The Sunshine Cat: A Tribute To Budd, My Best Furry Friend

Last weekend, after eleven years of happy life, we had to put our cat Rodney to sleep. He had advanced kidney disease, and though medications helped him feel better for a little while, eventually his body started to shut down. It was a tough decision, but one that I knew was right. I’ve witnessed too many other pets suffering and as a responsible and compassionate caregiver, it was my final act of love to a cat that was so much more than “just a cat.”

Rodney came into my life in 1999. It was Thanksgiving, and my boyfriend and I were at my parent’s house for dinner. My mother had failed to spay and neuter her 5 cats, and so she had two litters of kittens to find homes for. We were about to move into our first apartment and I knew I wanted animals, so we decided to take two kittens home. There was an argument over which two to choose. There were two black and white kittens and one grey/black and white. My boyfriend thought the grey kitten was ugly (A testament of his character), and wanted to take the two that looked alike. I argued that the grey kitten was beautiful and sweet. I agreed that we would take the first two that came to us, knowing full well that one would be the friendly grey kitten. I named him Rodney, after the guinea pig from Dr. Doolittle, and his brother Rudy, after the football movie.

Rodney proved himself to be the friendliest cat on the planet. He loved people, loved attention and thought nothing of slamming his head against stranger’s legs when they were visiting. Everyone loved him, even friends of mine who hated cats. He even left an impression on the technician who was hooking up our cable. Rodney insisted on helping with the installation, by rubbing on every wire and tool and then jumped in the tech’s lap, purring loudly. The man then said, “I’ve never been much for cats, but this guy is so sweet, I think he’s changing my mind.” He had that affect on people.

Over the years, as I brought more and more animals home, Rodney always welcomed them with a friendly sniff and rub of fur. When my dogs shoved their noses into his side roughly, he would counter with a gentle head butt. When our new kitten wanted to play, Rodney obliged, teaching him how to chase string and catch mice. When my niece would visit and the other cats would run, it was Rodney who stayed, letting her pet and pull his fur. He loved the attention. Rodney was all about love. And every morning I would wake to ten pounds of fur on my chest, whiskers tickling my face and purring rumbling in my ear. It was time for breakfast, and when Rodney was hungry, he let you know.

Rodney was the first to greet you at the door and welcome you into our home. He loved bird watching in the window, stuffing himself into tiny boxes and stretching out in the sunshine that streaked across the floor. He loved bottle caps, balls of tinfoil and shoelaces. He loved French fries, potato chips and tomato sauce. But most of all, he loved me. From the minute I brought him home he was attached to my hip. He followed me everywhere, even the bathroom. He was always by my side. He was there for every up and down of my life and always offered a purr on my lap and an ear to listen. I love all my animals, but Rodney, my Budd, was my special cat.

A few days before he passed, though he had stopped eating, he still had some energy. It was a beautiful, warm spring-like day in February, a very rare occurrence. We had gone grocery shopping. Romeo propped the door open to bring in the bags, and as usual, there was Rodney, curious as ever. I started taking down my winter flag to replace it as he slowly stepped onto the porch. He sniffed the warm air, the plants on the steps that were still brittle from winter and squinted his eyes at the brightness of the sun. I sat down next to him, he pushed his head into my hand and together we enjoyed the sunshine. We sat there for about 40 minutes, until a bee came buzzing over, but that’s just because I was afraid. Rodney gently sniffed the bee and watched it buzz away. He was always friendly, always gentle, always loving.

When we went in, we left the door open so that he could still enjoy the sunshine. First he sat there, perfectly, just staring out the door before stretching out exactly in the beam on the floor. In the days that followed, he became more sluggish, less interested in being near us and I knew it was time.

I’ve been a part of countless euthanasia’s during my time working at shelters and animal hospitals. I can honestly say that there has never been one that didn’t affect me. Whether I knew the pet or not, I was always sad, allowing myself to feel for the life we were about to free. So, of course, I knew what to expect and had prepared myself as much as possible for the inevitable. Still, I had never had to put my own pet to sleep, and this was my “special” cat. It was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do, extremely heartbreaking and emotionally painful. But, it was also very peaceful. I knew that he was no longer in pain, no longer suffering and I was so thankful to be there, stroking his fur and telling him I loved him as he passed.


Of course I cried, a lot, and still do every now and then. It’s strange to come home and not have him there greeting me, or to sit down and not have him in my lap. Our other animals feel it too. Ripken has been much more clingy than usual. Perhaps he learned a thing or two from Rodney about how to express love. And, maybe he sent that baby kitten to us to rescue, knowing that we’d take good care of her.

