I Bificus

by Bif Naked

  We drove back to our apartment downtown and played with Nicklas the rest of the evening, letting him out of his little crate every time he cried. He cried every time he went into his crate, and this set the tone for the rest of his life. He was a spoiled puppy, having my complete attention, the attention of Peter and his two daughters, and anyone else who was around him. Nicklas was lucky to have such a loving family. He went just about everywhere with us, and I even carried him constantly, as he quickly discovered that he preferred to be carried rather than to walk. To a six-month-old Maltese poodle, this was ideal. He easily milked my sympathy, and I gave it to him in spades. This shiksa was the perfect Jewish mother.

  After we found four-month-old Annastasia in Kelowna, and after she chased Nicklas, sending him running and hiding in terror, for much of the first week, life settled down fabulously for these two dogs and me. Nicklas and Annastasia were inseparable, a bonded pair. They were like my children, and I did everything for them. I cooked for them (rice and spinach or peas or chickpeas, and tuna) and took them on tour with me. Touring with two fluffy white puppies was difficult: Nicklas enjoyed immensely barking and nipping at any strangers who came onto the bus. He was a nervous little guy.

  He tolerated every man I dated (and, usually, subsequently lived with), enduring both the good ones and the bad ones, and was the competition for most gentlemen suitors. Nicklas had watched me deal with some awful, awful boyfriends and as a result was ever mistrustful of men. Even when my friends hugged me affectionately, Nicklas took it upon himself to warn them that he was watching. He was my knight in white fluffy armour.

  He slept on my bed with me, and I spoon-fed him papaya at bedtime. He slept in a baby onesie, as did Anna, and often wore a T-shirt to either keep him warm in winter or protect his pink skin from the summer sun. I loved to joke, to bring comic relief to the shock of this barking, snapping little dog, that I shouldn’t have breast-fed him. Which I obviously did not.

  Nicklas was much more resilient than Anna, who seemed to be chronically recovering from her herniated disc operations. After Anna died, it was as if the pressure was off; he became a much more affectionate dog—with me anyway. He was resplendent in Annastasia’s hand-me-down dog dresses. Nicklas was always dressed in some manner of baby attire—either his baby onesies cut off at the waist (to make the perfect doggie T-shirts) or made-for-dogs dresses and jackets. Especially rain jackets.

  He never minded being dressed. In fact, he pranced around proudly like a glamorous drag queen being crowned belle of the ball, although it was rather misleading. He seemed to be just begging people to bend down and pat him, at which time he’d become enraged and hurl all fifteen pounds of himself at them, snapping like a trap, trying to bite them. This always startled everyone (including me, no matter how many times he did this). Nicklas would bark relentlessly until the shaken humans walked away from us and my apologies and pretend scolding. He was such a naughty boy. Were he a bigger dog, his menacing sneakiness would definitely have got us in much hot water.

  His hearing started to go when he was twelve. For the first time, he started sleeping through the entire night (and, as a result, so did I). For the last two years of his life, he was using a puffer, an inhaler for kids with asthma, because of his collapsed trachea, which is quite common in dogs of his breed as they age. His airway needed to be kept open and clear because his windpipe cartilage had deteriorated, causing him to sometimes have what sounded like whooping cough and looked like an asthma attack. But most of the time, Nicklas was healthy despite this chronic condition. He also developed Cushing’s disease, which was also common in his breed and at his age. Nicklas had the typical symptom of excessive thirst—I placed a bowl of water for him in every room of the apartment. He slurped and spat water everywhere all night long. I also began to modify his diet until it was almost vegetarian. My belief was that the more sattvic (an Ayurvedic classification for a pure and clean way of eating and living) his diet was, the less stress digestion would place on his body, freeing his adrenal glands to do what they needed to do to compensate for his high cortisol levels, among other things. I began to celebrate every day with him and to spoil him. Nicklas wanted for nothing, and that’s exactly how I wanted his life to be.

