Grief – TessEnterline.com

The Sanctuary of Charles Haas

There’s so much I love about writing memoir.

I love looking back and pulling up remembrances of people, places, and events that make up my past. I love taking all of those details and recreating scenes that I can then pull together and craft into a story. And because it’s memoir, it’s all true. I’d be the first person to admit that I don’t have a great imagination, so writing nonfiction suits me just fine.

I’ve mentioned before in this space that I’m currently writing my first memoir. It’s based on my experiences as a hospital chaplain and my emotional healing afterward. I’ve shared bits and pieces of a couple of the trauma cases, but I started thinking this past week that I haven’t really shared any of the more joyful moments with you … the moments that lifted me up, even on what might have been an otherwise difficult day.

No such story fits that description better than the story of Charles Haas (his family has graciously given me permission to use his real name in my writing). I met Charles on what was, perhaps, my most challenging day as a chaplain, April 7, 2008. To say that he saved me that day is not at all an overstatement.

The night before, two-year-old Darisabel Baez (her name is public record because of what happened) was flown to Hershey Med after having been brutally beaten by her mother’s boyfriend. I was the chaplain on-call when she was rushed into a trauma bay on a gurney.

Soon after arriving at the hospital on the morning of April 7, 2008, I learned from Darisabel’s doctor that she was most likely already brain-dead, and life support would probably be removed by evening (this becomes an uplifting story, I promise).

As you might imagine, I felt completely distracted by all that was going on in Darisabel’s room in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) on the seventh floor. But I knew there were other patients who deserved visits as well.

I wasn’t in the mood for it. The thought of striking up a pleasant conversation with a stranger didn’t sit well. However, in my continuing effort to show my supervisor that I could function well amidst trauma, I pushed on. In the early afternoon, I chose four names from the patient list laying on the table in the Pastoral Services Conference Room, and set off for the elevator and the sixth floor.

My first visit would be to an eighty-year-old male patient named Charles Haas. I think I instinctively chose the oldest of the four patients as my first stop. I’ve always had a good rapport with seniors. As a chaplain, I found older folks to be the friendliest and most appreciative of a visit, I suppose because many of them don’t get many.

It was 2:00 pm when I arrived at Room #6245. The door to the room was open part-way. I knocked lightly and slowly pushed the door back another foot or so, peeking in as the opening widened.

“Mr. Haas?”

“Yes, come on in!” he said, sounding like he was inviting a neighbor in for a cup of coffee.

With my left hand still on the upper edge of the door, I pushed it back the rest of the way and stepped further into the room.

And there he was. Sitting up in bed with a couple of pillows stacked up behind him. Gold, metal-trimmed eyeglasses on, a newspaper resting in his lap on top of a milky-white hospital blanket and rumpled sheets. He was clean-shaven, with his thick, white hair neatly parted and combed to the right. His eyes were bluish-grey and bright. Based on the size of his upper torso, extending up from the blanket and clothed in blue cotton pajamas, and the spot towards the foot of the bed where I could see his toes creating a tent under the sheets and blanket, I could tell that he was a tall and substantial man, perhaps a couple hundred pounds.

He smiled. I smiled back.

“Hi, Mr. Haas,” I said in as pleasant a voice as I could pull above the ache in my chest. “My name’s Teresa, I’m the Catholic chaplain. How are you today?”

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to sound happy. I wanted to act professionally and put my own feelings aside in order to provide pastoral care to this patient, but I didn’t have much “cheerful” in me right then and there.

“Well, Teresa, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for stopping by.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Mr. Haas extended his right hand and we joined hands in a firm, but not uncomfortable, clasp.

What happened next was quite a surprise. Considering how tired and disheartened I felt at that moment, it was the last thing I expected.

When Charles and I shook hands, I felt like I had just wrapped my hand around a lifeline. There was something about this man. His smile, his warmth, his … I don’t know. It was all of him, coming to me in that particular moment … when I needed some kind of relief. It didn’t make everything ok. There was still a two-year-old girl upstairs dying. But I could feel the tightened muscles in my stomach, jaw, and forehead start to relax slightly. The lifeline was starting to draw me into the Sanctuary of Charles Haas. All of a sudden Charles and Room 6245 had become a respite from all that was going on in Pediatric ICU.

We slowly released each other’s hand.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“Better today. I have some problems with my heart. I got here two days ago, but feel better than I did then. It’s been a rough couple of months. My wife just died in February, from congestive heart failure.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. What was her name?”

“Janet. We were married fifty-seven years. And you know what? During one of her hospital stays she was in this room too. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. And I’m very impressed you remember something like that!” I wondered if my own husband would remember such a detail.

I pulled a chair up next to Charles’s bed and took a seat. We talked, we laughed. It went on like that for forty-five minutes. Charles sharing tender vignettes from the full life he had shared with his wife over all those years, and me, interjecting occasionally, but otherwise happy to sit, listen, smile, and breathe. It was like salve on an open wound.

“My wife and I dedicated the first thirty-five years of our marriage to our family, and we spent the last twenty-two years on a spiritual journey. We even took a trip to Calcutta, India in 1988 and spent time with Mother Teresa.”

Oh. My. Goodness. I had never before, and haven’t since, met anyone who had actually met Mother Teresa, now Saint Teresa of Calcutta. And here was this man who met her in the flesh, stood right there with her and shook her hand. Maybe even gave her a hug for all I know. On a day when I so wanted to feel God’s presence, Charles Haas, hand-shaker of Mother Teresa, came into my life, or, rather, I walked into his.

Now, I’m not trying to make this sound like the second coming. But, I mean, what are the chances? The man in front of me had touched holiness. It was enough to make a difference that day.

I looked at Charles’ face and I couldn’t help but smile. I listened to him talk about life and love and faith, and for forty-five minutes I forgot—or at least didn’t think as much—about senseless cruelty and a two-year-old girl’s battered and bruised body and imminent death. I wanted to make sense of the senseless and demystify the mysterious, but all I could do was rest in it.