I’m thankful for the warm February day we got to enjoy and for the eleven years that I got to share with a very special soul who brought sunshine to my life every day. When I think of Rodney, I like to imagine that he’s sprawled out in the grass somewhere on a warm spring day, smelling the flowers, making friends with the bugs and other animals, soaking up the sun and making everything around him feel his love.

Why I'm Going To Be A Great Mom

I announced a while back that my husband and I are pursuing surrogacy as a means to become parents. While most people are supportive of this decision, there are still some who disagree with our choice for various reasons. Needless to say, we made this decision after careful thought, consideration and discussion. We have no doubts about our capabilities. Still, I could hear some of the opposing questions in the back of my mind. “Aren’t your lives hard enough already?” “What if your disease takes a turn for the worst?” “Are you physically capable of caring for a child?” Then I came across an article that will hopefully help to put those questions to rest.

The September 5, 2010 issue of Parade magazine included a cover story called Miracle Mom. It tells the story of a woman who has a severe neuromuscular disease, which makes her bones extremely weak and brittle and her lungs prone to infection. She has never walked and her bones have never borne weight. So, obviously when she found out she was pregnant, there was some concern.  There was the possibility that she could pass on her disease to her child, her bones and lungs could have collapsed from the added weight of the baby and the baby could have been born premature, to name a few. Still, she and her husband decided to start a family, and it all turned out all right.

She made it through two pregnancies without incident and credits her husband for their success as parents. Since there are many things that she couldn’t do physically, her husband had to perform double duty, filling in where she could not. They adjusted their schedules and their lives to accommodate the changes and she feels her children are stronger and more independent and compassionate because of her disease.

I decided after reading this article that I would keep it close by as a reminder that we’ve made the right choice. There are many similarities between this woman and myself. I, like her, will not be able to lift my child in and out of the crib, nor will I be able to “run” around with him/her as much as I’d like. But as the article states, that’s not the mark of a good mother. I have a wonderful, devoted husband who has enough energy for both of us and we are blessed with a huge, loving, hands-on family. And, I am, like her, pretty feisty too and choose to live my life on my terms.

Our child is desperately wanted and will have, not only our love, but also the love of our larger than life family, which includes countless cousins to play with, aunts and uncles with hearts of gold, active grandparents, dogs and cats trained to tolerate ear/tail pulling and extended family in every corner of the state. He/she isn’t even close to being born yet and already has love and support beyond what many children receive in their entire lifetime. I’d say that’s a pretty good start.

So, yes, I’m going to be a great mom, regardless of cancer and crappy treatment side effects, with or without hair, in spite of and perhaps because of every obstacle thrown at me – and I can’t wait!

Thirty

There is a day that exists in the not so distant future. It has been fast approaching for some time now. This day and the moments leading up to it are filled with anxiety, excitement, fear, and celebration. It will be a regular day for most of you, but so much more for me. The date is February 9th and it is my 30th birthday. 

Thirty is something my friends fear. I've listened to them complain about getting closer to it with child-like disgust, as if it has cooties. I suppose I would too, if it weren't for my mortality being shoved in my face every second. Then again, I've never been the kind of person who places emphasis on such things. I'd like to think that non-cancer Tracy would float gracefully into thirty, looking forward to a new decade of lessons and wisdom. She wouldn't get caught up in the "I'm getting older, it's the end of the world" mind game. In fact, her life would be so busy with a career and children that she wouldn't even have time to ponder something as insignificant as age. But non-cancer Tracy is fictional and it's cancer Tracy that is turning thirty in twenty-two days. 

The truth is, thirty is a little frightening for me too. But not because I'm worried about the early signs of aging or that I'm afraid of getting old. The numbers three and zero together don't threaten me because I'm entering another decade; they threaten me because it's a decade that, statistically, I shouldn't be entering. Thirty, for me, means wondering how many years are left. Thirty is one year away from the five year mark - the statistical mark that most stage IV women never make it to, and even fewer make it past. Thirty represents a parallel of unyielding happiness and overwhelming fear. 

And so, cancer Tracy will handle this birthday quite differently, because she's had plenty of time to listen to the little voice in the back of her head. The one that's wondered for three and a half years if she'd even make it this far. Cancer sucks in so many ways that I could never use enough horrible words to express it, but cancer is the reason this birthday is so meaningful. Because of cancer, thirty is something I will embrace with open arms. I will clutch it in the deepest trenches of my being. I will savor every sweet moment that thirty has to offer. It isn't a birthday, it's a victory - like reaching the top of a mountain that everyone said you couldn't climb. Thirty is my golden globe and I will display it as such. 

