GODS AND DEMONS

"...along with this longing and this sadness and this tenderness, there's an immense sense of well-being, unconditional well-being, which doesn't have anything to do with pleasant or unpleasant, good or bad, hope or fear, disgrace or fame..."


                                Pema Chodron,START WHERE YOU ARE, 1994






I had to have another blood test this week. A regular event every few months, monitoring blood pressure meds, cholesterol levels, all the usual stuff. Like most everyone, I hate going to any medical appointments. Because my sister, the nurse, takes care of most of my parents medical meetings (as their proxy), most of my hospital "visits" are on the front-end of an emergency situation--or the back-end of one, visiting. I handle my own med situations, solo. I've been "private" for as long as I can remember. Even when friends and lovers offer, I usually manage, solo.



The hospital, with its raw odors, revolving staff, curving hallways and fluorescent lights, makes me feel as if I'm on a spaceship with humans, and friendly aliens, working together.(It isn't exactly "abduction flashbacks", but it isn't a roller coaster at Magic Mountain, either.) Even for the fairly banal check-in for the bloodwork, I can feel my blood pressure begin to rise.




The entire operation is over in less than fifteen minutes. I arrive the moment the lab opens and park in a fairly empty lot, closest to the main entrance of the hospital. I usually get the "end of shift" nurses taking last specimens of their night. That's cool. I  kid them about my sister being a nurse and working the graveyard shift in Worcester. I even forgive the sometimes "pinching" stab that a weary technician can administer just before taking off for the weekend. For me, seeing the blood pumping via my heart's own efforts, into the vial, means that I'm alive and I've taken responsibility for the contractual agreement between me and my doctor. (The "hard part" is the follow up visit, next week,  facing a cute practitioner who is half my age.) Her advice is smart, well informed and to some extent, "caring". (Of course, I have to believe this...) On the other hand, she is young, a bit cocky, sleek, toned, tanned and has most likely been that way all of her life. I wonder what she truly "gets" about closing in on 60--let alone being " a rebellious writer"? I wonder if she's ever experienced losing everything, more than once--including relationships that were meant to be lifelong-- or having to rebuild, in extreme humility. (Even these visits are humbling.) Has she ever been in a place where, educated, knowing what one "should do/need to do/mean to do" gets t-boned by life's unexpected demands: professional, personal, familial, emotional, spiritual?




Our discussions about pharmaceuticals and side-effects: possible death...Her answer: "Well, every drug has side effects--you have to look at the statistics and insurance warnings!" 
Yeah.
But what of the thousands of words I've read regarding conspiracy theories and control of the drug companies by a military industrial complex led by the wealthy families "at the top, forever"?  What about the spiritual risks and considerations of not accepting one's life for what it is: mortal? What about the stress of stress-reduction activities forced upon one's life when one simply wants to simplify? Or the feelings of judgments and failure when one doesn't comply, completely?




Back  home again, my father receives a notice of his upcoming eye surgery for cataracts. My mother, ever the "worst- possible- scenario keeps you prepared" believer (though it makes her a crazed banshee, while she runs around the house arguing and fighting with anyone present, later explaining it all away by: "that's my way of relieving stress!"; never owning that this makes life miserable for the rest of us, while she is engaging in such activity) freaks out, believing my father does not know nor understand the compliance form he is signing. And while the letter clearly invites Dad to call the doc's office and get any of the questions "they" have, cleared up, Mom insists on going to the worst outcome: Dad will be rendered blind.  (She will have to take care of him...)  Of course, HER recent cataract surgery went fine, and now she is bragging how she doesn't have to wear any glasses, even to drive! But Dad has chosen laser surgery--which was not Mom's choice. And so, some of her "triumph" and "I know more than you" braggadocio gets deflated, because he has chosen the more "risky" (in her mind) procedure. Also, her own dark night fears projected upon him...(When I remind her that if SHE went blind, Dad would take care of HER-- all of us are around to help, if either of them would need that care--I get a big roll-of-her-eyes and sarcastic- exhale- of- breath. (I know this translates into: what could YOU do?)
Dad continues to squint and read aloud the final compliance form.