Charles transported me away from my own pain and into the world of his benevolent humanity. But I was the Chaplain. I was supposed to be the comforter. Yet, Charles was comforting me. I didn’t try to fight it. My soul absorbed his kindness, like a plant absorbing sunlight.

As I was getting ready to pray with Charles, a thirty-something year-old woman walked into the room. She was slender, with a friendly face, narrow nose, and wavy, blond, shoulder length hair. She was dressed in pale green scrubs and the rubber clogs I often noticed being worn by doctors and nurses who had been in surgery. She walked in casually, carrying a coat and lunch bag.

Charles smiled at the first sight of her.

“Ah Diana! Teresa, this is my daughter Diana. She works here at the hospital.”

“Diana, so nice to meet you. I’m the chaplain, and I have to tell you, I’m having more fun with your dad than I ought to.”

“Thank you for visiting. And I know, he can be a charmer!”

She went around to the right side of her father’s bed, the window side, placed her left hand on his, squeezed, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. It struck me how much Diana’s sweet and gentle traits mimicked her dad’s. She continued holding his hand.

“Diana, where do you work in the hospital?”

“I’m an OR nurse. I just finished my shift and thought I’d spend some time with dad before heading home.”

My visit with them last a little longer. How I wanted to stay there and bask in the love and safety of The Sanctuary of Charles Haas. When I said goodbye, it was with both my hands wrapped around Charles’ right hand. I pressed gently into his skin, wanting my touch to somehow transmit a message to Charles, letting him know how much the past hour had meant to me. How much I had needed it … and him.

“The Lord sent you today,” he said.

I gave him a slight smile and thought, The Lord sent you to me, Charles.

“Thank you, Mr. Haas. I’ve really enjoyed being here with you.”

I said goodbye to Diana, turned, gave a little wave, and headed for the door and down the corridor.

After a short break to digest my visit with Charles and Diana, I made three more patient visits, limiting each one to about fifteen minutes.

The only visit left, after that, was the one waiting for me in PICU, and that wasn’t so much a visit as it was keeping vigil. I walked back into the unit at 5:00 pm. Darisabel had, by then, failed two of the three brain criteria tests required before her family could request that life support be removed. The third test was performed at 9:00 pm, life support was removed, and Darisabel passed shortly thereafter.

I thank God that Darisabel’s death is not the only memory I have of April 7, 2008. I also have my very own Charles and Diana, without the royal pedigree. They were royalty to me just the same, assuming a place in my life that’s rare for a chance encounter. I suppose that’s very much the reason for the joy of it all, along with the fact that it may not have been by chance at all.

(Note: Another chapter in my relationship with Charles and Diana occurred in 2009, a story which I will share in my memoir.)

(Photo by Dyu-ha on Unsplash)

Thank you for reading my blog! Please feel free to share it with family and friends.

Tess

(PS — If you’re not already subscribed to my newsletter, please sign-up above.)

“Float Plan”

“That’s a great book,” said the male voice a few feet behind me. He had apparently noticed me taking the book off the top shelf, which was at eye level for me.

I turned around and saw the title “Manager” on the Barnes & Noble ID tag pinned to his polo shirt.

It was an overcast Friday afternoon, October 5, 2018, and my husband, Rick, and I had decided to take a day trip to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore, Maryland. Whenever we can, we try to include a visit to the large Barnes & Noble store, located near the National Aquarium. We hadn’t been there but five minutes when the book in my hands, Float Plan, was praised so highly.

“Do you know who that is?” the manager asked, referring to the author, Rob Hiaasen.

“Yes, I do,” I said, “What a horrible tragedy that was.”

I knew that Rob Hiaasen and four of his co-workers at the Capital Gazette in Annapolis, Maryland, had been the victims of a mass shooting in the paper’s newsroom, on June 28, 2018. Hiassen had been the assistant editor.

The Barnes & Noble store manager, a friendly and gentle-voiced man in his fifties, was, by then, standing alongside me. He nodded as I acknowledged Rob Hiaasen and what had happened.

“Everyone here was very affected by it,” he said, “especially since Rob Hiaasen’s daughter works here at the store.”

It took a second for his statement to register

“HERE?” I said. My voice rose a couple of pitches and my eyes widened to the size of walnuts as I spoke. The reply that followed stunned me even more.

“Yes,” he said. “In fact, here she comes now.”

I looked to my left and saw a tall, lovely young woman, I guessed in her twenties, walking toward us. I imagine it was the sight of her manager that brought her our way. Did she have a question for him?

She was quickly standing in front of us, next to her boss. The mother in me wanted to give her a tight hug, but I held back. I was a complete stranger, holding a copy of her deceased father’s book in my hands. I didn’t want my hug to be perceived as pity. We expressed our sympathies, and I said that I was so happy to have come across her dad’s book.

Samantha Hiaasen (she goes by “Sam,” I later learned) didn’t owe us even one moment of courtesy—not after what she and her family had been through, not with grief they were still enduring. But she was gracious, sweet, and cheerful.

There we were, just over three months since the horrific mass shooting of her dad and his coworkers, days and days of coverage and publicity afterwards, and here was this young woman, with the strength and the courage to be at work, and the heart to be nice to strangers. I couldn’t help thinking—again it was the parent in me and some familiarity with the feeling: Rob Hiaasen would be very proud of the daughter he’d helped raise.

Rick and I excused ourselves and headed off on our individual strolls through the bookstore (he’s magazines, airplanes, and the Civil War; I’m creative nonfiction and the Starbucks café). Sam continued speaking with her boss, and I was soon riding the escalator to the second floor.

I had to force myself to pay attention to where I was going so that I wouldn’t trip at the top of the escalator. My mind was still on what had just happened on the first floor.

But … what had just happened?

Some would call it a coincidental meeting. And they might be right. My husband’s reaction was, “That was pretty wild,” and he moved on. There was no wrestling with it, no trying to find the deeper meaning. I’m sometimes jealous of his and others’ ability to move past such things quickly—not in a cold or insensitive way—but with an attitude of “that happened and now it’s over.”