Thirty is also a beginning, a new era if you will. My thirties will be the decade of my dreams coming true and an extension of the things I've already achieved. I decided early on that thirty was a number I had to get out of my head if I planned on getting to forty. And I do plan on getting to forty. Because I believe that if life can change so suddenly and dramatically for the worse, it can also do the same for the better. Hell, I've already defied statistics. Here's to many more years of better.

Happy Birthday to me!

The Pet Effect

I’ve always been an animal person. At age five I won an art contest for my drawing titled “Dancing Kitty” and even had my name in the newspaper. At age seven I rescued my first cat, a grey and black tabby huddled next to marble steps near Patterson Park.  My mother told me not to touch it, but I scooped him up anyway, took him home and named him Casey. We had lots of cats growing up, all rescued from the streets, all wonderful companions.  In fact, I can’t remember a time in my life when I haven’t been surrounded by animals. And that got me thinking about how much of an influence pets have had in my life and how much I’ve learned from them along the way.

As I travel back in time, every memory whether good or bad is accompanied by an animal. When I was 14 my parents allowed me to have a puppy. Her name was Shelby and she was a beautiful husky mix. We had her for about a month before I was forced to give her away to a family who lived in the county after she chewed my father’s glasses for the third time. Shelby taught me responsibility and how to do the right thing no matter how much it hurts. At age 16, after a particularly ugly argument with my father, I stormed out of our house with my clothes in a trash bag. I stayed at my brother’s house that night. I was crying, distraught and afraid. His two cats, Jonson and Henry, curled up next to me on the floor and comforted me throughout the evening. They showed me what friendship is really all about. After I had moved out officially at 18 and had my own place, I adopted two kittens from my mother. She had neglected to spay and neuter some of her rescues and had 2 litters to find homes for. Rodney and Rudy came home with me, and are still part of my family 12 years later. They’ve warmed up my legs with a brush of their fur on cold mornings, purred on my lap when my heart was broken, brought countless smiles to my face with their frantic meows at dinner time and have shown me the meaning of unconditional love.

While working at Johns Hopkins I started collecting money in an attempt to save the reptile exhibit at the Baltimore Zoo. I raised $60, chump change compared to what I raise now, but I was so proud.  This was my first attempt at fundraising and I learned quickly how difficult it is to get others to care as much as I do. When a maintenance man at Hopkins told me about a kitten he had found outside that looked poisoned, I used my lunch break to take the kitten to Eastern Animal Hospital. They informed me that he was too far gone and that it would be best to euthanize him. They didn’t charge me and thanked me for bringing him in. I thought of Shelby and how difficult it was to give her to that family and reminded myself that I had just saved this kitten from unnecessary suffering. Though I only knew him for about an hour, he taught me compassion and strength. A few months later, while watching television in my apartment, I heard a faint “meow” coming from the snow covered ground outside. I opened the door and saw a tiny calico cat taking refuge under a car. I filled a bowl with cat food, stepped outside in my PJ’s and coaxed her closer. She let me lift her up and spent the night sleeping on my pillow. The next day I took her to my parent’s house and after hours of name searching, they settled on Reese. She was the last pet that my father would have and brought him great comfort and happiness before he passed. She still enriches my mother’s life today.

Layla entered my life at a critical time. My father had just passed and my husband was in Kuwait. Loneliness was looming until I found Layla. I had no idea that a rambunctious pit mix puppy could change my life so drastically. She became my best friend. From her I have learned patience, resilience and how to live life fully each day. Then came Evey – another pit bull destined for life in a shelter. We brought her home as a friend for Layla, but got the sweetest, friendliest, most loyal companion on the planet. Evey has taught me that taking risks are worth it. A few months later and about a week into my job at a local animal shelter, six puppies arrived without their mother. They were two weeks old and needed to be bottle fed or they would be euthanized. Unable to let that happen and at the risk of becoming divorced, I took them home. My husband graciously helped me care for the puppies until they were old enough to be adopted. After six weeks, I returned five of them to the shelter to find their forever homes. We kept number six and named her Wolverine. She has cheated death twice, sleeps at the foot of our bed every night and has taught me that anything is possible. When I asked for an orange cat two years ago I thought my husband would kill me, but he gave in and we welcomed Ripken into our home. He’s broken nearly everything made of glass that he’s come into contact with and tortures the dogs on a regular basis, but he’s always sad to see us leave the house, keeps my spot on the couch warm and reminds me to always have fun.