It seems to me that it is a form that covers three alternative approaches and Dad understands this. He also says he will call the office to get clarification--as well as call my nurse-sister. He is clear he is picking the laser procedure. (It is also clear my mother is pushing for him to stay with the manual operation--which she had--though, at the time, she was almost as unreasonable about that operation...) I remind her (stupidly, fruitlessly, angry with myself for not just swallowing my opinion, though, when I do that, she accuses me of "running away from the conversation"--- there is no winning and no participation, either way) all she can do is fire back: "You are too much like your father--you never worry about the worst- case; if you know the worst- case- scenario you can be prepared! Somebody in this house has to do that!"






Perhaps unbeknownst to my parents, I have spent my entire life, from childhood to adulthood, "preparing" for the worst- case of everything. Later, I went through the period of rejecting anything "negative"--including people whose outlook contained those scenarios. Neither approach made me happy; nor enlightened; nor even saved me; far as I can see. Both made me irritable and feeling a bit ridiculous.( Sappy. Uncool.)
 Afraid.


(I have fought nightmares; demons; the idea of alien colonization of us into a penal planet; the death of everyone I love; the death of everyone I know; loss of an entire sense of who I thought I would be; the loss of the religion I'd bet on; even my own end. Worst- case- scenarios my parents would little dream of, have played in my brain, for decades. (Even found their ways into my published work!) Have any of them manifested, outright? Have they prepared me, in any way, except to suffer from increased stress?)






Now, it's time for the Middle Path. Time to breathe. Accept what I cannot change--except to have some small impact through kindness practice and tonglen.  To honestly believe we are all, one breath away from waking up and remembering our reality--not this passing role in this baggy- skin- costume--but who we really are. Time to be brave and just sit, each day, being open-hearted and non-judgmental of self; being willing to touch the soft places inside; breathing out blessings.


For my doctor.
For my Mother.
For my Father.
For my siblings.
For us all.






Worst case scenario? I am The Fool.


Best case scenario?  We are all perfect, just as we are, right now: believe.      

DON'T EXPECT APPLAUSE

Of course, anyone over ten  years old in modern times knows this: if you do something expecting praise, it will usually explode in your face. Lots of sadness;bitterness; self-loathing; revenge; anger and more than a little upset often occurs because people enter into actions simply to reap reward. Small or large, riches or applause, it boils down to the same thing on a molecular level.


While it is always good to GIVE thanks, it must come from the heart. It must not simply be an activity of manners (though Buddhists love manners!). It must truly be felt and be a means of connection to the other being. (All beings deserve thanks for sharing this epic with us...seriously.)
Once again, the simplest gesture is fraught with deep meaning. I guess this is the point: everything counts. (So, Man, if I say "thank you" and you wonder if it was a cursory line or I really mean it, believe I mean it. Please!)


After a year of working in several jammed up situations where I know I positively impacted on what was happening, I find myself still not promoted, still not called into the head office for that "serious discussion about full-time and higher-status work".  I have demonstrated all the factors that they teach you, even now, in professional school: be prepared; be neat and well groomed; be on time; be pleasant; work hard and do more than what is expected; be fair to all; do not engage in gossip or negativity; be clear on goals and current professional standards; love your work. I have new letters of recommendation from past bosses, current peers, colleagues and even students. (Does anyone really read these?) I have made friends among my staff and administration and reaped their approval and recommendations, as well. I have thanked everyone for a good year, honestly, and let it be known I am open and ready for the "next step". However, there is silence.


In the past three  years, "silence" has meant suspension in this place of insecurity. Now, students wonder, too: "Ms. Minns is a great teacher. I really like her. Why don't they hire her, full-time?" It is difficult to keep rising from the floor and seem like you know what you are doing; that you deserve respect of the profession; that you haven't committed some heinous mistake that prevents your being boosted up the next rung. Still, I have gotten up from the sawdust on the floor, trying to smile. Trying to accept what I do not understand. I have attempted to hone my game. To strengthen my portfolio. To be able to "fit" any situation where I have been positioned, even if it wasn't what I expected nor really desired. I did not expect "thanks"--but I guess I have expected some clear professional notice. (I know I've expected a job interview, if not an outright offer...or at least some "tips" on how I might change so to better fit the work environment around me...)