  Except for his constant thirst, increased appetite, budding Buddha belly, and his hair on his back thinning to wisps, revealing his bright pink skin beneath, Nicklas was relatively asymptomatic, and we enjoyed life together a great deal. When I did have to go out of the city for work, my mom flew to Vancouver to stay with Nicklas. This was such a lovely time for him and for my sweet mother. My mom didn’t like to use my car, since she was unsure of directions, so she walked everywhere. She and Nicklas went for morning and afternoon walks, and he was respectful for the benefit of his “grandmother.” I don’t know that I ever saw such good behaviour from him. It was the stuff of dreams, and when my mother described it, I was incredulous, thinking she must be talking about some other dog entirely.

  Nevertheless, in my mind, he could do no wrong, and should he have been an axe murderer, I would have still loved him. There is no love, they say, like that of a loving mother. That’s how I felt my mother loved me; she selflessly came to care for my animals over the years. Eventually, my mom no longer wanted to travel on an airplane, for various reasons. I had to try to understand, despite my disappointment. I had always appreciated that she would get on an airplane and come to me should I not be able to fly to her.

  As luck would have it, my beloved George Finch came to the rescue. When, in 2012, I went into hospital for heart surgery to close up that hole in my heart, it was dear George who took Nicklas in. They had been good friends from the start.

  Nicklas loved George, who doted and fussed over him the same way I did. In fact, I dare say that George spent more time hugging and rubbing sleeping Nicklas than I ever did. George was always such a tender friend to my animals, and of course to his own lifelong sweetheart, a beautiful cat named Spasil Rathbone, whom Annastasia had tried quite demonstratively to befriend.

  Spasil had died, and George never seemed to stop missing her—until wee Nick took over George’s apartment. I think the two of them were so good for each other, both were unwittingly working hard at healing each other’s hearts. Nicklas went between my apartment and George’s on long work days or if I had a long photo shoot, even if in Vancouver. The situation really was a blessed one for my old, increasingly sick dog. George was a blessing in Nicklas’s life and in mine.

  Nicklas celebrated his sixteenth birthday at home. I made a celebration dinner complete with birthday cake (and a special birthday cake for Nicklas from Three Dog Bakery). George’s dad, ninety-year-old Wilfred; his girlfriend, ninety-year-old Skya; and George and I ate and laughed and wore party hats. Nicklas wore his (or was it my?) favourite baby T-shirt, which had a picture of Animal, the drummer on The Muppet Show, on the back, and sat on my lap at the dining-room table as we sang him “Happy Birthday” and laughed and laughed. It was one of the best days of my life.

  Thirty-two days later, I would take Nicklas to the Canada West animal hospital, that familiar emergency destination, for the last time. Nicklas had been their patient four times in the past few months, primarily because of his trachea. Always treated there with tenderness and the appropriate attention, he’d be discharged within forty-eight hours and we carried on, me hugging and kissing him all the way home.

  One day I thought he was experiencing the same issue, so I decided to take him to the animal hospital once again. The intake doctor and I both thought that his idiopathic restlessness was because of the Cushing’s or perhaps from his trachea, and she advised me to leave him. They’d sedate him to keep him comfortable and do an ultrasound. This was old hat for us, and the little dog was at ease with the staff. I left him there in the morning and was told they’d call me before afternoon to discuss his medication or perhaps further testing.

  Instead, the doctor called me within a couple of hours and asked me if I was sitting down
. I became hyperaware, and steely calm.

  “Beth, Nicklas has a leaking tumour, and he doesn’t have much time,” she said. Her voice trailed off and I asked her what I need to do, what surgery could be done. She softly said that I needed to come to say goodbye to him.

  I tried hard to maintain a steady voice as I asked if I could come right then. I stopped and picked up George on the way. I felt that Nicklas would want to see George, who had been co-caring for him for the past year. Nicklas loved George so much.

  We silently entered the animal hospital. The staff led us to one of the family rooms, similar to the one Peter and I had been in with Annastasia just five years before. Anna’s photograph hung on the wall of this facility, like that of many other late animals for whom the staff had cared.