Lots of people see pets as a nuisance and a responsibility that they’d rather do without, but I say it’s worth every second of aggravation. My pets have gotten me through some of the toughest times of my life. They’ve been there through tears, breakdowns, smiles and laughter and I’ve learned more life lessons from them than most of the people I’ve encountered. I believe that they love me just as much as I love them. And, I’d like to think that when my dogs are licking me with that twinkle in their eyes they are really saying “Thanks mom for saving my life!” In fact, I know they “know”. Because whether you’re human or animal, you feel the same energy when someone loves you and treats you humanely. And we all deserve to feel that at least once in our lives.

If you haven’t experienced the pet effect in your life yet, perhaps it’s time to do just that! Shelters are always fuller than capacity with thousands of wonderful, loving animals who are just hoping for a permanent place to call home. And if you can’t adopt a pet right now, consider volunteering once a month (or more often) at a shelter or rescue close to where you live. Your volunteer time will enrich the lives of the shelter animals as well as your own.

                                                           Evey, Layla, and Wolvie

                                                                      Rodney

                                                                       Tuesday

                                                                        Rudy

                                                                       Ripken

Happily Ever After

Today is my anniversary. My husband and I have been married for five years. I was twenty-four at the time; my husband was twenty-five. We were young in so many ways and fiercely grown-up in others. We had a plan, or at least I did. We would go active duty, travel the country, finish school, have children and settle into our dream home here in Baltimore. And as I reminisce it’s hard for me not to think about that plan and how drastically different our lives have become.

I never could have imagined on that crisp fall day all that life had in store for us. I didn’t see my love for animals turning into a career or that we would raise so much money for animals in our community. I didn’t see all the wonderful vacations we would take or the joy of purchasing our first home together. I didn’t see Romeo’s career goals shifting from the fire department and politics to teaching and entrepreneurship. And I certainly didn’t know that just two years later our relationship would be put to the test when I was diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer.

Many young marriages would have crumbled under the pressure but ours has become even stronger. For some unknown reason we seem to have found what so many search for their entire lives: real, pure, honest-to-goodness love. It’s a phenomenon we are thankful for each and every day. We often joke that most couples probably don’t say “I love you” nearly as often as we do and that when our friends or co-workers are complaining about their significant other we can’t join in because there’s just nothing to gripe about. And while most people are trying to get away from their spouse, we look for more ways to spend time together.

I say all of this not to brag, but to express how truly lucky I am. I have a husband who loves me and stands by my side despite my being bald, sick, and moody and our lives being dominated by doctor’s appointments. He rides the emotional roller coaster with me and never complains. He goes above and beyond to ensure my happiness and I am incredibly blessed to have him as my husband.

Yes, our life together has been much different than expected. And today’s anniversary brings to mind another that is quickly approaching. In just a few days I will mark three years since being diagnosed. It’s almost impossible not to reflect on that as well and how different I’ve become as a person. Shortly after that date in October, I began to mourn the loss that so many women with breast cancer understand: the loss of my former, innocent self. So I made it my mission to become the “old me” again. And, like so many other women I’ve searched inside myself everyday for some trace of the woman I used to be.

Recently, I decided to discontinue the search. I used to feel that a certain power existed in telling myself and others that cancer hasn’t changed “who I am”, but I think there is greater power in admitting that it has. There is a sort of profoundly bizarre beauty in the cancer perspective, a beauty that can only exist in the darkest of places. After dealing with something so magnificently horrible it’s almost impossible to look at the world and your circumstances in the same way as before. And instead of seeing that as a bad thing, I’ve learned to relish the fact that I’ve reached a level of consciousness, happiness, love and humbling appreciation that most people only dream of. I am not the same woman that I was before cancer, nor will I ever be that woman again – and that’s perfectly okay.

The new me is extremely grateful for everything that I have and for the person I’ve become. And for the fact that I can celebrate five years of marriage with the man of my dreams with a refined bliss that the old me never could have imagined.

~Romeo, I love you with all of my heart and soul.

9/28/05

October 2005

newly moved in 2006

7/7/2007

Cancun 2008

Bahamas 2009

O's game 2010

Paint The Town Pink

It’s that time again. October is rolling around. That means pumpkins, children dressed up for Halloween and the cool crisp air of autumn afternoons. These are all things I look forward to every year. But for me, as a breast cancer patient, October is tainted with a million pink reminders of my disease. It has already begun. Store shelves are filled with items bearing the infamous pink ribbon, promising to donate a portion of the proceeds from the sale to either Susan G. Komen or some unknown cancer foundation. To the average person this seems wonderful, but to a large number of young breast cancer patients like me, this is highly depressing and offensive.

