Remembering Grandpa

Forty years. 

It's been 40 years, but I remember it so vividly. 

I was a senior at Montclair State College, a commuter school. Grandpa had been diagnosed with cancer (initially a brain tumor) a few months prior. 

After a successful surgery to remove the tumor, he underwent radiation therapy as an outpatient, but when his care became too much for my grandmother to handle at home, he was admitted to the hospital, and it was downhill from there. 

I was in denial. This was Grandpa, after all! He'd recover and return home to take his seat at the head of the Sunday dinner table soon. 

But on this day, 40 years ago, when I returned home from classes and opened the garage door, my mother's car was already there. Grandpa had slipped into a coma, she said. 

We went to visit him that night. Such a dimly lit, depressing place was Orange Memorial. It was one of those hospitals where older Italians went to die. 

Grandpa had stopped talking to us weeks ago—he had not wanted to return to the hospital—but now his eyes were closed and he may not have known we were there. 

I still had a glimmer of hope in my heart as we rode the elevator to the lobby. People emerged from comas, didn't they? 

The next afternoon, November 3, 1983, when I opened the garage door, Mom's car was there again. 

And I knew. 

So much life has been lived during the 40 years since—holiday celebrations, graduations, weddings, funerals, as well as the births of all of Grandpa's great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren. 

I know he has been with me through it all, and he continues to watch over all of us. 

But I will never stop missing him.

Fear of Falling: Fostering Copper, Clifford, and Jasper

My twisted sister Mary and I have discussed the risks of falling, When we were younger, we didn't understand why falling is more common—and more dangerous—as people age. But now that we are "women of a certain age," we get how easily it can happen.

And that's the conversation that popped into my head yesterday when I fell for the third time since my hip joint replacement.

It happened so quickly, I didn't realize I was falling until I was on the ground. I'd been trying to increase the distance between my foster dog, Jasper and two small "yippy" dogs on the other side of the street. It wasn't his fault; I should have paid closer attention to the area of grass I moved him to, which turned out to be much slicker than it seemed, due to a recent torrent of rain.

I got up quickly and began to contrast and compare this fall to my two previous ones.

The first fall post-hip surgery occurred when I tripped on something in my bedroom. The impact knocked me off-balance, and I fell backwards, hitting the "new hip" side and banging my head on a bookcase for good measure. It happened only a year or so after my hip replacement, so I called my surgeon in a panic, fearing I had injured the new joint. He assured me that if I had I would know. It would be painful to bear weight on the right side.

Fast-forward to May 2020 when my family started fostering dogs for our local animal shelter. It was something my son, R, and I had wanted to do for awhile and the stay-at-home restrictions of the pandemic seemed an opportune time to begin helping dogs in need.

Our fostering journey (we've helped to save nine dogs so far) has proven to be fulfilling, joyful, heartbreaking, educational, and free of falling. And then we brought a hound mix we named Copper (from Disney's Fox and Hound) home.

In July 2021, Copper came into the shelter as a stray with a neck wound likely from an embedded collar. He was understandably afraid of many things, especially car rides. So much so that I had to lift him in and out of the car whenever I needed to take him somewhere. On one such occasion, as I lifted him out from the back seat, the leash handle caught on the car's console. The unexpected pressure on his neck prompted Copper to rear up, knocking me off-balance and backward. I hit the parking lot pavement on my right side (again).

After Copper (left) was adopted in January 2022, we pulled Clifford (below) into foster. This sweet, misunderstood boy never precipitated a fall, but he was a runaway train on-leash initially. By this point, we had hired a trainer and, in the weeks prior to going to rescue, Clifford's leash manners (and my leash skills) greatly improved.

And then yesterday happened. Not gonna lie. The fall scared me. But compared to my previous tumbles, it was minor.

As I have explained in this space before, dogs have always been an intregal part of my life, now more than ever. The longer I am involved with dog rescue, the more I see how us humans continue to fail this unconditionally loving animal.

I want to help. So, I'll keep fostering for as long as my body will let me.