Rachel Simon's Blog

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If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to find out that your book has gotten onto the New York Times Best Seller list, you’ve probably imagined fireworks, or parades, or, at the very least, a singing telegram.

You probably didn’t imagine this.

It was a week ago, a Wednesday evening. My novel, The Story of Beautiful Girl, had been out for two weeks. I’d just gotten through yet another wildly busy day, where my computer screen resembled a video game in which I was besieged by a space armada – also known as emails, Facebook messages, Tweets – and I’d spent the day taking care of each onslaught before the next one surged toward me.

My husband Hal came home at about 5 PM, and despite the ceaseless rush of work, I decided to take a break. He made himself his usual early evening coffee and we retreated to the living room. There, I indulged in simply relaxing – petting the cat and meandering through topics – until he’d finished his cup. I kept thinking I should return to work, but the simple deliciousness of lolling about and slowing my thoughts from light-warp pace to that of an ordinary conversationalist who contemplates, muses, pauses, trails off, tells stories, and listens to silly jokes won me over. I stayed in the living room for an hour and a half, enjoying the gentleness of every moment.

Finally, at six thirty, we decided to start making dinner. “Let me just check the email quickly,” I said, going upstairs.

“I need to take care of something in my studio anyway,” Hal said, following me.

He headed up to his third floor studio, I went into my study.

Needless to say, twenty messages awaited. To my surprise, three were from key business people – my editor, my agent, and my publicist – and they all had the same subject line: “Best Sellers List for 5/29/11.”

Surely this couldn’t be, I thought. I opened my editor’s email.

“Omg! BG hits the times list at #30!!!!!! Huge congrats all around!!!!!!”

To which my agent replied, “Fantastic!!!”

To which my publicist said, “Amazing! Yay!”

Was I reading this correctly? Could I be imagining this? The book had been out only two weeks! I knew it was selling out at bookstores and on amazon.com, and had gotten onto the Indiebound Bestseller list for independent bookstores. But I had no idea we were even nipping at the heels of the Times list.

I didn’t want to call out to Hal until I felt more certain. I set my hand on my desk to steady myself, then realized there was an attachment.

I opened it up. And read down the lines to #30. And there it was. My book!

I started to cry.

And then I wanted to grab the phone and call everyone in the world! But first, I had to tell my husband.

“Hal?” I asked. “Can I show you something?”

“Wait a minute,” he called back. “I need to get out of these work clothes.”

He came down the stairs to the second floor, went into the front room, opened up his cabinet, and proceeded to take about five thousand years to change into his jeans – during which I had to exercise extreme restraint so I wouldn’t burst, jump up and down, or start screaming.

Finally he came into the study. “Look,” I said.

And then it was real. Then, with someone else’s eyes on it, I knew it was real.

Later I learned that my editor had gotten a call from the Times two days earlier, saying they were tracking the book. She decided not to tell me in case nothing came of it – but she was anxiously awaiting the Times‘ email about the list, which apparently comes on Wednesdays right at the end of the day. Unfortunately, she’d already left the office before it arrived. Only at six o’clock, when she was in a cab with a friend, zooming across Manhattan, was she able to check her email. There was a message from the Times – but she couldn’t read the attachment on her phone! Her friend whipped out her iPad, and said, “Forward the message to me.” My editor did, and then, in a ridiculously 21st Century way, she looked at her friend’s iPad while the forwarded email popped up. They opened the attachment. “No…” they said, going through the list. “Yes!!” they said, suddenly seeing it.

But, being as much of the 20th as the 21st century, my editor didn’t have my number programmed into her phone. So she couldn’t call. And my agent was running off to the theater, so she couldn’t call. And my publicist was similarly committed – the publishing industry is in New York, after all. Thus I learned via email, alone. No singing telegram. No fireworks. But once I shared it with Hal, I was able to give myself over to joy and happiness. We put our arms around each other and laughed, giddy with disbelief.

In the week since then, I’ve savored the deliciousness of calling my book a New York Times Best Seller. I’ve loved knowing that a book that gives voice to those who can’t always speak for themselves has made such a mark – and so quickly. And I’ve delighted in the happiness that this news seems to give to everyone I share it with.

But I can’t say that Hal and I went out to celebrate. This wasn’t, though, for lack of the desire to make our own parade. It was because I just couldn’t resist telling everyone I could think of – right away! So Week 3 began with me sending out emails, Facebook posts, and Tweets, and getting a few hundred responses in return.

There was other news, too.

Vanity Fair gave The Story of Beautiful Girl a mention in their Hot Types column.

Bookreporter.com reviewed The Story of Beautiful Girl, saying, “Readers will grow outraged by the atrocities that actually happened not so very long ago. Even more important, however, is the way in which Simon utilizes the inner monologues of Lynnie and Homan to enhance their humanity in a much-needed and too-rare way. Seeing inside their heads, coming to know them as thinking and hurting and loving people, comes far closer to knowing the disabled and empathizing with them than most readers ever would on their own. Crafting a sweeping, decades-long love story between two such characters does as much for raising awareness and enhancing compassion as any exposé ever could.”

She Magazine, which is based in the United Kingdom – where The Story Of Beautiful Girl will be released next week (with a different cover!) – named it their Book Of The Month. They also said in a review, “One of those moving novels that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page….This beautiful novel then follows the lives of the four main characters and is packed with stunning descriptions and an astute understanding of the frustrations of living with a disability and being totally misunderstood. A truly eye-opening tale.”

My local paper, the News Journal, gave a nice summary of recent developments, titled “Wilmington Author’s New Book Wins Plaudits.”

And reports kept coming in from friends.

Betsy in New Hampshire reported that it had sold out at her local store.

Pam in Seattle reported that it was on display in the front of Elliott Bay Book Company. She and another friend, Laura, posted photos on Facebook.

Peter said he saw a fabulous display in the Memphis, TN airport.

Liz, who attended Book Expo of America in New York City, snapped this photo of a display at my publisher’s booth.

But the news was not the sum of my week. I also had people to see, events to do – and a whole other wonderful milestone to celebrate.

Some of the people I saw were friends who’d attended one of my first few events but had to leave before they got through the book signing line. I met up with them at their houses or cafes, signed their books, and had the chance to catch up in lovely conversations.

Others were friends who just appreciated a visit, and whose company I enjoy. One was my friend and former neighbor Kathy, who is in the middle of treatment for cancer. I always liked talking with Kathy when we ran into each other on the sidewalk, and even though she now lives in a different part of town, I try to see her whenever I can. We laughed about politics, talked about mutual friends, and shared hopeful feelings about her ultimate recovery.

Another was my brother and his son. My brother, who has recently gone through many trials of his own, showed me the bouquet of flowers he buys as a treat for himself once a week. My nephew, who plays drums and loves punk music, showed me record albums he’s particularly fond of.

