me. I think she is lost within the depths of her own struggle and can’t get out.
Dad told me that he thought addiction was a little bit like being lost in a maze, and if I tried to fix Mom, I would only end up lost in the maze with her. And as much as I wanted to cure my mother, to fix the problem, there was a sense of relief to be found in letting go, accepting that I didn’t have to.
I couldn’t change that Gizelle was sick, and I couldn’t change that Mom was sick, any more than I could change that the leaves were turning and falling from the trees. And maybe doing absolutely nothing about my mom’s addiction was actually doing everything, because it was letting myself out of her maze so I could move on and be grateful for the wonderful things that did exist in the world—lighthouses, pumpkin patches in the fall, seagulls at the beach, a mastiff snoozing across my feet, card games with Dad in Maine.
That was the whole point of my dog’s bucket list, right? I couldn’t change Gizelle’s cancer. I would never cure Gizelle’s cancer. I could only change my attitude toward Gizelle’s cancer; it could either bring me down or become my excuse to live life fully with Gizelle while I could.
I listened to the tree limbs scrape against the walls of our cottage, and after a dozen losses and one small win, I threw in the cards.
“’Night, Dad.” I said, patting his shoulders.
“’Night, Fernie,” He stood and hugged me good night, kissed my forehead, and screwed the top back on his second Miller Lite and placed it back in the fridge for tomorrow.
The vet had told me it would be obvious when it was time to let Gizelle go, that her quality of life would disappear. When Gizelle didn’t want to get up for normal things like dinner and bedtime and treats, we would know. I walked into the bathroom, and as I was standing in front of the mirror with my toothbrush, I heard a slow clicking of paws approaching. Gizelle stood for a moment, then pushed her big black snout up against the crack of the door. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Then she let out a short, sad moan. I laughed and opened the door. She walked in, pressing me into the sink, yet still managing to find space in between me and the shower. Then, when I walked to the living room to our fold-out couch, she backed out of the bathroom and followed me there, too, resting her chin on the bed. “Ready, girl?” I asked, wrapping my arms around her back legs and hoisting her up. She crawled to the top of the bed on her stomach and rested her head on the pillow. I was little spoon this time. She placed her paws around me and rested her head on my cheek. I turned to face her, curling up in the extra skin around her neck. And that spot, under a mastiff’s big head, with her jowls draping over my face like a blanket, had to be one of the safest places in the world.
15
A Snowfall
Wells Beach, Maine
Gizelle’s breath broke through the cold, making little white clouds in front of us. It was December, my mastiff’s last Christmas, and Conner and I were bringing her to Wells Beach in York County, Maine. The cancer on Gizelle’s back leg had grown to nearly the size of a pool ball, causing her leg to float uselessly in the air behind her. She was having difficulties standing up to go to the bathroom, and she didn’t like leaving her bed. The life was fading out of her, and I knew it.
“Watch a snowfall on the beach,” I scribbled in Gizelle’s Bucket List, still trying to avoid the thought of losing her. Rebecca had once told me that watching it snow on the beach is the most magical thing in the world, because it’s two of nature’s most wonderful things happening simultaneously. I thought Gizelle and I should experience this, and I wanted Conner to be there, too. He was a shield from the pain of losing Gizelle and losing my mom and being stuck with myself. He was a cover-up over the loneliness I was afraid to feel. In a way, holding on to him was my last chance at keeping control of the world around me.
Conner opened the back door of our Ford Focus with a sweeping hand, a chauffeur’s gesture.
Gizelle, a pro at this by now, stood by the backseat waiting for me as I curled my arms under her waist, heaved her gently into the car, and climbed in after her. Gizelle and I organized ourselves across the backseat, her massive head snuggled against my chest, my arm around her like a boyfriend’s, stroking her ear, as Conner drove up I-95.
“How’s Gizelle?” he asked.
“She’s okay,” I responded, smiling weakly into the rearview mirror and snuggling my head closer to hers. She turned her snout to lick my cheek. Her licks were long and slow, and she licked with her whole head, moving it up and down with her tongue, almost with purpose.
In the backseat of the car, I thought about the kind of love I had for Gizelle. There was nothing she could ever do that would change the way I felt about her. It didn’t matter that
it was a pain to wake up in the morning when I was late for work and walk her in the rain, waiting for her to sniff the few trees and many trash bags that lined Forty-Third Street. It didn’t matter that I swept up clouds of brindle fur in my apartment and scraped dried dog drool off my walls every night, or once went to work with slobber in my hair. It didn’t matter that her number twos were so large someone once told me they needed their own zip code, that my apartment turned into a Slip’n Slide every time she drank water, or that she wasn’t the neatest eater, so sometimes I’d step on half-chewed food and it felt like mashed potatoes in between my toes.