Being the “there are no coincidences” type of person that I am, however, I’m always looking for the meaning behind these “chance” encounters (see https://tessenterline.com/its-a-mystery/). There’s a transcendent quality to what I feel on occasions such as meeting Sam … occasions that feel more “sacred mystery” than coincidence to me.

Afterwards, I want to linger in what fills me—feelings I can’t quite describe but are too powerful and meaningful to me to, such as on that day, simply slide into the next row of books. Such encounters aren’t upsetting. I guess I’d describe what I feel as a kind of bewildered joy

I’m not trying to sound woo-woo about all this or make too much of that afternoon in Barnes & Noble. It just feels right to me to rest in and acknowledge the times in our lives that intertwine with others in a special way.

But here’s where it goes beyond that.

Another reason why meeting someone like Sam is special is because she has suffered through what has increasingly become, for many of us, one of our worst fears … something we want to believe won’t ever happen to us.

Sam reminds me of my vulnerability, of my humanness, of the ties that bind us all. That in a split second I could be up against the same grief that Sam and so many others have had to face as a result of the violence and hate that are now so common. Seems a rare day when we don’t read or hear about a tragedy somewhere in the world.

However … it provides an opportunity.

And a place from which to grow.

And a reason for which to reach out.

And ways to show our love.

There are so many people out there (in our families, neighborhoods, churches, offices, book clubs, etc.) who are hurting. So many of us are hurting.

We can’t be there for everyone. But maybe we can each pick one extra person to call, visit, write to, or pray for in the coming week, and in the weeks thereafter. Maybe someone (reading this newsletter right now or not) will get in touch with youand say, “Hey, I know it’s a hard time for you right now. Just wanted to check-in and see how you’re doing.” Or, “Wanted to let you know that I’m praying for you.”

Personally, I’m not always eager to get on the phone. Just a quirk of mine. But I love sitting across from a friend in a café and listening. And I love writing notes to people. (see https://tessenterline.com/the-love-note-project/)

So here’s my plan: In this next week I’m going to write a note to Samantha Hiaasen. Get it to her somehow. Not that she’ll remember me … doesn’t matter. I just want to let her know that I’ve been thinking about her … that I’ve been praying for her and her family. That I’ve read her dad’s book … and it’s great!

(Note: Rob Hiaasen’s book Float Plan was published posthumously by Apprentice House Press, which is associated with the Communication Department at Loyola University Maryland. At the request of Maria Hiaasen, Rob’s wife, a contribution was made by AHP to the Everytown for Gun Safety Support Fund. To learn more, go to www.everytown.org.)

(Photo by Paulo Resende on Unsplash)

God Never Calls U-Haul

God bless my poor neighbor Linda. She had picked the wrong time to do yard work.

It was earlier this year, about four in the afternoon on May 14^th. I had just locked up our old house for the final time, taking with me the last couple of boxes of odds and ends accumulated during our thirty-two years of living there. Rick and I had already moved into our new house.

I walked just outside the garage and pressed the four-digit code into the keypad to lower the door. The creaking sound of the garage door panels sliding over the rails and slowly inching down toward the foundation only served to rub my heart in it … “it” being the fact that this house—our home for thirty-two years—was no longer ours.

The door hit the concrete with a thud. So much noisy rattling for ten seconds and in the very next instant, silence.

It was like the sting that comes after a after a slap.

I tried to hold back the tears, which was totally in keeping with my habit of wearing the face that says, “I’m fine.” But the garage door closing and the sudden quiet released the catch on my emotions. My tears broke free. My breaths shortened, and I started sucking air in shorter bursts, muscles contracting from deep within my diaphragm.

My car was parked along the curb and I aimed myself in its direction. As I walked, I forced myself to keep looking straight ahead and not turn around for another look. The last thing I needed was to give my mind another opportunity to remember. Thirty-two years gives you lots to remember. I just kept moving forward down the driveway.

That’s when I spotted Linda across the street in her front yard.

She was wearing gardening gloves, and a baseball cap to help protect her from an unusually hot mid-May day. She saw me, too, and we waved to one another.

It crossed my mind to keep walking to my car, accompanied by my tears and heaving breaths. I could have slipped into the driver’s seat and slinked away. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just allow myself to wave and make that my goodbye to such a good woman. So, I crossed the street, went up to Linda, and gave her the biggest, longest, and teariest—maybe even the only—hug I had given her in the thirty-plus years we had been neighbors. I couldn’t even talk, I was crying so much.

We had watched as each other’s kids grow up. As some families moved elsewhere, Linda and her husband and family, and Rick, me, and our family—along with other original homeowners on our street—remained. We were the Deer Path Woods old timers. Except now, we were leaving as well, to become the “new neighbors” somewhere else. And a new, young family would be moving in the next day and raising their family there just like we did.

And I was okay with that. Really, I was. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad and wistful about bringing those chapters of our lives to a close.

Three months have passed …

… and although the move brought some changes to our lives—some big (a new church, a new bank, some new doctors) and some small (a new dry cleaner and ice cream stand)—I can honestly say that I’ve been very much at peace with it. So much so, in fact, that I’ve asked myself, “How is that? How could I live in one place for thirty-two years, move, and almost immediately feel comfortable in my new surroundings?”

I soon understood—no, felt—the reason why.

The reason goes beyond the fact that Rick and I feel very comfortable in our new home. There’s more to it than, once again, being blessed with wonderful neighbors. And, even though I’m thrilled for our dogs that there are many furry friends for them here in our new community, that doesn’t explain my contentment either.

As with most things that speak to our inner selves, the explanation goes deeper than anything I can lay my eyes or hands on. And yet, I feel it as strongly as having arms wrapped around me in a tight, loving embrace. Once the following thought came to me, I felt the sweet peace of surrendering to it:

We had moved, but God was where He’s always been, which is … right by my side.

The thought of these words, even now as I type and repeat them to myself, are such a comfort.

In no way do I want to dismiss the sadness that moving away from family, friends, and familiar surroundings can bring. Those feelings are powerful and only ease with time. In God, though, we have someone who will navigate it all with us; we need only to keep our hearts open to Him.