And another was Hal. We did indeed have a celebration – for our tenth anniversary. For this occasion, he renamed himself yet again. No longer was he Dr. No, as he’d become the first week the book was out. This time, he was Count Goofinoff, to ensure that we would spend the entire day goofing off. And we did!

But first, I’ll show you photos for the event I did this week, a reception at my friend Michele’s house. If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember Michele because she’s my hair dresser, and, last summer, she gave her newly adopted pet bird to my mother and her husband, who’d lost their beloved birds not long before and were deeply in need of another feathered friend. Michele’s generosity has given them much pleasure since. (You can read that earlier blog here.)

When Michele read The Story of Beautiful Girl, she immediately asked if she could hold a reception in her house. She would invite her book club and friends and ask everyone to show up with a book. All I’d have to do would be to arrive, mingle, do a short talk, and sign books. Her generosity won me over just as much as it won over my mother and her husband last summer.

Michele held the event this past Sunday night. Almost thirty people showed up, covering a wide range of professions and interests. This blog ends with some pictures of that special evening, followed by the photo-story of our goofing-off anniversary.

I send this all out to you as I get ready for yet another event tomorrow: a keynote at a conference, followed by a reception and book signing for the public – both in Philadelphia. But that gets us into the start of Week 4, and in the interest of not making my blog as long as books, I’ll post this before I leave.

So Week 3 is now over. And even though the fireworks never showered down around me, my book was in a magazine with a shirtless Rob Lowe, at a bookstore with my friends Pam and Laura, and on the most important bestseller list in the world. And I got a chance to wear a red feather boa, make my friend Kathy laugh, and retreat into a Wonderland of flowers with Count Goofinoff.

I’ll end by paraphrasing something someone very dear to me once said: Could there be a better week than this?

The very next day was our anniversary. Hal took the day off, and, after a few hours of getting everything in order, I did, too. We then went to Longwood Gardens, where we spent several hours – wandering, talking, laughing, marveling, and forgetting everything but the soul-filling pleasure of being happily alone with the person you love.

The pile of mail that awaited me upon my return home two weeks ago has been opened. Mostly.

The phone messages that were left while I was all over the country have been answered. Pretty much.

The Himalayan mountain range of electronic communication that grew steeper and higher and farther until it touched the deepest blue of the sky and extended well beyond the known world has been assessed. Hiking expeditions have even gone up the first few summits. Though there are many to go, and already, more mountains are forming.

All of this is happening while my sweet, quiet routine, with husband Hal and kitty Zeebee and long work-outs and mugs of tea and a hardback novel in my rocking chair and a spiral notebook in the library – all of which rose tantalizingly in my mind while I was flying from city to city – still await my return.

This is not what people expect to hear. They expect that, having dispatched with my on-the-road commitment to my publisher, I’ve flung off the adrenalin, sense of purpose, extroversion, and list of commitments I needed on the road and simply pulled my regular life back on, as if I were changing from a tailored suit and too-tight pumps to comfy khakis and a much-worn sweater.

But The Story of Beautiful Girl is my sixth book, and, having held other writers’ hands for the twenty-three years I’ve been in the business, I know that the whole year leading up to a book’s release is critical. The writing and editing might be done, and the publisher – in the best of worlds – might be sending out advanced reading copies to reviewers and interviewers, figuring out a marketing strategy, and encouraging bookstores to place their orders. So to the uninformed it would seem that the writer’s work is behind her. However, the publisher – in the best of worlds – can accomplish its goals all the more readily if the writer is a full member of the team, since, among other things, the writer might have contacts in niche markets, or creative ideas for how to reach readers.

In the case of The Story of Beautiful Girl, and as those of you who’ve been following this blog know, my passionate efforts during this pre-publication phase of my novel aren’t simply because I’m the author of this book. They’re also because this is a novel that takes readers deeply into the hearts and minds of two adults with disabilities, like my sister Beth and her boyfriend Jesse, or like the thousands of individuals I’ve met through my talks for my memoir, Riding The Bus With My Sister. It’s also a novel about the moral conflict and selfless devotion of a direct support professional who provides support for the character of Beautiful Girl, like staff people who’ve worked with my sister and others I know. And it’s about a childless, elderly widow whose life suddenly changes when a newborn baby is left in her care. (She is not like anyone I know, though I’ve had some early readers say, “I wish that would happen in my life.”) So despite being fiction, this book is intertwined with many people who mean a lot to me. And I feel I owe it to them to do all I can to generate an audience for this book.

So in the interest of assisting my publisher further – while not spending my usual five hours writing a long, detailed, here’s-everything-that’s going-on blog, thereby freeing me up to keep scaling those endless, snow-capped electronic summits, not to mention doing my hospice volunteering, seeing my sister, and visiting friends in need, such as a wheelchair using writer who just had a terrible accident and is now recovering in a rehab hospital – I’m devoting this post to a few book updates, and one very personal thrill.

BJs, the wholesale club, has a book club, and they just announced that The Story of Beautiful Girl will be their May selection.

Publisher’s Weekly, the influential trade journal, has given the book a glowing review. Please note that this review comes with a Spoiler Alert, so read at your own peril by clicking here.

ANCOR is a trade association advocating on behalf of 800 private providers of services for 500,000 Americans with disabilities that employ over 400,000 direct support staff in almost every state in the country. To help me spread the word about The Story of Beautiful Girl, they’ve posted an informative page on their website devoted to my book. If you’d like to support ANCOR, please order your book through their site.

I have had many discussions with organizations that will be hosting me at upcoming talks, and then I’ve updated the Appearance page on my website accordingly. The current page reflects only what’s been finalized as of today. I expect to add many more events as the time of publication nears.

My publisher has been busy too. Mostly this is with things I don’t know or feel the need to ask about. But one thing I do know about, and adore, are four terrific animated ads they’ve created.

One of these ads, the one with the white background, hints at the plot; the others include endorsements from some of the booksellers I met and dined with during the pre-sale tour, as well as the wonderful writer John Grogan, author of Marley and Me and The Longest Trip Home. These ads, which have been posted in in several places online, have continued the publisher’s mission of building pre-publication excitement about the book.

To view these ads in their animated form, just click on one and wait a moment for the animation to begin. You can also add them to your own website by right-clicking on an animated ad to download the file to your computer, then opening it using Quick Time, and following the same procedure you would when adding a regular image.

But my life hasn’t been just about The Story of Beautiful Girl and seeing friends and others in need.

Despite my not being able to return to a contemplative routine, I have celebrated a momentous occasion with my husband Hal: the debut musical performance of the trio he plays in, Puddles In A Gondola. On February 13th, Hal and his two fine musician friends, bass player Matt Stein and violinist June Bender, played two improvisational pieces at the Highwire Gallery, an art gallery in the Philadelphia neighborhood known as Fishtown.

I know what you’re wondering right now. What type of music did they perform? Those of you who don’t already know about Hal’s unusual, undefinable music from my last book, The House On Teacher’s Lane, might want to prod me with such helpful but ill-suited suggestions as, “Rock ‘n roll?” “Blues?” “Jazz?”