The point I've missed, according to Buddhist teaching, is the endpoint of all: desire. Once we fall into the trap, it dooms the outcome. Or, rather, it CREATES an outcome for which we have no real understanding. Like the story of the man whose son is hurt in an accident and walks, forever, with a limp, coming to realize that that accident has made his son unfit for military conscription, and thus, saved his life, I do not know what is ahead of me, nor why things keep remaining out of my grasp. I do not know.


I don't know why the people who should be seeing the work I put in don't seem to notice. (Others do, and for that, I am forever in their debt. They soothe my soul, even if they don't understand that they do. Namaste.) I don't know why I must continue to put my salary into a car that is rusting beneath me, just to be able to go to work. I don't know why I must teach subjects I am not an expert in, when I have proven I can teach subjects for which I've worked my entire life and am especially prepared to teach. I do not know why I have a life that is "stuck" in a kind of time-warp, when I've just been trying to do what the Universe pointed to as "correct to do". I cannot see what is ahead. Sometimes, I cannot even feel it...yet, I know I must trust the unknown.


Pema Chodron writes, : "Simply keep the door open without expectations." 
(START WHERE YOU ARE; a guide to compassionate living; 1994)


So, I shall. 

MOLLY MALONE MINNS

After a family depression and mourning period--one in which Dad commanded: "No more dogs!" and Ann (mother of Maeve) announced: "No more dogs--at least for a while--at least no more little dogs--at least no more sick dogs--at least no more Cavaliers..."


The Universe opened up and laughed:HARDYHARHAR...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




Another nurse at Ann's workplace mentioned that her mother had a dog that needed a good home. Her mother had begun a new relationship and just wasn't there enough to give the dog the kind of attention she had lavished when she first acquired the animal. (GRRRRRRR!)




Ann asked the usual questions (after her blood stopped boiling):  "How old is the dog?"


Answer: fairly young...between four and six, maybe?


Ann: "How healthy is the dog?"


Answer: she has a couple of "loose teeth" and needs a new rabies shot...


Ann: "Any weird issues with the dog?"


Answer: no, she's quiet, has gotten used to being alone most of the day, likes to ride, is good with kids and isn't aggressive to other dogs.


Ann: "What kind of dog is she?"


Answer: Do you know what a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel is???????????????????????????????






Ann wasn't sure she was ready. (I knew that this family needed another dog. There will never be one to live, full-time, at 88 Maple Street, of course, but we needed one among the tribe--preferably with Ann, who has the income and situation where a dog can be well cared for, forever, amen.) Ann needed a dog. The  loss of Maeve was huge for her. And while it is a painful reminder of the passing of one's fur-child, it is also a tribute to the passed animal, to adopt another animal in dire need.




"Molly" was in dire need.




(I promised, throughout the summer, to come and doggie-sit. To arrive and take dog for walks, to play with her, to spend quality time with her, to feed her her supper while Ann slept getting ready for the night-shift. I promised NOT to teach the dog anything Ann didn't want me to teach--none of Maeve's Wonder Dog tricks (also called "bad habits KK taught Maeve"...) I promised no non-dog food: no guacamole nor any other spicy stuff; no Thai scraps; no Vietnamese spring rolls; no spaghetti with clams; nada, but doggie high quality stuff. I promised to not coddle the dog but keep her independent and retain only a "dog's place" in the family. No anthromorphic transformations into a "fur person". I would also not play my harmonica in Ann's house; in Ann's yard; around Ann's pool; in Ann's woods--nor Brenda's gardens. I would pick up "hidden poops" and not use a high pitched baby voice when addressing the dog. And if we ever had a blizzard that kept Ann in Worcester, over-night, I would somehow manage to plow my way to Otter River and take care of the snowbound hound--even though Brenda is next door, with her boyfriend....I promised.)




We needed a dog, again.
(I needed a dog, again.)
Ann needed a dog again, most of all.




