My father Geoffrey had a renaissance after he survived the unsurvivable - a ruptured aorta - at the age of 73. He was on a bridge-playing holiday with friends and suddenly collapsed. He lay on the ground in excruciating pain and told the responding medics that he was just fine with dying at that moment. He had undergone a triple bypass operation six months before, and evidently the aortic rupture was due to the increased amount of bloodflow. Ninety percent of aortic ruptures cause almost all the blood to pump into the abdomenal cavity, and soon there's not enough blood in the circulatory system and death occurs in minutes. Dad's rupture was posterior; the space for the blood to pump into is much smaller; and he survived after an eleven hour operation. The fact that the remote hospital and its surgeons could handle the emergency so well was a blessing we all were aware of and grateful for.
Within months of recovery, Dad announced that it was time for him to live out a long-held dream: to build and reside in a small, self-sustaining country place where he could grow vegetables and pursue his Thoreau-esque tendencies. In short order, he found five beautiful acres on Vashon, a tree-covered island in Puget Sound a short ferry ride from West Seattle. We huddled together and designed his dream house, and soon he was part of a three-man construction crew, bustling about, working dawn till dusk on the house. It was absolutely wonderful, and my Dad was proud of his achievement. Everyone who saw the house agreed, and Dad had an acre of land plowed and ready for planting within weeks of moving in.
A dear friend of Dad's, Cherie, suggested he get a dog. Dad dismissed the idea at first, but succumbed when he saw a litter of terrier puppies. The little dogs were part Jack Russells and part rat terriers, and looked alot like large Chihuahuas. Dad chose one of the female pups and named her Gypsy.
Gypsy loved the property and Dad in equal measure. She galloped through her days, flying like a gazelle with legs outstretched, running all over the property, terrorizing the huge neighbor dogs, barking crisply and loudly at every bird, squirrel, or mouse in the neighborhood. In the house, her place was on the recliner, nestled next to Dad, but she would hear or see something in the yard and go running lickety split into the garden, returning a few moments later once she had investigated the disturbance. She might leap on and off the recliner a hundred times an hour, sometimes to the point of exasperation for Dad, but usually to his great amusement.
Oh, the love poured out between them. She was Dad's "Gypsy Girl," and never was a dog so affectionate to her human. Dad would say she had the fastest tongue in the West - Gypsy was a constant kisser/licker to Dad and everyone who visited him. She especially went crazy for me for some reason, and would tear around in circles and leap into my arms. I returned the love; it was easy to do. Never had anything given my Dad such great affection and pleasure. She was the joy of his life; and they were inseparable.
The years following Dad's aortic rupture were difficult for the host of medical problems he now faced. Apparently Dad's tongue was damaged when the EMT responding to the rupture cleared his air passageway, and after a year of hoarseness, a tongue cancer was discovered. Dad bravely faced the rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, commuting by ferry for each procedure and returning to Gypsy's company each evening. Soon the tumor was gone, but the treatments left his throat-closing mechanism out of whack, and he frequently got liquid, food particles and spittle into his lungs, causing a series of pneumonia episodes that substantially weakened him.
I once was driving him home from a procedure which required sedation. He was still a little out of it when I said that Gypsy would be glad to see him. He said, "Yes, Gypsy is the best thing that ever happened to me." There was a pause. Then he said, "Except you, of course." I joked with friends that I had second billing to a dog, but it was true: our relationship was complicated, as they tend to be between fathers and sons, or any two humans, for that matter; the love Gypsy and Dad shared was unencumbered by expectations and disappointments and all the other flotsam of human interaction.
On another occasion, again in a car, Dad was waxing rhapsodic about how wonderful it was to have Gypsy in his life. A thought crossed my mind: Dad had been adamant throughout my childhood that we couldn't get a dog, usually because it would have been unfair for the dog to live in restricted circumstances (we lived in a suburb). I said quietly, "Dad, do you ever regret not letting me have a dog?" He quickly teared up and said, "Son, I regret it every day of my life." It meant a great deal hearing Dad say that. I teared up, too, and acknowledged his sentiment. Somehow that moment of healing for both of us happened without fanfare, without drama, courtesy of Gypsy.