The best response I can give is that, although Hal, Matt, and June all have training in classical music and although their tastes run from jazz standards to English folk, the music they played that night was a blend of many elements that add up to something avant-garde. As you can see in the photos below, in addition to Hal’s guitar, he played an electronic bassoon. He also used electronic looping throughout the performance. Matt and June each stayed acoustic, but added toy instruments (yes, like Fisher-Price), selecting such things as plastic saxophones and flutes at random.

The audience was small but spirits were high. And everyone – especially the guitarist’s wife, who was tired from climbing but invigorated by loving – had a fabulous time.

This is a story about how everyone deserves love.

First, please meet my mother. For the past two decades, she’s lived in Florida with her husband, and both are retired. Every spring for the last few years, they’ve driven the thousand miles north to Pennsylvania, where he grew up and they met long ago. They travel in a mobile home, which they then park in a campground for the entire summer. The campground is a few hours from where I live.

This is my mother’s husband. He does all the driving because a few years ago, my mother became too forgetful to cook a meal, much less drive a car, and was eventually diagnosed with senile dementia. She still lives at home, and he’s her caregiver.

They love each other very much and are each other’s constant companion and best friend. They’ve been married for almost thirty years.

I see them as much as I can when they’ stay up north. My mother still knows who everyone is and can carry on a conversation for short periods, but she has large and ever-growing gaps in her memories. It’s hard knowing that any visit I have with her might be the last time she remembers who I am.

Until a year and a half ago, my mother and her husband doted on their pet cockatiels, Lemon and Pumpkin, who were also each other’s constant companion and romantic partner. Their feathered bond lasted for a gloriously happy twenty years, all of which they spent with my mother and her husband. Then, suddenly, Lem passed away. Pumpkin pined away for months, and then he died, too.

My mother and her husband were bereft. They loved these birds so much, they’d long ago stopped using airplanes when they traveled, as they disliked having the birds out of their sight. That’s why they got the motor home, which gave them the ability to drive across the country as a foursome, the birds happily entertaining the humans from their cage, the humans adoringly catering to the birds’ every need. They’d even hired an artist to paint a picture of Lem and Pumpkin on the side of the motor home. At some point, my mother’s husband bought a special box for a double coffin, saving it until the time came so they could be laid to rest in style – and together.

The silence was overwhelming after their beloved birds were gone. There was no one to sing along with the radio, or to dance in the cage, or to display his or her feathers. No one whistled back when my mother said, “Good morning.”

I am a hospice volunteer and spend a lot of time in an assisted living facility, where many of the residents have Alzheimer’s. I see that while some people have regular visitors, others have none, and although I can’t detect a difference in the progression of their condition, I’ve come to suspect that loneliness encourages insecurity, neediness, fear, even desperation. Everyone, regardless of the state of their cognitive abilities, needs to know they’re loved – and needs to have the opportunity to love another back. Whether or not it makes us live longer, I cannot say; but it deepens and enriches every moment that we’re here.

This summer, my mother and her husband came up north in July, planning their return drive to Florida for mid-September. I visited several times, and told them I’d come back one final time a few days before they were scheduled to leave.

But an interesting thing happened a week before that last visit. I went to get my hair cut.

This is Michele. She lives twenty minutes from me and has a sunny room in the back of her house where she cuts hair. She has a warm and caring personality, and always does a great job with my curly mop.

It’s very peaceful in Michele’s haircutting room. She’s the sole employee, and at most I encounter only one other customer, though often it’s just Michele and me. The atmosphere is easy and informal, and, because her family sometimes stops in to say hello, I’ve gotten to know her daughters, husband, and pets. Right now she has two dogs but for a while she had a bird, too. The bird passed away, but she retained a fondness for feathered creatures.

In early September, when I went to Michele’s for my haircut, I opened her back door and, to my surprise, saw a new bird. It was a cockatiel, no less, who was instantly eager to say hello.

“Who’s this?” I asked, walking up to the cage.

“That’s Rudy,” Michele said.

Rudy, who’d already been bouncing around the cage trying to get closer to me, grew even more alert at the sound of his name. Full of energy and blessed with an insistent friendliness, he was instantly likable.

“Where did Rudy come from?” I asked, not taking my eyes off him.

“One of my other customers. He’s only three years old, and her family has grown so much that they recently realized they have too many children to pay enough attention to Rudy. She mentioned that she was thinking of putting him on Craig’s List, and I said, ‘Well, I’ll take him.’ I hated the thought of him being on Craig’s List.’”

I did, too. Rudy was clearly smart and engaged, and his personality instantly struck me as larger than life. It was terrible to think of him ending up with someone who paid the highest bid, and who might not love him as much as, well, as much as he deserves. And everyone deserves to be loved.

I said, “You know, my mother and her husband had two wonderful birds who passed away. I think they’d love Rudy.”

Michele said, “He’s a very nice bird.”

I said, “I feel strange asking this, but…I’m going to be seeing them in a few days. Can I tell them about him?”

“Sure.”

Michele then cut my hair. And right after I left to go home, her daughter, who’d been listening to us from the living room, said to Michele, “I think Rachel really wants that bird for her mother.”

A few days later, I drove to see my mother and her husband, as planned.

And after we’d gotten caught up, I told them about Rudy. “He looks just like Pumpkin,” I said. “He’s bursting with affection. If Michele was willing to part with him, would you want to take him in?”

My mother immediately teared up. “Yes,” she said.

Her husband said, “Oh, three years is a really good age. And it would be so great to have another bird. And we still have all the food and toys and everything we need. But would she really let Rudy go?”

“Rudy sounds wonderful,” my mother said, gushing.

I said, “How about if I call Michele and get her thoughts?”

Right then and there, I dialed Michele. She laughed because she’d been thinking I’d get in touch. Then she checked with her family, and moments later, she called back. “Yes, your mother and her husband can have Rudy,” she said. “We like him, but we haven’t bonded yet. And we know that we’ll treat him like a prince – but they’ll treat him like a king.”

So a few days later, I went to see my mother and her husband one more time, and led them in my car to Michele’s house.

My husband Hal, who also wanted to meet Rudy, was waiting for us. Michele greeted us all warmly. Then we went into her haircutting room, where Rudy awaited.

Hal was immediately taken by Rudy.

Michele brought him out of his cage.

And my mother gave him a kiss.

We carried Rudy outside, set him in the car for the ride back to the campground, and hugged each other goodbye.

Moments later, they drove off with their beautiful new companion. As always, I felt sad, not knowing what state my mother might be in when I see her again. Yet I also felt I’d done a good thing.

A few days later, when they were halfway to Florida, my mother’s husband called. “This is a magnificent bird!” he said. “He’s so friendly. He gets on our shoulders and nuzzles our faces. Your mother sings to him and he sings back. They’re already getting totally attached. We totally love him.”