This same way of thinking can be applied to so many aspects of our lives where there is change:

Has a family member or friend recently been admitted to the hospital … or passed away … thereby changing who is present in your life?
Has a relationship in your life become strained or recently ended?
Have you changed jobs?
Are you sending a child off to college for the first time, thereby changing life as you’ve known it for the past eighteen years? (Been there, done that!)

Or something as seemingly innocuous as:

Has your normal route to work been closed due to construction, thereby changing and lengthening your commute?

Through any change—large or small—remember: God never calls U-Haul. God does not move or change. He is, rather, the steadiest, most loving presence in our lives. God is wherever you are.

(Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash)

Dogs: A Love Story

March is a bad month for Enterline dogs.

Cases in point:

March 5, 2010 — Passing of our twelve-and-a half-year-old black Labrador, Abbey.
March 20, 2017 — Passing of our thirteen-year-old Schnauzer-Poodle, Charlie.

If dogs could read calendars, I’d understand if the hair on our dogs’ backs went up whenever we flipped the calendar from February to March. It probably explains why my pet emotions run high in March, and explains my need to write about them before the end of the month.

There are dogs owners who love their dogs, and then there are dog owners, like my family and me, who LOVE their dogs. Actually, most of the dog owners I know fall into the latter category. And there are lots of us out there.

125,000 of us have followed Pumpkin the dachshund on Instagram, and grieved along with his owner, a lovely young lady in California, when five-year-old Pumpy died from lymphoma earlier this year. Hundreds of messages of sympathy were posted. Likewise, we all recently rejoiced when Pumpy’s momma introduced us to Parker, an equally adorable, longer-haired “hot dog” puppy. (See “pumpkinandparker” on Instagram.)

There’s a two-minute video titled, “So God Made a Dog.” Over a hundred-thousand shares. (click here to view) Be prepared for a smile, a lump in your throat, and for your heart to swell.

Most of us have a favorite dog—or cat, ferret, rabbit, horse, fish, or parrot—story. Our pets get to us. Besides dogs, my family has had a cat, fish, and dwarf hamster. We’ve loved them all (not sure about my husband and the cat), but probably not all in the same way … a deep, deep down way … that we’ve loved our dogs. Dogs are just different. They return our love with such enthusiasm; they love us enthusiastically and unconditionally when we don’t even deserve it.

Which likely explains the tremendous grief we feel when they die. But more on that later. First, a little Enterline canine history … or a tribute of sorts to dogs gone by and to those currently offering us their unconditional love.

I should first explain that, prior to having dogs, and even upon first bringing them home, our two kids were terrified of them. I’m talking “run down the block away from them, hollering the whole time” afraid. (It was a fear that Matt and Nicole probably inherited from me. I can still remember the time, as a single-digit-year-old, I scaled a neighbor’s backyard fence into the arms of my Aunt Nora to get away from another neighbor’s charging, but I think otherwise friendly, German Shepherd.) Rick and I decided the best way to help our kids get over their fear was to actually get a dog. Exposure therapy of sorts, I guess you could say.

Abbey, a black Labrador, was our first family pet. We brought her home in August 1997, from a litter hatched on a farm located about forty-five minutes away from our suburban home in Harrisburg. She was an adorable five-week-old, five pound runt of the litter. The only one in her litter with a white patch on her chest; otherwise she was a fluffy jet black.

Nicole and Matt, ages six and four at the time, started crying a chorus of “No, no no!!!” when I proposed sitting between them with the puppy on the back seat of our Ford Taurus station wagon for the ride home. I considered the “tough love” approach (“Okay guys … get over it!”). Instead, I heeded their protest and rode home on the front passenger seat, with my husband driving, and our five-pound fur ball in a small cardboard box on my lap. She looked ferocious … when she wasn’t sleeping or licking me.

On a hot and sticky Saturday night a few days after Abbey’s homecoming, we heard reports of Princess Diana’s death in a car crash in a tunnel in Paris. I had taken up the task that evening of walking our new puppy up and down the block, trying to teach her to, “go potty.” Even when she did the deed and I made a fuss over her success, it was hard to find happiness in a dog, when the whole world was starting to mourn such a shocking loss.

But we did find happiness in Abbey for twelve and a half years, minus all the times when barking made her happy. Much to our ears’ dismay, Abbey found great joy in barking … at doorbells ringing, of course, and anything she saw from her vantage point at the front window: people, dogs, people walking dogs, cats, dogs chasing cats, deer, rabbits, leaves, and the errant plastic bag or food wrapper that flew by.

Abbey didn’t miss much, which is a good quality in a watch dog. But I suspect our version of one would have been more likely to roll over for a belly rub from an intruder than she would have been to scare them off Cujo-style, with jowls drawn back, frothy beads of saliva spewing, and fangs protruding. Fortunately, we never had to find out.

Abbey had a dislike for professional football, especially the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles weren’t very good at the time (recent success aside, I guess they weren’t very good for a long time), and Abbey fed off my husband’s high stress level whenever the team played. I’m not sure who irritated me more—Abbey for barking, Rick for yelling at her to stop barking, or the Eagles for playing lousy. I usually just left the room.

Despite the strength of her lungs and disdain for the NFL, we dearly loved that dog, including the kids. Abbey had long since dispelled their fears. By the time she passed in March 2010, Nicole was in college and Matt was a high school senior. This sweet creature who, at first, had so cowed them, had helped coax and comfort them through their teen years. The phrase “good and faithful servant” comes to mind. Abbey obviously wasn’t our servant. She was our companion, and in that role she served ever so faithfully.

Next up was Enzo, a black Lab mix, who I named after the main dog character in Garth Stein’s bestseller, The Art of Racing in the Rain.

Enzo was a rebound relationship. It was too quiet in the house after Abbey died. I lasted two months and then decided that we (okay, I) needed another dog. Why was that? What, exactly, was gone, that I needed again so desperately?

It was a presence. Dogs have a presence that our senses get used to and our hearts miss when it’s gone. We see them running after balls and sticks; we hear them barking; we rub their bellies and scratch behind their ears; we feel them snuggle up against us; they lick us; we smell their foul breath when they get too close. Dogs satisfy that part of us that needs to love and be loved; to forgive and be forgiven; to protect and be protected; and to laugh and play.

