American Football

This past weekend, I went to my first football game. We had decided to go because we went to an alumni event, which was a tailgate party for the Columbia vs. UPenn college football game. Apparently, Columbia has the longest losing streak in the Ivy League. Ever the optimist, I hoped that they would win, but it ended up being a pretty sad game, with neither side doing particularly well, and the end result being a contest of which was slightly less bad than the other one. The highlight of the game was the Columbia Marching Band, which performed renditions of several pop songs. A man in the stand grumbled, "I've been watching four years of this crap." His son is on the team, so he felt particularly invested. It's okay though; Columbia University excels at many things, and we simply have to accept that football is not one of them.

At the end of the game, I told my boyfriend that I wanted to watch a game in which the team I was rooting for would actually do well. That led to us buying tickets to see the Patriots play against the Jets in New Jersey. As a Bostonian, I still have an alliance to the Patriots, even though I have been living in New York for seven years.

The Patriots have been doing pretty well this season, so I was hopeful. As we walked into the stadium, they were handing out white and green pom poms for the jets fans. My boyfriend grabbed some, and my reaction was, "but we aren't Jets fans." He replied that it was okay, but when I saw the red and blue dressed patriots fan walk by, I felt like it was inappropriate so we returned them.

There seemed to be a good mix of fans in the area where we sat. The Jets started off with a three point lead, and for some reason, my boyfriend started cheering. "Stop rooting for the enemy!" I said.

At first I thought he was just going along with the crowd, but finally he turned to me and confessed, "I really hate the Patriots."

So sad, the things you begin to find out about people as you are dating them.

"What??" I said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me come to this game!" Which might be true. Apparently he (and some other people) are still mad about that whole ball deflating thing during the Super Bowl.

I briefly considered moving down to sit with a group of Patriots fans, but ended up staying where I was.

The stadium was really cold, but luckily I dressed like I would be visiting the Arctic, so I was okay. When the Jets scored a touchdown, green fireworks erupted over the stadium. "That's nice," I remarked. "Do they do that throughout the game?"

"Only when the Jets score."

Well I guess I couldn't be rooting for any fireworks anymore. I reminded myself to watch a home game next time.

Toward the fourth quarter, the Jets were leading by one point. I was unhappy, and briefly thought that I might be bad luck for the team, because every time I attend a love sports event, my team loses (granted, the only three live events I attended were Columbia University's). "This is better though," my boyfriend said, trying to cheer me up. "It would be boring if one team was just crushing the other one. Don't you think it's more interesting when it's a close game?"

"Of course not," I replied. "I prefer assured victory."

It was the 10th anniversary of the Jets "flight crew", which is what they call their cheerleaders, so there were a lot of dance performances, which were fun. Probably cold though--they were wearing their belly baring uniforms, and it was so cold there that I had snow pants on.

In the end, the Patriots won by one extra touchdown. The Jets fans were really sad, and left the stadium early.  

Sandy and the Butterflies

I knew this day would come, and that it would be difficult, but I was still overwhelmed by the extent of grief and despair that I felt.

On November 10, 2016, I had to put my dog, Sandy, to sleep. She was 15 years old, and had been suffering from heart disease and kidney disease for some time. It started with a level 2 heart murmur about two or three years ago, and was aggravated over the past year by the loss of her companion, Rocky, and undergoing anesthesia to have two rotten teeth removed. I think now that, given the choice, I might have avoided the tooth surgery, though she also had dental disease.

The difference, for me at least, when losing a pet, is the self blame and the guilt that accompanies it. Human beings, except for children, usually make their own medical decisions. We may grieve their loss, but have the comfort of knowing that it is not our fault. For pet owners, it is not uncommon to relive those last moments and think, maybe I should have tried this remedy--or maybe what I tried was the wrong remedy. Soon, you have a chain of "maybe"s and "but if"s that snowball and exacerbate an already painful situation.

I suppose that, had I chosen not to go with the tooth surgery, maybe she would have had and infection, and maybe the antibiotics would also have damaged her kidneys (which is what the vet advised, and perhaps might be true). In her last moments however, I couldn't help but feel that I should have known better, for that and for other small things here and there.

Our family got Sandy when I was in high school, as a companion for our dog Rocky. I had actually been opposed to getting a second dog, but Sandy ended up being my closest companion. I remember the moment in which I knew that Sandy was MY dog: we had been on a road trip somewhere, and while I was driving, Sandy would always try to sit in my lap. I assumed that she just wanted to sit with the driver. However, when we switched and I sat in the back seat, Sandy leaped out from the front, and the curled into a ball on my lap.

Since then, Sandy and I have been very close. She used to sleep in my bed with me, and our constant argument was over the fact that she would like to sleep under the covers, with her face on the pillow--I would tell her that she had to sleep on top of the covers, at the foot of the bed. As soon as I would move from the bed however, she would resume her preferred position. As I moved around the house, there was also the familiar tinkling of her collar tags as she trotted behind me, and when I turned to look at her, she would wag her tail as if to say, "don't worry, I'm here".