I could imagine my mother in the background, Rudy on her shoulder as she cooed to him. I don’t know how much longer my mother will remember who I am. But because of one family’s need for help, one hair dresser’s generous spirit, one customer’s luck in scheduling a haircut just when she did, and one bird bursting with affection, I do know that every minute that my mother – and her husband and Rudy – have left on this earth, they will know that they’re loved, and that they will have someone else to love back.

Last Wednesday, two weeks before my sister Beth’s fiftieth birthday, my phone rang. I saw her name on the caller ID and was baffled. It was only nine thirty in the morning, and she rarely takes her lunch break so early. I snatched up the phone, expecting her usual, sing-songy “Hi, Sis. Thiz Chatty Beth.”

Instead she said, “My side hurts.” Her voice had a gasping, panicky tone, as if she was holding back tears.

I sat up at my desk, on full alert. This is the opening to a call you do not want to get from someone you love, and especially not someone who needs a little more help to get through life. My sister Beth has an intellectual disability, and although she’s confident and self-reliant, has a boyfriend and an apartment of her own, and has carved out a very social life riding buses all day, every day, I know I need to help when she needs me.

I’ve always known that. She’s eleven months younger than I am. On her birthday we’ll be twins for the next month.

I kept my voice calm. “Does it hurt a lot?” I said.
,
“A lot. And I’ve been throwing up all morning.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“My aide’s coming to take me to the doctor.” She pushed the words out through what were obviously volleys of pain. “At ten.”

“Do you want me to come to you?” Beth lives a couple of hours away, even if I broke speed limits all the way there.

“You don’t have to. She’s taking me.”

“Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“I’m going to the doctor!”

“Will you call me as soon as she sees you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to stay on the phone until your aide gets there?”

“She’s gonna call so we can’t.”

“Then tell her to call me, okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, and she hung up.

I sat there, my heart pounding. I have no medical training, but these sounded like serious symptoms. I wanted to do right by her, but she didn’t tell me to come. My friends with kids have told me about calls like these, when their daughter or son phones in the midst of a crisis, not knowing what was happening, wanting to connect but not wanting their parents’ help, and maybe living too far away for help to come galloping immediately there anyway. My friends have told me about the fear, the feelings of powerlessness, the time-stopping descent into hell of not knowing how bad this might be.

Having a sibling with a disability is not like having a child. For one thing, Beth has always been there; unlike parents, I knew no Before.

For another, everywhere you look, a substantial number of the adults you’ll see are parents, so, as singular as your problems with your child might be, you can take comfort in knowing that you’re far from alone. But special siblings, far less common, might know few, if any, others like themselves, so the sense of aloneness, of having to figure it out on your own, of having no one except a handful of other siblings who truly understand, can be profound.

There are many other distinctions between having a child and being a sibling to someone like Beth, but the one I have the opportunity to notice most often is that sometimes Beth wants to me to do the things a parent might do, like pay for her meals when we go out, attend meetings with her aides, answer questions she’s too embarrassed to ask anyone else. But other times she wants me to be only a sofa-sharing companion while watching DVDs, a supermarket chauffeur who lets her buttons get pushed, an engaged listener to endless bus-related gossip, a tireless back scratcher who expects to get teased for eating soy yogurt, agrees to watch Shark’s Tale for the thirtieth time, notices that each toenail is painted a different color, and knows not to step on the purple rug—i.e., she wants me to be a sister.

Being the sibling of a person with special needs means being a shape-shifter. Which is why, when she didn’t ask me to come meet her at the doctor’s, I didn’t just don my parent cape, jump in my car, and fly up to see her. I stayed dressed as an ordinary sister and waited by the phone at home.

Years ago, I struggled with just about every aspect of our relationship. Then I rode the buses with her, and came to terms with many things about her, about myself, about the unique nature of the special sibling relationship. I recounted my experiences in a book, Riding The Bus With My Sister, which became a movie. But my story with Beth has, of course, continued after the last page and the final credits. That’s the real difference between being a sibling of someone like Beth and being a parent. The lifelong worry of After.

When I was a kid, After meant after our parents passed away. I knew, as did my brother and other sister, that we were expected to step in and be there for Beth after they were gone. As a child, I just accepted this as a fact of my life, but by my college years I’d come to dread it. How would I know what to do? What if we weren’t getting along, as was the case then? Why wasn’t I free to live my own life without this responsibility?

Then Beth entered the world of adult services, and we were lucky enough to find an agency that treated her well. They got her an apartment when she didn’t like the group home. They gave her good training in independent life skills. They hired aides who often stayed with Beth for years. With their support, I no longer had the worries I’d had about After. I could choose to be there After, but it wasn’t a requirement.

I chose to be there.

And then I started to realize there was another kind of After.

What happens After one of us begins to lose the vigor and health we’ve both enjoyed through our half century together? I hate to say this, but I’ve always hoped she would lose it first, so I could—if she wanted—accompany her to doctor appointments and keep her company if she grew weak. Yet she’s always seemed so robust, so unstoppable; even with a cold, even in a blizzard, nothing will keep her off the buses. What will it be like to watch the decline of the willful, energetic, Croc-addicted, Winnie-the-Pooh-adoring, always-in-my-life force of nature known as Chatty Beth? (She was Cool Beth for a long time, but switched to Chatty Beth when a new, favorite bus driver was amused by her talkative ways.)

I haven’t wanted to think about it. Not only can’t I imagine her not being there, always eager for a visit, a call, a letter, and money to buy her ice-cream. But I’ve known siblings who’ve lost their Beths, and have told me that the absence and grief is made all the harder by people who just don’t get it. One friend told me that, soon after her sister’s funeral, people said to her, “You must be so relieved.” She wasn’t relieved at all; without her sister, she felt forlorn, and given that kind of reaction, she felt abandoned.

It’s ironic. Being a sibling of a person with a disability means always feeling connected to someone else. Yet because of the way our society thinks of that someone else, it also means feeling far apart from others.

Fortunately, because of my book, there are hundreds of thousands of people who do think about Beth. Many of them are also siblings, or parents, of people with disabilities. Or they have disabilities themselves. And they know her life is worth as much as any other life, and would never dream of saying, “You must be so relieved.”

Yet there I sat, after she’d hung up, feeling all alone. I wasn’t at her side as she hurried to the doctor. I wasn’t speeding down the highway to meet her at the hospital.

Only later did I learn that I wasn’t alone at all. When the day had begun, and she’d insisted on getting on the bus despite the pain in her side, her bus drivers took stock of the situation. When she began to throw up, they urged her to go home, call her aide, see the doctor. When her aide came, they rushed to the doctor. When the doctor saw her, she sent them to the emergency room. When Beth called her boyfriend from the hospital, he rode his bike right there.