When I brought Enzo home from the shelter, we had that presence in the house once again. But it took a while to appreciate Enzo’s unique presence.

Enzo, a black Labrador mix, had had a rough start in life, just like all shelter dogs. He was about seven-months-old when the Harrisburg police picked him up while he was roaming the downtown streets and took him to the Humane Society. He spent his next five months there. The day I spotted him in May 2010, he was obviously underweight; his ribs were protruding. He would pace slowly and nervously in his pen, with his head lowered, and then, all of a sudden, he’d start running in a tight circle. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’ll take this one,” I said while pointing toward the spinning dog.

“Are you sure?” replied Lucy, one of the shelter employees.

I wasn’t. But I was sure the dog in front of me needed love and a home, and I had both to give.

The first twenty-four hours of Enzo’s new life in our home made it clear that he was a socially backward bundle of nerves and was still traumatized by his prior life on the streets.

He didn’t bark until day two, when he saw his reflection on the glass of the china cabinet door. He ran away from the sound of the garage door and was terrified at the sight and sound of the mailbox being opened. Enzo had no clue what steps were all about, so for the first few weeks he did a combination slide-tumble down steps and an awkward crawl back up them. And to this day, he recoils whenever we’re on a walk and a truck goes by, the memory of dodging vehicles on the city streets still fresh.

There were times after we brought Enzo home when loving him wasn’t easy. Once he learned how to navigate steps, he decided that it would be fun to nip at my feet whenever I climbed steps in front of him. I started carrying a spray bottle to fend him off.

Enzo made the backyard look like part of a golf course that had been attacked by weekend hackers. His idea of backyard fun (besides chewing it up) was to run across the yard full bore and take a flying leap at me. During one unprepared moment when I had my back to him, his flying leap up onto our back deck knocked me flat on my face and gifted me with bruised ribs to nurse for a few weeks.

For all of his early antics, Enzo has been an awesome dog, very sweet and loving. He went from being our furry Baby Huey to a gentle big brother.

Yes, I eventually decided that Enzo needed a pal.

When I first met Charlie, he, too, was behind bars at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society. He was cowering in the back, right-hand corner of his crate. His eyes were dark, moist, and pierced with fright. His black and silver fur was matted in enough places to conceal the curls we would later discover after his being groomed. (His loving groomer, Andrea, decided that Charlie was a schnoodle, a combination of schnauzer and poodle.)

There was nothing about him that said “special,” except for that look of what he could be with enough love and attention. But how would I ever explain choosing this gnarly-looking dog to the rest of the family. The explanation turned out to be that which explains every great love story: It was devotion and a bond and formed at first sight. Matted hair, rat tail, and bowed legs be damned … this little guy was going to be mine!

The shelter staff had named him Charlie, a name we decided to keep. But, to me, he was also my “Little Man,” a name I often called him. In her memoir,Let’s Take the Long Way Home, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Gail Caldwell describes her feelings the day she brought home her Samoyed puppy, Clementine. Wrote Caldwell: “I had had animals all my life, but never had my heart been seized with such unequivocal love.” That’s what I had found in Charlie

Charlie tolerated other people and dogs. He kind of adored me, though, and the feeling was mutual. There was just something about that dog. It was as if God had taken one of my ribs and created a furry little version of me. I saw some of my soul in him. Charlie’s groomer saw it too. Each time I took Charlie in for a haircut, she would say, “There’s something special between you two.” For some reason I would always reply with, “Really? You think so?” But I knew she was right.

For such a small thing (about 20 pounds), Charlie knew how to stand up for himself. He would growl and snap at ninety-five-pound Enzo whenever the big lug came within a foot of his bowl. Enzo was such a sweet-natured thing … he always backed off.

My Little Man wasn’t able to run very well … hardly ever did. Except when I came through the door. Then he couldn’t get from point A (wherever he was) to point B (me) fast enough. Outside, I never had to use a leash with him. From day one I could always trust that he wasn’t going anywhere. We both just knew—we were a team.

Why all the gushing about my relationship with Charlie? I use it as an example of the bond some of us have with our dogs. I know that I’m far from alone in this. For many of us, there’s “the one” who steals our heart and never lets go.

Until we have to let them go.

We never knew Charlie’s exact age. He looked old when I brought him home. Add the five years he had with us, and who knows … maybe he was around twelve or thirteen. Maybe even fourteen.

I was out of town the day he started having seizures. He died in my arms on our way to the vet the day after I arrived home. As Rick drove and I cradled Charlie, pressing him to my chest, I could feel his heartbeat get slower and slower and then stop. I drew him in tighter, breathed in … inhaled him … kissed the curls on top of his head. I said nothing to Rick. For those few seconds, I just wanted it to be Charlie and me, one last time. Finally, I choked out, “He’s gone.” And it was clear, though I already knew, that Rick dearly loved him too.

A few weeks later, I was back at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society with a friend who had also just lost a dog. “I’m only going, Denise, to help you find a dog!” We both knew that was BS, that I wouldn’t be able to resist adopting another if just the right one gave me “the look” and my heart latched on.

We walked up and down well-kept rows of one pen after another. Some dogs barked, some paced, others slept. There were signs saying, “Please Don’t Pet The Dogs!” But we did, at least the friendlier-looking ones … the little bit we could by reaching in a couple of inches (a common transgression, I’m sure, among shelter visitors).

Denise eyed a brindle Cane Corso (we’re talking BIG dog!). I felt some relief at not having found one. It was probably too soon anyway.

Then I came upon the very last pen, and a bright-eyed, short-legged, long-bodied, scruffy-looking thing. He was a four-year-old dachshund/Jack Russell terrier mix. He had “the look.” Even more, he had “the name.”

Given to him by the staff and typed on a sheet hanging in a page protector on the pen … his name—Little Man.

It was as if I had him back … in a different body … in a different color.

A few days later, Rick and I brought Little Man home. We renamed him Toby … because, well … he’s his own little man. He settled right in. Felt like Toby had already lived with us for years. In many ways, Toby picked up right where Charlie left off. The baton had been passed.