So, Molly came, with her "first human", to visit.
When she jumped out of the back of the SUV, un-aided, it was as if Maeve had had a puppy and the puppy had grown up and now was with us!
Molly, being an American Cavalier, was half the height and weight of Maeve.
Aside from that, her coloring, markings, freckles, little-puppy-on-an-adult-dog face, brown eyes, all like Maeve's! (So much so, Brenda couldn't hang out with Molly on the first visit.)


She was not as demonstrative as Maeve, but she happily, if shyly, greeted both Ann and me.
She then chose to explore the yard, the grounds, the swimming pool area, the decks. She had NO TROUBLE negotiating all the stairs in the house. In fact, this littler version of Maeve, in her puppy-cut hair and clipped tinier feet, zoomed upstairs and down, sniffing and evaluating everything.


Her "first human" showed us her one "trick": Molly would dance, on hind legs, and then in circles, if the word "treat" was mentioned. She also had this very high tiny whiney bark--but only used her voice (unlike Maeve) when asking for a treat, or to go out.
After ten  minutes on the porch, and several "treats", Molly jumped into Ann's lap and sat there, quietly. It was done.




(However: The BALD TRUTH EMERGED.)


Molly's "first human" had been an uneducated owner of a highly needful breed. Cavaliers, as we had come to know, have lots of health issues. Molly had terrible teeth. Her "first human" had not brushed them nor ever taken Molly to a doggie dentist. And.... Molly was six years old, not four...


Molly did, however, allow Ann, a relative stranger, to look into her mouth: horror!
"If you take her to the vet and you get these teeth looked after, I will take her." Ann was clear. "I cannot take a sick animal. I just got done with thirteen years, almost, of taking care of a diabetic dog with a heart murmur and I can't ever go through that again."
Molly, with the stinky, drooling, decayed teeth looked up at Ann.
Molly's "first human" tearfully agreed. (She was a nice, older woman with a new boyfriend and just not a lot of time or energy to take care of a needy doggie--nor get educated about those needs. But, she had the dough and the will to find a great home for her little doggie companion.)




A week later, SIXTEEN teeth removed from Molly's infected mouth, a newly groomed and much happier, (if slightly swollen-faced) twelve pound Cavalier sprang into our lives.




First night over, Ann tried to brush Molly. (Ann brushes her animals the way our mother used to brush Ann's and Brenda's hair-- harshly. To Ann, as to my mother, this was a kind of "tough love".) Most dogs resent it. Maeve would often "cujo out" when Ann did it. I have the opposite approach: gentle in all things.  (Ann and the family translate that into " ineffective in all things".) However, the dogs seem to agree with me.


Molly yelped that high pitched "yip".
Then, for the first time, she ran away from Ann, and hid in the little round bed that her "first human" had left with Ann--along with four other beds...sigh.


(It didn't take Molly long to forgive, though.) Ten minutes of giving Ann "the stink eye", and Molly was back, bouncing around the parlor.


Soon, her favorite place in the house was upstairs, sleeping with Ann, glued to Ann's side, on the giant Temperpedic Queen bed. Ann got Molly a low stool to jump on, as Molly was afraid of the doggie staircase that Maeve had once used. From the stool, Molly, light as a fairy, sprang onto Ann's mattress, and slept like a compact red and white log, undisturbed by Ann's snores.

Now, with no more infected teeth nor anything rotten in her mouth, she, like Maeve, only smelled of clean dog. Though definitely not as "kiss crazy" as Maeve was, Molly was affectionate as only Cavaliers seem to be. Instead of constant licking of humans, she would softly put her whole face into any human bending in her direction, then, just as softly, bump her forehead against the human head. Or she would nuzzle an extended hand--as long as it moved slowly--rubbing her entire button nose in the palm.  Gentle, dainty, very "femme" (where Maeve was fierce), Molly was the perfect antidote to Maeve's passage.






When her follow-up at the doggie dentist came, Ann had her "first person" get Molly's ears checked. Lo and behold, it wasn't the rough brushing of Molly's curls that caused the yelp...Molly had an ear infection--perhaps caused by the rotten teeth! So now, it was a matter of ear drops--which Ann is an expert at delivering to unwilling patients of all kinds.