I learned most of this a few hours later, when another one of Beth’s aides began calling me with updates. Over and over she called, as every little piece of news developed. That’s when I found out that Beth had many people who’d been ready to help out. That’s when I found out that, after an early suspicion of diverticulitis and the discovery of an excess of white blood cells, and then a CAT scan, an IV, and morphine for her pain, her aide and her boyfriend stayed by her side. She wasn’t alone.

And, because of the kindness of her friends on the buses, and the professionalism of the people who work at her agency, and the devotion of her boyfriend, neither was I. I might have been sitting alone at home, holding my breath. But I was one of many who encircled her, waiting for the answer, hoping for the best.

Finally, at seven o’clock, she called. This time there was excitement in her voice. They were releasing her, she said, and she couldn’t wait to get home. Her aide got on the line and explained that Beth had had a kidney stone, which she’d passed while she was in the hospital. She was also found to have a slight case of pneumonia. Oh no, I thought, imagining her blasting onto the buses the next morning. But then I learned that, when Beth called a bus driver to tell her, she was told she simply had to stay home the next day and fill the prescription the hospital gave her and take it easy and that was that. And so, Beth told me, she would.

I went to see Beth a few days later. She seemed a little lower in energy than she often does, though I’m not sure if that was because of the pneumonia. In fact, one of her drivers said to me, while I was there, that maybe it was a misdiagnosis, because, after her one day off, Beth had gotten back on the buses and ridden with her usual gusto. The downshift I saw in her energy was probably more related to her having fallen over an uneven sidewalk when she went out to get the prescription filled. She’d hit her forehead and gashed her knee, which still hurt. I felt a surge of worry, then learned that she’d applied Neosporin and bandages.

“How did you know to do that?” I asked.

“A driver told me.”

So as of today, it seems we’ve pulled through. There will be other times ahead, I know that. And maybe the next one will hit me instead of her. But right now, when I think about the Afters that will come, I know she won’t be alone—so I won’t be, either. Some people just get it. They might not be siblings, or even parents. But whoever they are, they know what matters. They know not to step on the purple rug. They know not to ignore the many-colored toenails. They know not to toss around words like “relieved.”

I stood on our front porch, waiting for the vet to arrive. It was a chilly Saturday evening in May, though the wind gusted like November, sweeping old leaves up into the air and down the street, twirling them out of my sight.

Inside the house, our cat Peach lay on the kitchen floor, where she had lain for much of the last day. My husband Hal sat beside her, stroking her fur, cooing consoling words. She was fifteen, and her long-haired, calico coat was as beautiful as ever. But her plume of a tail, once a flagpole of merriment as she bustled down the stairs to greet us hello, stretched flat on the floorboards, and her eyes, which had gazed into Hal’s so many times with a look of unconditional adoration, stared out into nowhere, unfocused.

We didn’t want to believe her time had arrived. Yet even as we hoped the vet would say recovery was still within grasp, even though we knew she wanted to hold onto her life, we knew she would not revive.

Her decline had begun a few years ago. That’s when our cheerful chatterbox with the insistent friendliness and fill-up-a-house personality, whose dainty ballerina turnout, combined with a sashaying gait, made us call her Miss Marilyn Meow, added some new and unwelcome behaviors to her repertoire. She howled loudly, peed outside her cat box, drank water constantly, lost lots of weight, and ran about until she collapsed into the deepest of sleeps.

After many visits to Dr. Coogan, the softspoken veterinarian who, it turned out, every pet lover in our neighborhood called their own, we learned she had hyperthyroidism. Increasingly common in cats, with unknown causes, hyperthyroidism will ultimately lead to kidney failure. There is only one medication that might help, and we tried it in pills, pill pockets, liquid, and a gel we applied to her ears. But it made her sleep all the time, or throw up, or have allergic reactions. So about half a year ago, in the fall, we decided to take her off the meds, and let what would hapen happen.

The wind rushed down our street with a force I hadn’t seen since around the time we made that decision. It tipped potted plants onto their sides and spilled out the dirt. It snapped strong young branches off trees.

Hal came up beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.

He glanced at the trees on our street, their leaves chattering in the gusts. “Such a windy day,” he said. “Somehow it seems appropriate.”

The graph of Peach’s health had been sloping down for months, but it was gradual. The bottom seemed far away.

Only two nights ago had we reached the steep drop down. We didn’t realize it at first, because she and our other cat, Zeebee, had spent the day romping and sleeping in our small backyard, and in the neighbors’ yards across our side alley. When dusk fell, Zeebee came in easily, but for awhile we couldn’t find Peach. Then we located her, perched on the edge of a neighbor’s tiny fish pond. Since her illness, she’d drunk water from this pond. That night, she wasn’t drinking.

A few hours later, at four in the morning, she woke us with a plaintive cry. We found her in the bathroom, a place where she rarely ventured, and after we brought her to bed to comfort her, she climbed out, made her way downstairs, and laid beside her water bowl. I’d heard that’s one of those bad signs, so we tried a trick we knew of giving her ice cubes and encouraging her to lick. She didn’t lick.

At sunrise, Hal called Dr. Coogan. He’s the kind of old-styled vet who’s cut from a cloth rarely made anymore: he has a gentle, caring demeanor, sees patients the day they need help, and understands that animals have the capacity to enter the souls of those who love them. He told Hal to bring Peach in, where we learned she was severely dehydrated. For a few hours he gave her fluids, then released her. But when Hal brought her home and set her carrier case on the floor, she didn’t move. We urged her out, and saw her legs were wobbling. She laid on her side on the floor. Hal sat in a chair and brought her to his lap. “This isn’t looking good,” we said.

That was Friday. Now it was Saturday. The journey through Friday night had been a march into dread. Will things somehow turn around? When should we call the doctor again? How can we go on without our mirth-making, dustball-producing, quilt-kneading Miss Peachie Pie?

We didn’t sleep, thinking instead about how, when Hal was single fifteen years ago, he found a shriveled, lonely, quivering cat in his backyard in another city. She had a collar but no tags, and somehow, for reasons we would never know, had gotten separated from her home, and taken refuge under a concrete bench outside Hal’s back door. He’d recently said goodbye to his first feline soulmate, Woody, who’d also had hyperthyroidism, and died at age twenty-three. So his house was empty and his heart was ready, and when he lured this lost, pathetic looking creature into his warm kitchen, she moved into his life as well.

She found him, and a paradise beyond any she could have ever dreamed of—shelter and food and rugs and beds and warm laundry and nightly brushie and nuzzly-cuddly-giggly-fur-addicted-nickname-minting-cat-dancing companions—became hers.

There were intrusions in her paradise. Moves to a few new residences, with all the accompanying changes in routines. The arrival of a black and white stray, Zeebee, who Hal insisted we take in a few years ago.

But mostly Peach had a gloriously happy existence. And she repaid us by winning over the hearts of everyone—friend, neighbor, even new wife—who encountered her. They called her “Mouthy” for her talkativeness. Everyone marveled at how she’d speak whenever you waved your arms near her, like the electronic instrument of the theramin. Neighbors discovered her boldly exploring their houses when their back doors were open. They saw her appear on their back porches whenever they were barbecuing, snatching up any morsel that fell from a fork, earning her yet another nickname, The Hamburglar.