The week before Christmas 2017, I brought home a little sister for Enzo and Toby. A thirteen-year-old Chihuahua mix named Contessa. Blind in one eye, almost deaf (you could slam a door shut and most times she wouldn’t even lift her sweet little head off her bed), massive hernia hanging from her belly. Oh, and she wears diapers. Contessa rules the roost and doesn’t put up with any of the boys’ sh … enanigans. She’s been the perfect addition to our merry little band of misfit dogs.

It’s hard to describe the love that fills me whenever I’m surrounded by my dogs. But other dog lovers—probably animal lovers of any kind—you know what I’m talking about. Is it a kind of love that’s different than human love? Yes, of course. But in a truly lovely way.

Perhaps our love for our dogs—our pets—is more pure. It can’t be based on anything they say, or do, or give to us. And let’s face it, we could say the absolute worst things to our dogs, and they would still come charging at us with tails wagging the next time we come through the door, and lick us from head to toe if we let them.

My love for my dogs is based on no conditions at all. Except maybe one—we need each other.

Christmas 2017 with Toby, Contessa, and Enzo

Thinking about adopting a dog? Consider adopting a senior. You won’t find a dog more grateful to have a happy, loving home.

(Top Photo Credit: Jennifer Regnier on Unsplash)

Edit”Tesstimonial”

“Home is where story begins”

Early last week, as I started gathering my thoughts about today’s newsletter, I found myself stressing over today’s topic, or, actually, topics. The reason boils down to one word: Identity.

I’ve referred to my previous four newsletters as “storyletters”; I’ve shared personal stories rather than news or updates. For today’s newsletter, however, I decided that I wanted to change it up a bit … make it more news than story. But I had a concern. Would “changing it up” also change its identity, even though the “storyletter” identity has only been in place since January 4, 2019?

I posed this question to Dan Blank. Dan is someone whose voice on this and other creativity-related subjects is one I’ve come to listen to and respect. Besides being an author (the terrific Be The Gateway), running his own business (We Grow Media), consulting with clients each day, teaching online courses, and devoting time to his family, Dan has his own weekly newsletter. He is all about connecting with your audience in a personal and genuine way, no matter what your creative outlet is … writing, art, performance, etc.

Dan’s response to my question allayed all of my concerns. He said: “The identity is you … you as a human being. The newsletter is a product of that.” (Thanks, Dan!)

Sooooo … with that in mind, today’s newsletter will be “newsy,” although I guess it’s all just part of “the story of my life.” This chapter can be filed under, “It’s kind of nuts to launch both a newsletter and website during the same month you close on a new house.” It all certainly makes life exciting!

My husband, Rick, and I did, indeed, recently purchase a new home. We’re not moving far, but the new place is closer to family and away from the traffic that delays our trips to see them. It’s not easy to leave our current home, proximity to neighbors & friends, and the community we’ve lived in for thirty-two years. It’s the home where we raised our two children; celebrated birthdays and holidays; mourned loved ones; yelled a little and laughed a lot. We’ve lived thirty-two years of our lives here, with all of the moments and shades of emotion you’d expect over three decades. And pets! Over those years, our home has been made all the more loving by one cat (thanks for putting up with Peanut, Rick), one hamster, and six dogs. So yes, we’ve also cleaned up plenty of “accidents” here too. It has all made our house a home, and we’ll so miss living among our dear friends on Laurel Ridge Drive after we depart sometime this spring.

We’ve been blessed, however, to find another wonderful house, which feels more and more like home to us each time we drop off a few boxes or meet with our contractor to discuss tile, carpet, and paint.

Rick and I looked at one house before deciding to make an offer. Why look at others when you find the one that feels just right … that checks off all your boxes? We didn’t just find another house; we found another home. From our very first visit, we sensed warmth, love, and joy within its walls, all of which, we later learned, were generously extended by the previous owner. We’ll carry it all forward with the family and friends—dogs, too—who will share time and break bread with us there. And we look forward to the sound of little feet running through our new home in the future (but no pressure, kids).

Over these next two months—as we throw things away (Rick) or box them up (me) … as we sell, pack, and move—I hope there will be a family who walks into our current house and says, “This feels like home.” And I can only hope they’ll be as happy here as we have.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you’ll forgive a complete change in tone.

Incredibly, it’s been a year. A year and a day since seventeen students and staff were shot and killed at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, in Parkland, Florida. About the same number were injured; countless others carry emotional scars from that day.

A television news broadcast the day after the shooting provided what has been the most enduring image of that tragedy for me. I watched as one of the first responders talked about what he encountered at the high school.

Coral Gables Fire Department Lieutenant Laz Ojeda described how he twice rubbed the sternum of wounded and semi-conscious student Madeleine “Maddy” Wofford. Twice he asked Maddy, “Hey, how old are you,” sounding like he was pleading with her for a reply as he told the story. Finally, Maddie answered him. “Seventeen,” she said. Lt. Ojeda’s voice cracked and he wiped away tears as he described the scene to the camera crew.

For the community of Parkland, Florida, it will be long time until February 14^th is again synonymous with Valentine’s Day. It’s sadly ironic that, for many, a date meant to celebrate love now commemorates an act of evil. But slowly, in small steps, the pall will gradually lift on February 14^th, in Parkland, just as it will on June 12^th, in Orlando, Florida; on October 1^st, in Las Vegas, Nevada; on November 5^th, in Sutherland Springs, Texas; and on December 14^th, in Sandy Hook, Connecticut.

That doesn’t mean that any of the lives lost on those dates, or on other dates which memorialize the victims of our nation’s tragedies, will ever be forgotten. Nor does it mean that, for victims’ families, there won’t always be one day out of the year that is especially heavy and heartbreaking.

But, in a nod to faith, hope, and the enduring, fighting human spirit … we heal, albeit imperfectly. And we live on, the best we can.