She had the most expressive tail of any dog that I have seen. Whenever we came home, Sandy would be overcome with excitement, her tail waving frantically like a welcome banner. She would pick up the nearest object--a toy or a shoe--and hold in it in her mouth while making this strange noise that I have never heard another dog make. Later, when I would return to California from school, I would anticipate seeing her. It was usually the moment that I looked forward to the most, and came to associate with "home".

After Rocky passed away, I made the decision to take Sandy to New York with me. Since she was older, she didn't run around as much, and probably would not mind the smaller space. The idea had been that she live the last of her life with me, since we were the closest.

I was probably in denial of the severity of her sickness for a long time. I even imagined that she could make it to 17 years of age. I had to put her on medicine for her heart, supplements for kidneys, as well as for her joints, which had become twisted with age and arthritis. When I look back, I can see her decline. She began to eat less, volume wise, and then she refused to eat certain types of dog food. Finally, she would only eat human food. I thought it was because I was spoiling her, but since she was old, I went ahead and cooked her food anyhow, since I wanted her to enjoy the remainder of her life. She then stopped eating anything that wasn't meat. Then anything that wasn't fat. Then anything that wasn't chicken. The last thing that she had been willing to eat was chicken skin, before she stopped eating entirely.

I knew she was dying.

I dropped everything and we got on a flight to California, so that she could at least have that last happiness of seeing her old home, and my parents and brother, who she also loved. I could tell that she felt more at peace, with all four of us around her.

Those last days were so difficult. Watching something you love suffer--whether human or animal--is a heavy burden to bear. I tried to feed her with a syringe, but to no avail. The anxiety of holding onto those last threads of hope--that maybe she might eat again--and then the despair upon realizing that there was no hope--tore me apart.

The decision to put her to sleep then, was a clear one.

Pets provide us with a constant, simple and predictable form of companionship. They don't judge us for not going to the gym, or getting a bad grade, or any of the other faults we may have. They ask for nothing more than our presence. When I lost Sandy, the first feeling was loneliness. My little shadow was gone.

Queen Elizabeth II said, "grief is the price we pay for love." So you can imagine, given the enormous amount of love that Sandy was able to give to and elicit from me over an extended period of time, the grief hit me like a tsunami.

I felt lost.

I am thankful that I had my family there. We drove to some beautiful places, though on the first day, I couldn't help but question how the world could still be so beautiful, and the sky so blue, when I was feeling so horrible.

A few days later, we decided to go to Carmel-by-the-sea, a beautiful little coastal town full of unique but over-priced goods. On the way however, my brother mentioned that the Monarch butterflies were migrating to Natural Bridges Park, in Santa Cruz. Since it was on the way, we decided to stop by.

The butterflies arrive from October to December, with the peak being late November. As we walked down the trail however, we only saw a small cluster of what appeared to be six butterflies. It was still cold and foggy, so my brother suggested that the butterflies are not opening their wings, because they are cold. When their wings are closed, they look like dead leaves, and it is nearly impossible to see them in the trees. It matched how I felt.

We left to walk along the beach. Before I knew it, the sun had come out, and it wasn't so cold. My brother suggested going back to the butterfly trail. I was skeptical though, since I imagined that we might have just come at a bad time.

As we walked back however, I saw that he was right. Indeed, butterflies had taken flight. Under the canopy, some people lay on the backs and watched them flutter above. They would open and close their wings and you would see a bright flash of orange, like the trees were winking. It was then that I started to really understand that life goes on.

One of the ladies lying down said, "if everyone here gets really quiet, thousands of butterflies will open their wings, and it's like a miracle." She insisted that it would happen, and that it was worth waiting for. It was yet another thing I was skeptical of, mainly because there were several children who were stomping around the board walk. Nevertheless, I lay there on the ground, and watched the trees. The lady would shush people intermittently. I'm not sure how long it was, but I decided to give up. As I was walking away however, it happened. Like an orange cloud, they suddenly took flight, like God or some higher power decided to throw confetti into the air.

It reminded me that even in the worst of times, you have to have faith in the good and the beauty that exists in this world. I figured that, if thousands of butterflies can find their way back to this one canopy in Santa Cruz, then my Sandy can find her way to where she is supposed to be, after this life.

Of course I am still sad; I still miss her, and will continue to miss her for the rest of my life. But, I can start to feel happy again, and continue living my life. When I look back, more often than not, I start to think less of those last moments when she was so sick, and more of the many, many good times that we had--of that trip we took to the lake, when she was so happy walking by the bank that she even stepped into the water to play; of her excitement when she got a new toy; of when she played in the snow for the first time; of the trips to the beach, and rides in the car when she would stick her head out the window and sniff the air; of how she would play with her food and treats by throwing them into the air and chasing them like a cat; of how enthusiastically and happily she welcomed me, every time I went back home.

I will always be grateful for the time that we had together.