Her eyes were smart. She knew her name. When we learned that Delaware had declared our state dessert to be the peach pie, we laughed and said, “It’s true.”

Dr. Coogan circled our block twice before he was sure he was at the right address. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t an older, white van, the kind families take for long vacations. I wasn’t expecting him to get out in shorts, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. For a moment I wasn’t even sure it was him, except that when he got out, he held a cardboard cat carrier and a leather medical bag—the kind I’d seen only in old television shows, when small town doctors paid house calls.

Who pays house calls anymore? Certainly not doctors. Probably not vets.

Yet when Hal called during Dr. Coogan’s office hours Saturday morning, saying Peach had shown no improvement, and in fact hadn’t been able to hold the fluids she’d received the day before, Dr. Coogan said we didn’t have to make any decisions just then. Yes, his office closed at noon on Saturday, but here was his home number. We could call whenever we needed him over the weekend. Hal asked if there was a chance Peach could come back. Dr. Coogan said it was remote. But, he added, we could wait and see. And if the time came when we felt decisive—and, he emphasized, emotionally ready—he’d come.

So Saturday we sat vigil, waiting and seeing. We began on the kitchen floor. But the morning was sunny and warm, and, aside from being in Hal’s arms, the thing Peach liked most in the world was being in our backyard.

With great care, we carried her outside and set her on the grass. She laid limp. Hal brought out his guitar and serenaded her. She sat up. We called neighbors who loved her. Susan, who’d named her “Mouthy,” came over and stroked her coat. Jen, whose yard backs onto ours and who often found Peach on her porch, said Peach felt like her cat, too. Kelly and Dave expressed sympathy over our shared fence. Hal’s parents called. My father called.

But there was a moment in the midst of all the goodbyes when hope returned. Peach’s favorite place in our yard was the Japanese maple tree, under which she would sleep for hours. And after several hours outside when the most she could do was raise her head, she somehow roused herself to stagger across the yard, jump up and over the foot-high slate border of our garden, and collapse beneath the branches of her tree. There she slept in her beloved spot, and we thought, How was that possible? Maybe she was coming back!

The winds came up then. The branches started snapping.

She crawled out from the tree but could walk no more. “I think she wants to go in,” Hal said.

We brought her to the sofa. I knew the decision had to be Hal’s—he was her true love, and she his second feline soulmate. I was her breakfast feeder and daytime playmate. But I was not the center of her universe.

Hal said, “Let’s wait until tomorrow morning.”

I waited fifteen minutes, and I said, “Why?”

He leaned over and pressed his face into her fur and mumbled their secret language, the one they’d shared since he rescued her from the concrete bench. He had waited a few hours too long when Woody died, and had watched the poor animal suffer in his last breaths. He didn’t want that to happen again. Yet it was clear Peach still loved life. And he—and I—loved her life, too.

Then he lifted his head. “I’m calling Dr. Coogan.”

Dr. Coogan came into our living room. “We’re still wondering,” I said, since I knew Hal could not. “Let me see her walk,” Dr. Coogan said, and when Hal set Peach on the floor, she just settled right where she was.

He said, “Her breathing is labored. She has no more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours left, and they won’t be easy ones. I think your decision is the right one.”

So we brought her to the coffee table and held on. And he explained everything before he did it, and was kind and gentle. And the life left her quickly and easily, because she was already so close. And he closed her eyes, and we placed her in a box. “Now I’ll leave you to your grieving,” he said, and he left. And we cried.

The next morning was cold and the wind was still autumn-strong. Hal dug the grave in the backyard, in a spot close to Peach’s tree. We cried and cried and set the box within. Then he covered it with dirt.

We’d thought of getting a marker of some kind. But then we realized that, sitting across the yard was a very large rock, left over from several tons of stone we used, not long ago, to build a stone wall in our yard. The rock was calico-colored, we suddenly realized, and so Hal carried it to the covered grave and set it on top. “Should we say anything on it?” I asked. We both knew the answer, and as we held each other, crying, we also laughed. “State dessert,” we said, looking down. “The Peach Pie.”

The house is quiet now, and Zeebee is just beginning to search for her friend. We cannot tell her Peach is gone. But just a few moments ago we saw her sitting on the back steps, staring out to the rock.

We look too. The wind still hadn’t settled down, and we’re waiting for May to warm up again. We know we were lucky. Hal had fifteen years with one of the greatest cats of all time, and I had nine. We were given many months, even years, to adjust to her decline. We had the presence of mind to make a decision before her suffering began. She said goodbye to her friends. She spent a final afternoon under her favorite tree. She had a veterinarian who was exactly what a veterinarian should be.

But as much as we wish it would, luck doesn’t balance out loss.

We miss her so, and we always will.

Every wedding is a lacework of stories.

The threads are long and delicate, having survived the hopes and disappointments of previous romances, the fierce friendships of youth, the familial realizations of adolescence, the giddy playmates of childhood, the dependent clasping of infancy. But they don’t stop at birth; every wedding extends far back in time, to relatives known and unknown, whose choices—visiting a particular matchmaker, moving to a new part of the world, taking up a certain line of work—set the course of the bride and groom’s lives. Every wedding, too, encompasses the dreams and disillusionments of the guests who come to the day hoping the happiness they’ve found, or for which they’re still searching, has come to the couple before them.

All these stories come together on a wedding day, and even though no one in the room knows all of them, we see the interweaving occur in front of our eyes, making something beautiful that has never existed before—and, if all goes according to plan, that will never fray or fade.

This is what I thought last week, when I was the matron of honor at my older sister’s wedding.

I didn’t think it on the plane ride from Delaware to Phoenix. My husband Hal and I were caught up in the logistics of seating assignments and arrival times, the pleasures of a layover in my favorite airport, the discomforts of turbulence (for me) and a migraine (for him). Nor did I think it in the two days we had before the wedding, when, having recovered from the flight, we took walks through the sunny valley, trying to remember the names of the plant life we were passing, wondering what words the locals use to describe the brown mountains.

I only began to think about it at the dinner for a dozen friends and family, held the evening before the wedding, when the conversation turned to what advice, if any, each couple at the table would give the almost-newlyweds.

“Forgiveness is important,” one couple said, giving each other knowing glances.

“Remembering that the goal of any argument is win-win, not lose-win,” added someone else.

“Having the ability to laugh at yourself,” said another.

I looked around the table, and understood that we were hearing conclusions reached after long, complicated stories, just like what happened with Hal and me. Then one person recalled how hard the early years of their marriage had been, after their two spools of stories netted together, and they discovered many glitches and snags.

Hal and I discovered the same thing when we laced our lives together. But in our history, that was before we took our vows, in the thirteen years (yes, you read that right) when we lived together. In fact, our imperfect union led us to break up, and only after six years had passed—six years when we each went through many changes—did we come back together and get married. Talk about a lacework of stories when we stood before the justice of the peace!