(Photo Credit: Lea Böhm on Unsplash)

Goodbye-Part 1

It was the first week of January 2018, and my father lay dying 2,400 miles away. I was desperate to see him, a desire complicated by the fact that, as my dad grew weaker at home with my mom in Scottsdale, Arizona, an historic bomb cyclone storm (I had never even heard of such a thing until that week) formed as an area of low pressure off the Southeast coast of the United States and was rapidly gaining strength.

I couldn’t believe that something called a “bomb cyclone” was going to keep me from saying goodbye to my dad.

My dad, Nicholas Joseph Corsi, born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1926, nine days after and around the block from my mom, Matilda Josephine Troise, was stoic and stubborn as he battled Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS) over the last dozen years of his life. MDS is a disease that slowly depletes the body of healthy blood cells, especially in bone marrow. Gradually, organs in the body—heart, lungs, and kidneys—weaken. Compromised oxygen to the brain can lead to confusion and memory loss. The WebMD site states: “most people who get MDS are 65 or older, but it can happen to younger people too. And it is more common in men.”

Progression of a disease like myelodysplastic syndrome can be quite slow, even in an older individual like my dad (he had just turned ninety-one on December 28, 2017) who had not escaped other serious ailments. He was already down to one kidney after a malignant tumor robbed him of the other in 1995; he had gone through radiation treatment for prostate cancer in 2000; and in 2014 he suffered a heart attack due to a blockage in the artery referred to as “the widow maker.” A stent took care of that.

But by New Year’s Day 2018, my dad was sleeping through most of the day and eating very little. We were all aware of his end-of-life wishes to not have any extreme measures taken to prolong his life, knowledge which didn’t make the burden of my mother’s next decision any lighter, but she could feel comfortable with it: to stop treatment and request care from one of the hospice chapters in the Phoenix/Scottsdale area—Hospice of the Valley. The paperwork had already been taken care of in anticipation of the day when hospice would be needed. Carrie made a call to my dad’s doctor on January 2^nd to set the process in motion; I got online and booked a flight into Phoenix for Saturday, January 6^th, which allowed time to get to the other side of the impending storm.

We had grown accustomed to the process of a very long, slow decline in my dad. We were all used to dad being sick. Now we had to face a new reality—dad being gone. Sooner than any of us expected. During the second visit by the hospice team, on January 3^rd, two loving-as-could-be women gently shared with my mom and sister that my dad probably only had days to live.

I wanted … needed … to get to Arizona right away and not have to wait for Saturday. The winter cyclone, which was wreaking havoc at every airport within a 100-mile radius of my home in central Pennsylvania, stood in the way. My dad was sick for so long. What are the freaking chances that his final days and a bomb cyclone would collide?

As I watched The Weather Channel and endlessly repeated images of the storm—a pinwheel-shaped, spinning mass in shades of gray and white, covering huge swaths of the East Coast—I felt jealous.

I envied the storm’s freedom as it boldly shimmied, shifted, and swirled wherever it pleased, while those of us living miles under its path were held captive in our homes. Damn you, winter, I thought. You have no right to deny me a goodbye.

I felt like both of my feet had been plunged into buckets of fast-drying cement. I wasn’t going anywhere. If the planes were grounded, so was I.

And there was a part of me that was relieved by that fact.

I’m a nervous flyer in the best of conditions, relying on Ativan to quiet my nerves. Just a small dose … it’s enough to “take the edge off.” But the thought of flying in the immediate aftermath of a bomb cyclone storm, with temperatures well below freezing and de-icing trucks sitting on many runways at the ready, didn’t sit well. And then there was the larger issue—the one that really mattered, the one that made me feel like a selfish child: Did I truly want to be next to my dad when he took his final breath? I did so want to be there to join with my sister in supporting our mother, who was about to lose her husband of sixty-seven years.

My sister, who, as the only sibling living in Scottsdale or anywhere in the West (my brother and I both live on the East coast), had shouldered most of the responsibility of helping our parents. I didn’t want Carrie to also have to shoulder the burden of grief that would come at the end. I wanted to be brave and selfless. I wanted to be a hospital chaplain again—comforting the dying … consoling their loved ones. But, even ten years after walking away from hospital chaplaincy, some memories of the trauma cases I was involved in still live very close to the surface. When a trigger sets off the tripwire in my emotions, my immediate impulse is often to flee the situation. So, I had to ask myself: Would I be able to handle the sight of my dad’s passing? I was unsure. But I was willing to find out. My place was there.

My cell phone rang at 7:15 the next morning. It was only 5:15 a.m. in Scottsdale when Carrie called, but she needed to talk and cry. Dad was fading quickly, she said.

“I don’t think you’re going to make it here in time, Tess.”

Her words were like a thrown stone striking the center of a sheet of glass. My heart broke, from its center, the pain then rippling outward. My hopes of seeing my dad one last time were shattered.

I wanted to say, “Carrie, you have to tell dad that he has to wait for me. Tell him that he has to be stubborn like he always is.” Yet, can a dying man be convinced to stay alive if his soul has other intentions? How could I ask more of my father than Our Father apparently had? Together, they were setting the schedule.

That Thursday afternoon—with my dad failing and planes still grounded—I placed a call to Carrie’s cell phone. She held it up to my dad’s ear. I could barely get the words out … words I hadn’t said to him nearly enough.

“I love you, dad.”

I can only hope what Carrie said next was true, that he reacted to the sound of my voice.

“It looked like dad was listening,” she said.

I choked out a goodbye to my sister. I sat and sobbed and cursed nature for being so cruel.

Friday morning arrived, and with it, God’s indulgence—my dad had made it through another night. Improved weather was also finally allowing planes to take-off from Philadelphia International Airport again. A limited number of flights to Phoenix were available.

Could I actually make it to my dad’s side in time? I knew that I had to try, or risk regret for the rest of my days. I quickly placed two phone calls—to my husband, Rick (“I’m going!”) and to my sister (“I’m coming!”). And then a mad dash to pack before Rick picked me up for the short ride to the train station, for the first leg of a trip that would have me in Scottsdale that evening.

As I sprinted through my morning with a boosted sense of hope in seeing my dad, the journey of another winter traveler was already in progress aboard an Amtrak train headed from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg. Once there it would pick up additional passengers—some (including me) headed to Philadelphia, a number to New York City, and others to points along the way.