  Nicklas was brought in, and although he was heavily sedated because of his increasing abdominal pain, he began to wiggle and squirm when he saw me. I tried hard to be stoic and strong for my dog, lest I alarm him in any way. I took him into my arms and reclined on the small couch so he could lie on my chest, belly to belly, heart to heart. He became still and started to cry softly. I cried too, the tears running over my cheeks and lips and neck, endless rivers of love drowning me. I stroked his head. George came to sit beside us. He leaned into Nicklas and began to speak to him in whispers between kisses on the top of his head.

  We stayed like this for some time, caught up in our emotions. Nicklas would close his eyes, falling asleep, and then wake up and stir slightly, only to fall back asleep again. The doctor eventually returned and had with her the blessed needle of his relief. She injected Nicklas’s IV line with the dose, a combination of love and mercy, and he became quiet against me as I told him how I had loved him every day of his life and that I would continue to love him for the rest of my life. And then he died, ever peacefully, along with a part of my heart.

  FORTY-ONE

  Dr. Naked Was My Dad

  “HEY, YOU LUCKY KID! IT’S YOUR OLD MAN! IT’S Dr. Naked!” I had saved this message on my voicemail to replay over and over again. My dad always thought it was funny when his dental students, knowing that Bif Naked was his daughter, jokingly asked him if his name was Dr. Naked. It never got old.

  We laughed about absolutely anything.

  The morning my dad told me he had prostate cancer, I was having breakfast with him in the lobby bar of New Delhi’s Oberoi hotel. I was stirring four or five heaping tablespoons of sugar into my chai. “Chini kya ek bahut!” he said in perfect Hindi, laughing. “Sure is a lot of sugar!”

  It was the year 2000, seven years before my own cancer diagnosis, but my then sixty-six-year-old father was not at all worried about his cancer. He and his wife—my stepmom, Anita—were living in Ludhiana, about four hours from New Delhi by train, teaching dentistry and dental therapists at the Christian Medical College and volunteering with the United Church Mission and Service. I had come to India to visit and had already travelled through Mumbai, Bangalore, and Puttaparthi, arriving in New Delhi on Republic Day to attend the parade with my father and Anita.

  The cool fog of the January morning felt heavier as my father confessed that he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer before he left North America, more than six months earlier. I cried and asked him what they would do. I was afraid of losing him. In typical Dr. Naked style, my father laughed it off and promised to get radiotherapy as soon as he got home. But I was scared. In Canada, prostate cancer is the third leading cause of death from cancer in men.

  When my dad returned to Canada in the summer of 2001, he did undergo radiotherapy, as well as hormone therapy, designed to stop testosterone from being released or acting on the prostate cells. My dad found the notion of hormone therapy hilarious, saying in a high-pitched voice “I’m fabulous!” whenever anyone asked him about his treatments. For almost a decade, my dad managed his cancer and continued to work, in the remote communities of northern Saskatchewan and Manitoba, training dental therapists and doing dental exams.

  But in summer 2012, his prostate began to “misbehave,” as he put it. Eventually, it was discovered that he had bladder cancer. He underwent chemotherapy at the Saskatoon Cancer Centre. Finally, in 2013, the treatments were done. But his cancer was not. Devastated, we knew the truth was that we would lose him.

  My dad wanted to remain at home with his wife. Anita was a nurse and she wanted him safe and close also, to keep him happy and comfortable. I wanted to be there as much as I could. I loved being around them and learned so much from their grace. For some twenty years they had been a joyful couple, and nothing could change that.

  My dad’s church choir in Prince Albert came in the evenings to sing at his bedside, Dad contributing the tenor parts. I stood on a chair beside my stepmom and my mom, who had come to visit, and took pictures at his request, smiling ear to ear, though tears ran down my face. My dad was so happy.

  I was writing my memoir at the time, and he was eager to help with fact checking, and confirming stories about his work with the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties. He wanted me to read my just-finished manuscript, and so I read to him for hours as he chuckled, commented, and drifted in and out of sleep. He’d wake and tell me, “Really, it’s not boring,” then break into laughter, teasing me about my writing. His jokes never stopped and neither did our laughs.