Our path to marriage was unique, though what couple’s isn’t? Certainly not the people sitting around me at the table. Certainly not my sister and her fiancé.

But none of this really hit me until the ceremony itself.

It was to be a modest gathering, held on the covered terrace of an Italian restaurant, with forty guests. Perhaps because the bride was fifty-two and the groom sixty-one, or perhaps because they prize their network of friends more than ostentation, the flowers, photography, and cake were to be handled by people they’ve laughed, cried, and yardsaled with for years. Hal was given the task of pressing the buttons on the iPod. An acquaintance from my sister’s spiritual group would be administering the vows.

A few hours before the big moment, we met for a rehearsal. Then the bridal party of four drove back to the hotel and got ready.

The bride’s dress, which was sleek, sleeveless, and violet, had been purchased at Ross Dress for Less. The dress for the matron of honor (me), a loose emerald silk two-piece, was sewn by our stepmother. The other two women in the bridal party—the groom’s grown daughter and six-year-old granddaughter—wore blue and purple, respectively, their dresses from Victoria’s Secret and JC Penney.

My sister produced a box with a bouquet for her and me. She placed a wreath of lavender flowers on the granddaughter’s head.

Then we drove back to the restaurant, and parked, as planned, in the back. After two days of wind and cool temperatures, the evening was breezeless and warm. We lined up, hidden behind a corner, the sun not yet set, the guests taking their places on the terrace.

Hal pressed the first song on the iPod. The groom’s favorite musical group is the Carpenters, so the first song was one of theirs, “I Just Fall In Love Again.” As the bridal party stood waiting for our cue, the second song, I imagined the groom and his best man doing the same, on the opposite side of the terrace. In the spirit of colorful frivolity, they both wore purple shirts. The groom also wore a tie chain with the icon of his engineering honor society. An engineer by education, he’s now a defense systems analyst. He was trim and fit in his suit, and his dark hair was neat as always.

Then Hal began the second song. This was by the bride’s favorite group, the Beatles, a preference I happen to share, and as “In My Life” drifted softly over the terrace, I poked my head out of hiding.

There was the woman performing the ceremony, taking her place in the designated alcove on the terrace.

Then came the groom, smiling right at me, walking with his best man.

Then came me, walking toward them, bouquet in hand, cameras flashing beyond the corner of my eye.

And then my almost-brother-in-law’s face lit up. I turned around, and there was my sister, looking more beautiful than I’d ever seen her.

Accompanied by the groom’s daughter and granddaughter, she came to the alcove. The three of us stepped aside. The best man stepped aside. The song came to its end.

And then, after a brief preliminary by the woman running the nuptials, my sister and her almost-husband produced sheets of paper on which they’d written their own vows.

I’d of course known many of my sister’s life threads, but that’s when I remember some of his. His first marriage, which hadn’t gone well, resulted in the daughter beside me. His second marriage, filled with love and respect, ended tragically, when his forty-four-year-old wife died suddenly of a stroke. He then grieved. He tried to date but nothing clicked. He moved to Phoenix to be closer to his newly married daughter and her future children. He settled in, buying a nice house, working at a job that suited his talents.

Then one day after eight years had passed, dearly wanting to talk to his wife once more, he contacted a psychic he’d seen portrayed on television, Allison DuBois. They set up a phone call, then talked for a long time. Most importantly, she impressed upon him that his wife wanted him to have the courage to move on with his life and to be happy again. His wife wanted him to find somebody new. The call left him ready to embrace the next chapter of his life.

Only a month later, my sister paid a regular visit to her financial advisor, a woman, assisted by her daughter, who she’d seen for years. My sister had begun working with the advisor after her divorce from her first husband. She’d told the advisor stories of the men she’d seen since: nice men lacking in ambition, including, for the most part, careers.

After the session ended and my sister left the office, the financial advisor started to think about another client, a defense systems analyst, who was scheduled to come in the following week. She went into see her daughter. “I think these two clients would enjoy each other’s company,” the advisor said. “What do you think?” The daughter immediately said, “I think so, too.”

So the financial advisor played matchmaker.

And my sister met the good man she’d been wanting so long.

And the defense systems analyst met the partner he’d been craving.

And romance enveloped their lives.

The vows complete, my sister and her groom turned to the guests. I turned too, and saw forty smiling faces, forty clapping pairs of hands, forty sets of stories. I watched everyone, and thought of all the histories I knew, and the many I didn’t, and how each of us hoped for this couple to have the best of all we’d ever had, and none of the worst.

Then I saw Hal rising from the iPod with tears in his eyes. Our gazes locked, and the moment froze with it. All of us together, in our messy jumble of losses and dreams, pasts and presents, lessons mastered and lessons just begun. Witnessing love’s needle stitching order into our lives. The glitches might come, the snags might appear. But maybe not. Maybe everything will stay just as it was right then: a beautiful mesh, a perfect design, a delicate lace that’s impervious and strong because at last these lives are woven together.

When I got married nine years ago, my husband Hal was deeply connected to Peach, a long-haired calico who had taken refuge in his city backyard several years earlier. Hal is a total softie when it comes to animals, and especially cats, and when he saw her, shivering and cowering beneath a bench in his tiny back yard, he was himself recovering from the loss of his previous cat, who’d been at his side for twenty-three years. So he began a campaign of luring this pitiful creature into the shelter of his warm apartment, and with several bowls of food spread out over a few days, he succeeded.

Soon she trusted Hal enough to let him clean her coat, at which point he discovered that she wasn’t the skinny, blackened tomcat she’d appeared to be, but a slender, gorgeous lady who walked with hips swiveling and paws turned out like a ballerina. He named her Peach, because her white and orange fur looked as luscious as peach and vanilla ice-cream. In no time at all, she’d become his constant companion, except for the moments when his attention strayed, and then she would sprawl seductively on the floor, belly up, gazing coquettishly toward his face until he happened to glance her way. The second his eyes met hers, she’d cross her front paws at the wrist, her final move to melt his heart. And it did; he’d drop to the floor and nuzzle her, and she’d make happy sounds in return.

When Hal asked me to marry him, I knew I’d also be marrying Peach. I too would come home to the ritualistic greeting, when she’d bound down the stairs, squealing with glee, spring up to the top of the sofa, and ready herself to get hoisted onto a shoulder. Then there would be the display of affection and attention-seeking she’d do for guests, when she’d place herself in the center of the action, and roll about with such abandon, Hal’s friends nicknamed her Roly-Poly. And I’d have to get used to the smart look in her eyes, which sometimes struck me as professorial, especially when she’d sit at the back door, head cocked, demanding with a glare that we let her into the yard.

I am not an easy sell with animals. I like them just fine, but for reasons I’ve never understood, I don’t open my heart for awhile. Somehow, I see them as just a cat, just a dog, until they assert their personality, repeatedly and insistently, and charm me into submission.