That other winter traveler … I thank God for him to this day.

(Photo Credit: Todd Diemer on Unsplash)

Please read Part 2 for the continuation of this story.

Goodbye-Part 2

January 5, 2018:
The frigid cold that Friday morning made every second outside a second too long. Everyone moved quickly down along the train platform, and, one-by-one, disappeared into their chosen car, traces of exhaled breath disappearing in the air right behind them.

I typically choose a seat in one of the middle cars of the train. My rationale: It’s a safer location than one of the front cars in the event of a head-on collision, and, I felt, provided a smoother, more anchored, ride than a car in the rear of the train. On that particular day, I’m sure I made a beeline for the closest car, collisions and anchors be damned.

After hoisting my suitcase onto the luggage rack, I made my way to a forward-facing window seat near the front of the car (interesting fact: forward-facing seats out of Harrisburg become rear-facing seats—and vice versa—when the train pulls out of 30^th Street Station in Philadelphia and switches tracks before continuing on to New York City.)

Settled into my seat, I sent a text message to my sister. “I’m on the train. Tell mom and dad I’m on my way!”

My cell phone rang only seconds after I hit “send.” It was Carrie calling with wonderful news—she and one of the aides had gotten dad freshened up. “He’s ready for company!” she said.

My muscles relaxed with relief at the news. I could feel myself settle deeper into my seat. I had made the right decision about hopping on a flight and would get to see my dad one last time.

The train started a slow roll out of the station. We had no sooner cleared the platform when I became aware (it was impossible not to) of a cell phone conversation going on one row behind me, in the aisle to my right. An older gentleman, looking tired and rumpled as he held the phone to his ear, was obviously not happy, and was spelling it all out for the party on the other end as to why and who was to blame (besides the bomb cyclone). He didn’t seem to care whether all of the forward- or rear-facing passengers heard him. It went on like that until we arrived at the next stop, in Middletown, about a ten-minute ride. And then, finally, quiet.

What happened next, I can’t fully explain.

I turned around in my seat, looked up at this stranger and said, “Sounds like you’ve had a rough day so far.”

He looked a bit startled by a voice being directed at him, and embarrassed by the realization that he hadn’t been speaking in his “quiet voice.” Then, the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. It was a look that said, “Busted.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation (might as well own it). You sound upset,” I said to the loud-talker. Then, patting the empty seat next to me, I added: “Would you like to sit down and talk about it? I bet it’ll help.”

Whoa … where the heck did that come from?

I have to make something absolutely clear: Although I do consider myself a nice person, I am notusually the assertive type who will be so out-front and offer help so publicly. I’m quiet and low-key. The person who had just uttered those words to the loud-talker … that’s not generally who I am. So I was startled, too, by the words that came spilling out of my mouth.

“No … thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so loud. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Why don’t you sit down. I’d really love to talk, and it’ll make the trip go by faster for both of us.”

And he did. And we talked … for about forty-five minutes.

His name was Tony. Looked to be in his late seventies. He had been traveling by rail (his flights canceled by the storm) since the day before, working his way home to New Jersey following a visit with family in Texas. He was diabetic, so traveling by train and through train stations made meals a challenge. Had some heart problems, too.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“I’m going to Scottsdale, Arizona, to visit my parents and sister.” No need to get into the whole story.

When Tony said that he going back to his seat—he had already taken up too much of my time, he said—it was so that he could eat something, he was hungry. The only food in his bag, he said, was a piece of chocolate cake that he had picked up at Union Station in Pittsburgh.

Chocolate cake! I imagined Tony finishing half the slice and then starting to shake or fall unconscious from diabetic shock in the seat right behind me.

“You can’t eat that! You’re diabetic. Here … take this banana.” The ease with which I pushed food on Tony was a sure sign that we had become friends.

He gratefully accepted my offering and returned to his seat. I turned back around in mine and gazed out the window at the passing fields, strip malls, and gas stations. I guess that’s my mitzvah (good deed) for today, I thought.

Being able to listen to Tony and see him relax had relaxed me as well. Yet, there was also something unsettling about the randomness of my interaction with him. We were two people trying to get to opposite coasts. He was heading East; I was heading West. But, for a two-and-a-half-hour pocket of time on January 5, 2018, coincidence, or fate, brought us together aboard an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia. Why, I wondered.

As I stared out the window, I heard a ping sound from my cell phone, alerting me to a new text message. An hour before, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone so quickly, fearing a dire message regarding my father; Carrie’s earlier call had soothed those concerns. Which made her text message all the more jolting.

“Tess, dad passed about ten minutes ago. He went very peacefully. I’m so sorry you weren’t here. I just can’t talk right now. I’ll call you soon.”

What? Was I really sitting alone on a train and being told that my father had just died? I was stunned by how quickly everything had changed. Wasn’t he “ready for company” just an hour ago? It was his time, I tearfully told myself. His soul did have other intentions.

And then I remembered Tony, my new friend, sitting right behind me, and having the same name as my father’s lifetime friend and the Best Man at his wedding. Although not a blood relative, we kids called him “Uncle Tony.” Maybe it was my father who had given me a nudge to say something to my new Tony. Maybe that’s how dad wanted me to remember that day … by helping Tony.

The train continued rolling toward Philly, and I sat in awe of God’s designs.

I had not been alone when my dad took his final breaths; Tony was sitting right beside me. When my dad was in his final moments on this earth—moments that I couldn’t share in—I could listen to Tony. I could be present to him and try to comfort him. I could be a chaplain again.

Today, as I send this storyletter out to you, I’m back in Scottsdale with family to mark the one-year anniversary of my dad’s passing. I can think back to January 5, 2018 and not be overcome with sadness, because I also think of my friend, Tony, and how he came into my life at just the right time. That is the joy and wonder of God’s ways.

There are many more “Tonys” out there. Let us always be open to the gentle spirit who nudges us to welcome them into our life.

(I never did tell Tony or anyone else on the train that my dad had passed away. I just wanted to hold that close.)