  Anita later told me that on those afternoons, my dad in his bed and she seated beside him, they got lost in the stories; they allowed them to forget themselves, even if only for a few moments. Storytelling and laughter provided a respite, a welcome escape for all of us. We enjoyed just being together.

  I am fiercely proud of my father and his courageous and noble cancer journey, one filled with love, gratitude, and laughs. He taught me the true meaning of “It’s the journey, not the destination, that matters,” and I will carry these memories in my heart every day on my own journey for the rest of my Dr. Naked’s-lucky-kid life.

  EPILOGUE

  MY SKIPPING HOME WITH A BAG OF FRESH CHERRIES for my mother might not be enough to convince me that I made her sufficiently happy.

  Eating thirty or forty cherries in one sitting, to her uncontrolled laughter, would, though. So I did just that. I loved my mother’s soft laugh. It was quiet and felt like feathers against my ear.

  I had not seen her since my dad’s memorial service in March 2014, as I had been in France most of the summer, and we both had a schedule that had kept us apart for much of the harsh Winnipeg winter. But now it was June and we had the chance to spend time together. I was in heaven. It was pure joy to be in her company. All we did was talk and eat fruit, for days on end.

  We talked about my dad a lot, and about my mom’s parents. She patiently answered all my questions, and I listened intently to her stories about her life. I couldn’t get enough. I loved them!

  My mom’s apartment building, in Saint Boniface—the francophone and Catholic centre of Winnipeg—was filled with her friends, sweet, mostly Franco-Manitoban, seniors with whom I could practise “mes mots Français.” We were all having great fun. I learned about their stories as well, and loved to piece together some of the interesting puzzles that made up people’s histories. People are always revealing their hearts and secrets, and I loved listening almost as much as I loved talking. Everybody has a story.

  And, my story, so far, had been remarkable, unusual perhaps, but utterly lucky.

  I feel so lucky to have had such a life, and even luckier to have had an opportunity to write about it. Pinch me.

  I had come to see my mother in between performances, having returned to my shows just two weeks before, and preparing for summer touring. My hair was long again, my tattoos freshly shined with coconut oil, my makeup trademark dark. The inevitable return to “Bif Naked” was familiar and, finally, good. With my health tumbles, stumbles, and surprises; the sadness from losing loved ones; my divorce; and many of my fears now behind me, I felt like I was finally climbing out of some other life, emerging from a cocoon.

  Everything was b
lossoming.

  I was in love with a boy named Snake (of course) and dreamed of marrying him, and of asking Peter to walk me down the aisle, and George being my “maid” of honour. Naturally.

  I was back to hitting the gym six days a week, immersed in my yoga practice and volunteering, fantasizing about returning to Paris, and spending time with dogs, cats, mice, monkeys, pigs, audiences, hospice patients, or anyone else who needed me.

  My mother, however, did not need me. My amazing mother was thriving. She was feeling healthier and more energetic than she had in some time, fulfilled as she was by her volunteer work of serving lunches to her neighbours in their communal cafeteria in the basement of her building. She enjoyed her routine. It’s not that I was cramping her style, but she had been trying to encourage me to go home early for a few days, citing my impending schedule and that people needed me at home.

  The truth was, I needed to be with my mom even if she didn’t need to be with me.

  She was always completely confident that I would roll with the punches, continue to handle everything thrown my way with “proper grace,” and float and flutter my way through life like a butterfly dancing above the cherry trees.

  Her undying faith in me, not to mention my dad’s, Peter’s, George’s, or anyone else’s, was generally all I ever needed to have faith in myself and to keep going no matter the circumstances.

  It still is.

  Life is good, because it’s meant to be.

  Life is not just a bowl of cherries, it’s an orchard of cherry trees, with millions of butterflies flying over top.

  I asked my mother one night if she wanted me to start reading the final draft of my manuscript to her, and she said, “No thank you, Beth. I will wait to see what it says, like everybody else.”