Molly tolerated the administering of them, though retreated back to her round bed after the procedure. (The only time she uses that round bed on the floor is after "a procedure".) More "silent treatment: and "dirty looks", but then,  she forgives everyone and is back to prancing and dancing and following us around.






Typical Cavalier: she loves everyone who visits, though, as with many tiny dogs, she is watchful of where people walk or move too fast. She greets everyone,wagging her tail, at the door. If she likes you, she hangs around to play. If she is indifferent, she heads upstairs, to the giant queen bed, and stretches out as if she owns it--which, I guess, now, she does...






We have worked out our routine for the summer: I go over when I am done with whatever. Ann is usually home from work and asleep. Molly hears me slip in the door. She zooms downstairs to meet me. We dance around for a bit. She gets a treat and a walk outside, immediately. She pees, drinks from her bone-shaped bowl, outside, then patrols the yard with me. Sometimes she poops. (Unlike Maeve, who had mighty poops, Molly's are like Tootsie Rolls...) I pick them up and dispose of them. We hang out in the sun for a while. She studies the bird, squirrels, chipmunks and butterflies at the bird-feeders. Then, it is time for her dinner. I feed her the prescribed amount Ann has outlined--a mixture of the remaining "old food from her first home" and the new "high grade food" Ann has purchased especially for her. Molly Malone insists that I watch her eat--something Ann is not happy about, but, hey, I like to eat with people, too. Molly  is very delicate and doesn't make the mess Maeve did when she ate--spitting out the bits she didn't like. ( In fairness to Maeve, Molly is eating only tiny- bite, dry food, unlike Maeve, who had gourmet, cooked soft, dinners, and was twice the size of Molly.) She is always thankful. So far, she eats everything I give her.


After dinner, Molly likes to watch a movie with me. (No lie.) She started hopping on my lap, on Ann's leather recliner, back to me--as Maeve used to do--for "doggie massage".  (I was shocked and moved the first time she did this.) She also burps, like Maeve used to do, after she eats. (No one believed me until I made them notice that Maeve always burped after meals--and sometimes would come to me to pat her on the back and butt, until the burp came up! ) I know of no other breed that does this...but these two Cavaliers surely did and do!




At the conclusion of "doggie massage"-- around twenty minutes of being petted-- she jumps down and stretches out, sometimes watching me, sometimes watching the t.v. Often, she falls asleep, digesting. When the movie concludes and the credits are rolling, she wakes up, drags and stretches like a cat along the rug, and lets me know she's ready for another "outside adventure". This is the "official poop after dinner hour".  Then, I get to swim for a while. (She patiently hangs on the deck, observing the birds and butterflies, for about five laps.) At that point, she's had enough and wants to go inside.) She is definitely an indoor dog--as was Maeve. She will "keen" and dance until I exit the water, opening the screen door for her re-entry to the house. Once inside, she will quietly wait until I am through with swimming. (I find her generosity admirable.)






Upon my return, we play a bit more and she has "dessert". Then, she is ready to go  upstairs, to cuddle with Ann until Ann has to get ready for work. That's my signal to exit. Molly is fine about my going. (As with Maeve, I am merely "the companion", and not "the new first human".) That is how it should be. Isn't that the usual role for every "aunt"?





Molly Malone is less personality-driven than Maeve. She is less overtly affectionate and demonstrative than Maeve. She is smaller,less bossy, and less demanding. (Maeve was a Diva-fierce Queen and was born, knowing that role.) Maeve was Queen of the Fairies (what her Celtic name translated into); Molly IS a fairy (dog). She will never lift her leg to pee. She will probably never "cujo out" when we have to do anything to her. She will never hump her toys, as Maeve routinely did when bored. She won't go after other dogs, just to prove she's "number one". However, she will love us and listen to us and follow us and delight us; it's in her genes; in her blood.




She is her own "fur person"--I don't have to teach her anything.




While she will never replace Maeve: the Wonder Dog, and Maeve's ashes will forever stay amongst us, Molly is a gift of transition that the Universe sent. She is her own little miracle. And like Maeve, we have saved each other.






Namaste to All Beings, Everywhere.


Happy Summer!