There are a few reasons that I despise the pink ribbon and its message, the first being that it’s a constant, in-your-face reminder of the most horrible thing that has ever happened in my life. Imagine if every year for an entire month, domestic violence or rape victims were bombarded with the face of their attacker. It may seem like a harsh comparison, but that’s just how it feels to be a breast cancer patient in October. Another reason I am offended by the pink ribbon is that I disagree with what it represents. The awareness campaign began in 1985 and was started by AstraZeneca, a drug company which manufactures the breast cancer drugs Arimidex and Tamoxifen. It made sense back then. In 1985 we needed awareness. It’s now 2010 and unless you live in a hobbit hole I’m pretty sure you’re well aware of breast cancer. What we need today is a real, non-toxic, tangible treatment and cure. And possibly my biggest reason for being against the pink ribbon is the sheer exploitation of my illness. Companies slap the pink ribbon on their product as a way to boost sales by playing on people’s emotions and fears. The percentage of the sale that actually goes to cancer organizations is tiny at best.

But, while there are many organizations that aren’t directly helping cancer patients, there are also several that are. My absolute favorite is The Pink Daisy Project. Founded by Debbie Cantwell who is a breast cancer survivor and fellow member of the YSC, The Pink Daisy Project has been able to help countless women all over the country with everyday necessities like housecleaning, groceries and prescription costs and was a recent recipient of a Pepsi Refresh grant. And when Debbie heard about a young woman who was about to be homeless just 2 days after receiving chemotherapy, she decided to help her even though she had no donation money left. With the help of the YSC sisterhood, Debbie’s Pink Daisy Project was not only able to keep this woman from being evicted, but also received enough donations to continue to help other women in need. They even sent me free hats when I started to lose my hair. If you really want to help a woman with breast cancer, leave the pink soup can on the shelf and consider donating directly to this great organization.

And speaking of the YSC, it wouldn’t hurt to donate to them as well. The Young Survival Coalition is an organization dedicated entirely to young women (under 40) with breast cancer. The YSC was the very first resource I found as a newly diagnosed patient and it has been an invaluable tool in guiding me through this journey. I have conversed with countless women through the YSC forum, all of whom I consider to be friends, though we’ve never met. We share something that only women with breast cancer can understand and I wouldn’t be the informed and well adjusted person that I am today without their support. There is also a great organization that I just learned about today called Movable Feast, who provides free meals to people living with AIDS and other life-challenging conditions, such as cancer. It may sound simple, but fulfilling a basic need by providing a meal can be the difference between a good day and a bad day for someone dealing with cancer.

These are just an example of some of the wonderful groups that are directly helping women with breast cancer in real time. When you donate to them, you know exactly where your money is going and you’re able to see real results. As a young breast cancer patient on the front lines of this disease, I’d much rather see people supporting these organizations rather than buying a pink water pitcher. Please think before you pink!

For The Love Of Baseball

Fall is upon us. For most families that means the end of summer and the beginning of the school year. But in our house, September represents the last month of baseball and my husband starts to get a little sad inside. I can’t tell you how many times he’s reminded me of just how few games are left for the season. As usual, he’s already designed and completed his “costume” for fan appreciation weekend with hopes to win a season ticket plan for the third year in a row. And if you know my husband, you know it’s practically in the bag.

He certainly deserves it. If you’ve ever attended a game with us, then you’d have to agree he’s the Orioles’ biggest fan. If you haven’t, then you’re missing out. It is truly a unique experience. Even if you’re not a fan, you will be after spending nine innings watching him yell, cheer, start the wave and spell O-R-I-O-L-E-S in an attempt to get the crowd pumped up. In fact, it’s hard to not let his energy and love for the game seep into you. And that’s just what it does. I love watching a person who sat through most of the game glued to their seat suddenly jump up and start joining in the fun. Or seeing the look of appreciation on a kid’s face as Romeo shows them the best way to catch homeruns at batting practice.

Sure, the Orioles haven’t been playing great for a long, long time, but the words he scribed on his favorite O’s hat says it all – “Win or Lose, Die Hard”. Isn’t that what a true fan is supposed to be? Now that we’ve got Buck and the O’s are improving, I’m sure we’ll see more fair weather fans popping up next year. Regardless, we’ll be there cheering on and supporting our home team, because that’s what we do.

You see, for us baseball season is never really over. So, while everyone else’s mind is shifting to cold weather and football, we’ll be spending the month at Camden Yards, cheering on the O’s and planning out next year’s schedule. We’ll talk about going to Florida for spring training and maybe this time we’ll actually book the trip and go. We’ll start to plan our fundraising games for 2011 and be filled with anticipation for Fan Fest and Opening Day. And while Baltimore’s residents are decked out in purple Raven’s gear, we’ll still be rocking our orange and black O’s shirts, hats and jackets. Call us crazy. Call us die-hards. But please call us what we truly are, fans.