After ten years on Vashon, Dad's health and stamina had deteriorated to the point where he decided to give up the taxing work of the garden and move to an apartment in the city. The apartment complex he chose was on a beautiful greenbelt where he could walk Gypsy every day and not deny her the pleasure of exploring the woods. I was in California at the time and Dad began the task of moving with little or no help. He was maneuvering a heavy box out to the garage with my sister's help when he fell, shattering his hip. The surgery and complications took a month, and by the time he recovered enough to go home, his things were moved into the new apartment and he never returned to Vashon for an official farewell. Little Gypsy had been unconsolable during the month apart, and Dad's homecoming was a joyous, ecstatic event for them both. Soon Dad was in the recliner with Gypsy beside him and all was well again.
Although the apartment was selected with Gypsy in mind, it wasn't so great for Dad - there was little or no interaction with neighbors, and his living room was small and dark, quite a change from the soaring cathedral ceilings and generous space of his dream house on Vashon. More significantly, there was no garden, no bounty of gorgeous vegetables and flowers grown by his own hand, no well-deserved pride of accomplishment for a man in his 80's to be so active and independent.
Gypsy had a hard time with the new limitations on her ability to "go" when she pleased. Dad took her for walks three times a day at first, but it was hard on his hip and as his energy continued to wane, it was two shorter walks a day that had to suffice.
Dad's throat problems increased to the point where it was risky for him to take anything by mouth, so they made a stoma and he would pour liquid food into his stomach three times a day. Years before, a swolen prostate caused elimination problems and he had to catheterize himself in order to drain his bladder. Dad called it "Dying by inches." He would laugh off these difficulties, chuckle dismissively when he reported them to me on the phone, but I knew it was a trial to be so encumbered.
I was in California these later years, struggling with a business start-up, and didn't get a chance to visit him for about three years. I begged him to visit me, but with the catheter and the liquid food and Gypsy, it was really too much for him, and he would decline again and again. I wanted to visit, but couldn't get a moment free. He sounded okay, of course, and I persuaded myself he was doing all right.
But then I spoke with Dad one day and heard a change in his voice. There was a sense of defeat I hadn't heard before. I quickly made arrangements and flew to Seattle. I was shocked at how much Dad had deteriorated. He had kept his phone calls to me breeezy and jocular, but I discovered a man, 86 years old, emaciated and halt, with a number of chronic medical problems ranging from an infection around the stoma to prostate cancer. Previously an immaculate housekeeper, Dad hadn't the energy to keep things nice for himself, and the bathroom and kitchen were thick with grime. His walks with Gypsy almost completely curtailed, Gypsy had started peeing in corners and going on doggie pads, sometimes without much accuracy. Seeing my father like that was one of the most difficult moments of my life.
I suggested to Dad that I move back to Seattle, and he said, "Yes, son, that would be wonderful." He had always dismissed suggestions like this, never willing to admit to a need for me to be nearby. He was a fiercely independent man. When he agreed with my idea, I knew the subtext was much more urgent. I returned to California, gave up my business, and moved to Seattle within two weeks.
That last year was a transformative experience for me. All of Dad's judgments about my weight, my career choices, my sexuality and our history faded away, and all that was left was love. We spent hours talking almost every day, sharing memories about Mom (we never talked about her before) and saying those magic words "I love you" to each other every time I visited. I scrubbed his bathroom and kitchen, shampooed the carpets, and took Dad to a string of doctor's appointments, where I discovered that his doctors had written him off; after all, he was 86 and had a host of intractable problems. Dad would struggle through episodes of infection and never quite recover. He stopped driving after a frighteningly close call, and his world narrowed down to watching TV and visits from me and my half-sister Judy. Gypsy had gotten older, too, and her jumps to and from her place on the recliner with Dad became more difficult.
I took Dad for drives on occasion, and he loved seeing the countryside. Green trees, snow-capped mountains, shimmering lakes - it was like oxygen to him. I took him to the movies, too, and he surruptitiously sucked on a Milk Dud, much to his great pleasure. He loved the movie, too, or more accurately, he loved the experience of being out of his stifling apartment. I suggested we get a different place together (there wasn't room for me at his place and besides, I thought it would be good to get him out of there), but he didn't want to move again. I said I would take care of everything, but he said a firm no.
Then he contracted pneumonia again around his 87th birthday and a short stay at the hospital became almost a month bouncing back and forth from rehab centers and the hospital. My sister and I took turns tending to Gypsy - it was important to Dad, we both knew, that she remained at home, expecting his return. He fretted about Gypsy. I said that I would be glad to take care of her, if it ever came to that. He shed grateful tears and with that final responsibility taken care of, he let go. He was too weak, too sick, and the infection couldn't be beat. He was lucid to the end, asking about Gypsy, telling me he loved me again and again, and finally he died in my arms.