Peach began right away. To her credit, she didn’t resent my arrival. One of the many virtues of pets is their rather quick acceptance of new situations, and their efforts to make the best of whatever fate has handed them. Another is their ability to pick up on the overall emotion in the household. We were newlyweds, blissfully happy. And so, therefore, was she.

And so she did win me over. It happened in our first week of marriage, when Hal was giving her her nightly brushie. All he had to do was hold up the brush and she’d hurtle onto the bed and catapult herself over to her special brushie chair. Oh, and then the rolling and dive-bombing and chin-marking of every available surface! Oh, and then the sound of ecstasy: rrruh! It was unbridled delight in life, the same as I was feeling. She won me over because she was herself—and also because she was me.

Soon, with the two of us inventing terms of endearment for our fuzzheaded entertainer, Peach became Peachie.

Then Miss Peachie Pie.

Then Miss Peach E. Pie.

And Cleopatra.

And Meopatra.

And, finally, Miss Marilyn Meow.

But they tick to a different clock, pets. Their hearts beat faster, drumming them more quickly through life. Though I don’t see animals as inherently wiser than humans, I do admire their lack of self-consciousness, capacity for forgiveness, assertiveness with affection. It is as if they, with their shorter life spans, somehow know the pointlessness of grudges. Why not just wait right outside the bathroom door in the morning, going Wah wah wah, even if the night before we were too caught up in our own distresses—a call from a hurting friend, problems at work—to do her brushie? Why not jump on the bed for her nightly kneading dance, even if we’d yelled at her ten minutes ago for sneaking onto the kitchen counter to steal a slice of cheese?

Yes, their clocks tick faster—but they reset faster, too. We’re the ones who know life is too short, but they’re the ones who act like it is.

Her decline began slowly. We didn’t know her age when she met Hal—the vet said a year, but it could have been more. So we couldn’t say, “Oh, now she’s twelve, so let’s start looking for middle-aged milestones.” The changes just happened. There were the losses: less running around, less roly-poly, less variety in her vocabulary. There were the mores: more sleep, longer sleep, deeper sleep. There were the unwelcome newcomers: the drop in weight, the urinating at doorways, the howling, the throwing up.

Then began the visits to the vet. After many rounds, he diagnosed her with hyperthyroidism, a condition that afflicts many older cats (though no one is sure why), and prescribed the one medication used to treat it. She wouldn’t swallow the pill. We got pill pockets. She did swallow, but threw up more. The vet sent us to a compounding pharmacy, which reformulated the medication as a tuna-tasting liquid. She wouldn’t let it into her mouth. The compounding pharmacy turned the liquid into a gel we rubbed into her ears. Her ears turned red, the fur fell off her face, and she slept, slept, slept.

I volunteer for hospice. One of the things I was taught in training is that, at the end of life, cure ceases to be the focus. Instead, the effort goes toward palliative care: making the individual comfortable, maintaining a good quality of life.

We took her off the medication. Her ears healed, her facial fur grew back. She woke up.

But the decline didn’t stop. Her weight dropped even more. The howling grew weak, the peeing grew constant.

No more roly-poly. No ritual greeting. No coquettish displays.

During what turned out to be the last snowstorm of this winter, when she couldn’t hold down dinner, I said, “I don’t think she’ll make it until next fall.” Hal, petting her, said, “We can’t know. Why even think about it?”

So we still do the brushie, and she still loves it, in a scaled down way. Sometimes she still does her nightly kneading dance, but not often. When days are cold, she curls up next to a hot water bottle, too thin to warm herself on her own.

The sorrow of watching her decline is made worse by the fear of losing the gifts she’s given us. The laughter, the readiness to drop to the floor and play, the appreciation of her stunning beauty. But more than all of that is the treasuring of the now. If there is only the now, there is no need for hard feelings. If there is only the now, there is no need to be shy about asking for love. Because of Peach, and the other pets we have loved, we see how to revere just one day, one hour, one minute. The minutes will go on after losing her. But how we wish we could grab time, hug it to our chests, and never let go.

So with every day that remains, I hear her in a whole new day. Yes, she still says rrruh! when the brush comes out. And some mornings, she still stands outside the bathroom door and says, in her new, more feeble voice, Weh.

But I now hear the word she and all cats say, the one she’s been saying all along. The one we nicknamed her after.

It is not just the mantra of cats. It is, I now think, the sound of consciousness beating.

Me now. Me now. Me now.

Stay here, me, I think every night, looking at her, and Hal, and everyone I love. Stay here now. Let me come inside the house, and now roll around the floor, and make themselves at home forever.

Neither my brother nor I are currently working at jobs. Since I write books and give talks to make my living, I am self-employed, a situation that suits me well. My brother, though, is a lawyer who has always worked for others, and he would like to keep it that way. However, over the past year, he’s found himself caught up in the unemployment crisis.

First, the company where he’d long been an in-house attorney underwent a merger and eliminated many positions, including his. Then he found a part-time position for another company, but in this economy they didn’t have enough work coming in to keep him occupied and let him go. So he’s been searching for a job. He tries to be methodical about checking the appropriate job sites, but, like many people in his shoes, sometimes the scarcity of job opportunities is highly dispiriting.

I want to help.  It’s in my nature, not just because I too have experienced the numb despair of being between jobs, or wondering whether the famine of my feast-or-famine writer’s life was going to end, but because I’ve seen so many friends struggle over the last few years.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any jobs to offer him.

But I do have something else.  Me.

I make my own schedule, so I’m able to call him up whenever I want and suggest we go out and do something. Usually he says yes, since just getting out of his apartment can boost his morale. The things we do are minor – we make deposits at the bank, mail things at the post office, run off copies at Staples, go for coffee.

But even these small outings, which we can do at our own pace, without the stress of a time sheet to fill, seem helpful. They give us the chance to talk, and regardless of whether the topics are mundane or significant, based in the present or the past, cover our personal lives or current events, I think they give him the sense that this time is only a pause in his life, and that there is so much more to him than a job.

There are things you want to do when people you love are hurting.  You want to make everything right – get them the perfect job, or romantic partner, or therapist, or medication.  But my outings with my brother are reminding me that there is something else you can do.  You can just be with that person.  Your presence, alone shows him you care, and that he matters in the world.

Now it is spring, and he’s told me that the beauty of the season is helping, too. So on our last visit, rather than just run errands, we went out to a local park, and as we walked through a patch of cherry blossoms, and I snapped these pictures, I asked if I could put them on this blog. He said yes, and when I asked what I should say when I posted them, he smiled and replied, “Tell people that this is your brother, whiling away an unemployed afternoon.”

It is a hard time for him, and so many millions of others. But I am glad that, even though I have no job to give him, he’s letting me be there. So in honor of all the people like him out there, and any self-employed person in a period of famine, here are a few moments of springtime glory.