I hated to imagine life without Gizelle. I did not want to let her go. But in the back of the car, driving up to Wells Beach, when I thought about life without Conner, I realized I didn’t feel the same way. I wondered if and when I’d ever be brave enough to let go.
I’d originally planned this weekend to go out to see Gizelle in Maine by myself, but was now really the time to be alone? Conner was my safety belt. He was helping me through the hardest thing I’d ever faced. I had no plan B without him. I was terrified to lose him. So, I created all sorts of optimistic expectations for a romantic weekend together, instead. And driving up the coast of Maine to Wells Beach, looking down at my green duffel bag on the floor of the rental, I could practically see my expectations for the weekend packed right into it.
I had my beanie, the one I planned to wear on the cold beach, snuggled arm in arm with Conner, sipping a carefully selected Cabernet. He’d wipe a snowflake from my cold cheeks, kiss me, and tell me he loved me. I had lingerie that I had bought with him in mind, dainty, red, with Christmas-y lace that I’d purchased from a tiny boutique on Second Avenue and had felt like such a grown-up doing so. I had packed my journal that contained Gizelle’s Bucket List, which left no room for crying and instead listed all sorts of festive holiday ideas such as:
Meet Santa
Cook a lobster dinner
Pick out a Christmas present from Scalawags Pet Boutique
Visit a Christmas tree farm
Cuddle
Watch the snow fall on the beach
Perhaps I envisioned the weekend with Conner like some sort of Nicholas Sparks book. The synopsis would read something like: “Reeling from the heartache of her dog’s bone cancer, she thought Conner might be wrong for her, but after a cold December weekend on the beach in Maine, she realized he might be just the one who could save her.”
* * *
When we arrived at the Lafayette Oceanfront Resort at Wells Beach, an old white motel sitting right on the sand, a few isolated lights glowed in the parking lot, but everything else felt abandoned. Only a sliver of the moon appeared behind a black cloud, and it was hard to tell where the black ocean ended and the sky began.
“We can add ‘Stay in a beach motel’ to Gizelle’s Bucket List,” Conner threw out, pulling Gizelle’s weekend bag out of the trunk and helping the sweet girl out of the car. The winter wind blew in from across the sea, tossing my hair chaotically into my face. I squeezed my arms to my chest to keep warm and took slow steps with Gizelle as she limped across the parking lot into the motel.
The room had pastel walls, a blue love seat, and a bedspread printed with fading water lilies. Outside, the wind raged at subzero temperatures. Inside, we all launched into motion: Gizelle headed for the love seat, I made a beeline for the closet and put on a pungently bleached white robe, and Conner popped the bottle of Billecart-Salmon champagne that he had brought.
“To Gizelle,” we toasted, holding our cups to her as she casually backed herself into the chair without taking her eyes off us.
Conner went into a one-sided discussion of the chalky, citrus notes in the champagne, the nose of ripe pear with touches of hay or something, while I went into a one-sided discussion with Gizelle’s floppy ear, asking her if she wanted one of the grass-fed hot dogs I’d brought her from the Maine Meat shop. I held the meat in front of her nose. Ah yes, nose of pork grease with no hints of powdered preservatives, a lingering note of smokiness on the finish. Hmmm . . . also a touch of hay? Then I sent the hotdog into the large cave of her mouth.
Next, Conner opened a bottle of Cabernet. He poured it into the two plastic motel-furnished cups, took a sip, swished it around in his mouth like mouthwash, and nodded his head, pleased. “Should we take Gizelle out?” he asked. I put on my clothes and he handed me the glass of wine, nudging me to guess if it was Old World or New World.
We slid open the glass door that led us right onto the sand. The white tips of the waves rolled on the black water. We couldn’t walk far with Gizelle, so we stood and looked at the dark ocean while she sniffed the salty air. Everything was like I’d imagined it would be. There was the spicy (Old World) red wine, a patch of moonlight peering through the clouds, the sand and the sea, Gizelle, Conner, cold winter night. It should have been perfect! But there was no kiss. No butterflies. No telling each other we loved each other. We talked about wine, Conner’s HR director, my boss, and I picked up Gizelle’s poo from the sand. Then we walked back to the room. Conner was snoring in minutes. The lingerie I’d bought stayed wrapped in its pink tissue. Gizelle curled up in her big blue throne by the bed next to me. I closed my eyes but didn’t sleep. Something in me finally clicked, and I wished I were alone. I wished it were only me and Gizelle here this time.