That night, I went to Dad's apartment. Gypsy greeted me enthusiastically, as always. But then she hid under a blanket and started shivering uncontrollably. I couldn't tell at first what was upsetting her, but suddenly I realized that "she knew." Dad was gone, and she felt it so deeply. I took her in my arms and held her for an hour, until finally her shivers stopped, then I grabbed up her things and took her to my place. My cat BG wasn't thrilled with the new family member, and Gypsy was a little taken back by BG, but soon they accommodated each other, not buddies but more like disinterested neighbors to each other.
For awhile there I think Gypsy still waited for Dad to show up. Many times, as I laid in bed at night and cried, Gypsy would lick my tears and cuddle with me. She was both a great source of affection for me, and a constant presence of Dad.
Gypsy was 14 when she started living with me. Everyone figured she wouldn't last long without Dad. I secretly wondered how long I would last, too. But we were together three years more.
When I moved to Albuquerque last May, 17-year-old Gypsy had a hard time. Already close to blind from cataracts and nearly deaf, she was queasy the whole trip down and was quite sick when we arrived here at Ande's. Getting accustomed to the weather change and all the other animals (Ande has two dogs and five cats) was difficult, too, but soon she accommodated as well as any little old lady could. It seemed like the other animals gave her a respectful distance due to her advanced years. Ande and I upholstered a stepstool for her so she could climb up onto the sofa and snuggle next to me the way she had with Dad, and I made a step out of an overturned box so she could get in bed with me. She used the stepstools to climb up, but usually leaped down, sometimes landing in a crumpled heap which distressed Ande and me.
Gypsy loved to eat chicken, and soon got used to my bedroom snack of a chicken thigh and a can of pineapple. I would share the thigh with her, and she knew that when I started in on the pineapple, snacktime was over for her, so she would leap off the bed (sometimes crashing into an adjacent door) and lap up water in her funny, rhythmic way, then nestle in for sleep.
Two nights ago, Gypsy started loudly snoring. But it wasn't snores really; more like she was moaning with every exhale. By morning she was completely dazed, almost unable to walk around, and an eye infection had become dramatically worse. She didn't eat and didn't drink water. I brought her into bed with me and as I gently petted her forehead and watched her, she struggled to breathe for hours. I kept thinking, "This is it, this is it," as her breathing became sporadic, hyperventilating in spurts followed by periods of no breathing. Around three yesterday afternoon, she perked up a little, but it was apparent she was in a lot of pain. I wrapped an old shirt of mine around her and took her to the veterinary hospital. We waited awhile (it was Christmas Eve and the place was packed with animals who had gotten into decorations, candy, and other holiday landmines). It went very smoothly and quickly. The kind nurse prepped her, and after a few minutes, the veterinarian came in and administered the euthanol. Gypsy died gently and peacefully in my arms around five last night. On the way home I drove through neighborhoods and looked at the Christmas lights. Last night, my cat BG enjoyed sleeping in the place where Gypsy always slept. I didn't sleep at all.
Today is Christmas. I put a smile on my face and went to the kitchen to share breakfast with Ande and her mother and mother's friend. We opened packages and had a good time. I begged off going to dinner with them, and sit here now at the computer, writing about Gypsy and Dad and remembering this happy little puppy who brightened our lives for seventeen years.
BG and all of Ande's animals are around me - giving me comfort, somehow knowing I need them here with me right now.
I'm sorry to be feeling like this at Christmas, putting a damper on everything. I'm doing my best to be upbeat.
Last Christmas, I had three stockings embroidered with our names on them: BG, Stevie and Gypsy. The stockings are very non-traditional. BG's is cerulean blue and lavendar, mine is hot pink and orange, and Gypsy's is lime green and pink. I hold it in my hands now and realize it's big enough to have been her sleeping bag.
She loved me, and I loved her, but I was also very grateful to her, because of how much she loved Dad and how much Dad loved her, and I loved her because she was a constant source of joy and affection for both of us. Seventeen years of love in a little bundle of frenetic, enthusiastic energy.
Bye bye, dear Gypsy. Say hello to Dad for me!
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