As If It Was The Last

My mother’s dog is sick, maybe very sick.

I called my mom yesterday, to ask her a silly question about my stove. Really, it was an excuse to hear her voice. I knew right away that something was wrong.

She told me about the dog’s sudden illness and the vague assessment offered by the vet. Her voice trembled over the line and I felt each and every one of the 706 miles that divide us.

“She’s the last little bit I have of Dad,” my mother said, and then came the tears I heard hiding in her throat.

Oh, Dad.

The dog never recovered from my dad’s death, much like the rest of us. For months afterward, she would cock her head toward the garage around 6 p.m., waitng for him to come home, in much the way I reached for the phone 10 times a day, to dial his office number.

The battery on our phone started to go as I tried to comfort my mom from across this great geographical divide. There aren’t any words; what do you say to someone who may be losing the last link to their old life? Who may be losing a companion that has been by her side during her worst sorrows?

Even I was at a loss for words.

I hung up the phone and went to Shaggy, laying on the floor like a turtle on its back. I hugged him close, pressing my cheek against his own brand-new face. He growled and batted me away, trying on a new independence. I set him back down and watched him scoot away from me, crawling military-style, as fast as he could, across the carpet.

I looked at The Poo, twirling in the living room, singing to herself and her doll.

It struck me, just at that moment.

It struck me that were I to die tomorrow, my children would have only the vaguest memories of me. They would not have the layers and layers of happiness I can excavate, when I am missing my father.

The Poo would remember me, of that I am sure. But Shaggy? Shaggy’s knowledge of me would be filled in by others. His father, his grandparents, aunts and uncles. Maybe his big sister.

But I would be just a phantom to him.

These thoughts crowded around me, luridly. I tried to shake them away, but they only came back when I checked my email and was reminded of the sad, untimely death of Natasha Richardson. I cannot stop thinking about her sons, watching as she fell and then later as she was buried near their home.

One moment their golden-haired mother was laughing on the ski slope, and the next she was lying in a hospital bed kept alive by machines.

It happened in an instant.

I am so taken with this story, in a most unseemly way. I try to push it away from me, but the electronic media I consume each day to make my living keeps shoving it back in my face. I don’t know why it upsets me so.

All of this sounds so morbid. But I am going to be 38 this summer, and it’s time for my colonoscopy. I waited so long to have babies, what if they find something? What if my body finally decides to attack itself with the ultimate autoimmune disorder, cancer?

I try not to dwell on this possibility, but it does exist for me. I am the most like my father, genetically speaking. I am nearing the age when doctors believe his tumor began to grow.

It could happen.

I do what I can to prevent it. I get regular colonoscopies. When something is wrong, I go to the doctor. I try to eat well (and often fail) and when I am able, I try to exercise.

But when I look at the very young faces of my precious children, I realize that I do not do enough. I need to do better.

“Better” applies not only to my health, but to my attitude. If I were to die tomorrow, would The Poo remember me cuddling with her over storybooks, or typing away frantically, trying not to miss deadlines? Would she remember me treating her father with affection, or would she remember the countless arugments?

And what about the baby? I want our story to be one of games and kisses, not distraction and dissatisfaction.

Today I blew off work and housekeeping to take the kids to the indoor playground. Shaggy looked up at me from between the V of my denim-clad legs and clapped his little hands together in delight. Together he and I watched The Poo pirouette from slide to rocking whale to Lego bin, laughing all the while.

Every now and then she turned to wave at us, just making sure we were still watching her. I never took my eyes off her for a second.

These two babies of mine, they are an embarassment of riches. They heal me with their pure, unbridled affection. They make every day worth living, as it it were my last.