* * *
When morning arrived, we drove to the seaside town of Kennebunkport to check out the annual Christmas prelude. All of downtown was overflowing with holiday cheer. There were red bows wrapped around lampposts, jingling horse carriages, and wreaths hanging from quaint wooden buildings. There were carolers and drumming soldiers and dogs wearing elf shoes.
Conner did everything right. He waited in line at the Dock Square Coffee House and brought out surprises—whipped cream in a cup for Gizelle, hot chocolate for me. He held my hand. He constantly held the iPhone out in front of his face to snap photos of me and Gizelle together, directing us to stand in front of the Christmas tree decorated with colorful buoys, pose by the beach chairs, and then next to an enormous wreath. “Gizelle, look here! Look here, Gizelle!” He yelled in a high voice, waving his mitten in the air. We made sure Gizelle got plenty of downtime to sit in the grass and people-watch. We tasted the spicy chili from the annual chili competition, bought Gizelle another hot dog, and answered the usual English mastiff questions passersby couldn’t contain themselves from asking.
Yes, she eats me out of house and home.
No, no, pony rides today.
Why yes, she does weigh more than me. Thank you for asking!
But then there was a new question, one I hadn’t heard much of until now. “Why is your dog limping?” I wasn’t sure when it became polite to point out others’ disabilities, but I didn’t want to tell them the truth. I didn’t want to face the truth.
“She has a torn ligament. It will heal. She’s fine!” I fibbed (despite knowing I shouldn’t).
Then I patted Gizelle’s head as she leaned into my side, warming me with her big brindle body as the people walked away.
I kept at it with Gizelle’s Bucket List. Next up was a Christmas present from Scalawags Pet Boutique, a fancy dog store in Kennebunkport with gourmet treats and fashionable dog clothes. “Gizelle, what do you want for Christmas, girl?” I asked as she sniffed at some of the lobster plush toys and lobster dog hats. I showed her a bright-red lobster rope toy that seemed like a slam dunk, but she didn’t show much interest. She turned her head away and went sniffing to the back of the store until she found a wall filled with Christmas sweaters. She sniffed at the clothes, sat, and then looked at me with sad, desperate, please-can-I-have-one eyes.
Great. I thought. Gizelle wants a sweater and I bet they don’t have a plus-sized section. It turned out that I’d underestimated the pressures of capitalism, and soon Gizelle was trying on all sorts of sweaters: a pink one that said Kennebunkport that didn’t fit around her neck, a gray argyle sweater that I would have worn myself, and then, th
e crown jewel, a red fleece sweater. I slid her paws in carefully, one by one. As I stepped back to snap pictures of her in the sweater, thrilled that it fit and matched her red rope toy and favorite blanket, a saleswoman came over and beamed at Gizelle:
“Oh my gosh, the Golden Paw fleece sweaters?” She clapped her hands in front of her face with delight. “You are just going to love that sweater, big puppy. It looks beautiful on you!”
Then the saleswoman leaned in toward me, and with her voice low like she was telling me some sort of secret, she said, “That really is a great sweater. She’ll be able to wear it for years.”
She’ll be able to wear it for years. I looked down at Gizelle in the pretty sweater, and right there in the back of the Scalawags Pet Boutique, next to the wall of rainbow-colored dog clothes, my heart cracked. No, she would not be able to wear it for years. Would she even be able to wear it next week? How much longer, Gizelle? Tell me. Promise you’ll tell me, okay? I thought, knowing that if she could, she absolutely would. I paid for the sweater, a little unable to figure out exactly why I was spending forty dollars on this, and slowly we walked out the door.
The weekend carried on. We drove to the supermarket, where I rolled up my sleeves and picked out three lobsters from the tank, always feeling like if I ate lobster, I should be able to brave cooking it myself. And also that if lobster is the grandest meal a girl can have, Gizelle should have it, too. (Certainly fresh Maine lobster wouldn’t be considered a contract breach, right?) We met up with Conner’s local friends and cooked a feast. I put Gizelle in a lobster-claw headband and a white lobster bib and drank more fancy wine. When we sat at the table, I listened to Conner and his friends carry on about business and money, and I wished we were talking about something else during the feast, but it was okay. Gizelle sat at my feet, and I threw her pieces of the soft white meat, that she polished off quickly.
Gizelle's Bucket List Page 14