I wanted to reconnect and wish you a happy, healthy, and (as we must continue to say) safe (2022! What a year this has been … My New Year’s Eve was spent much differently from pre-COVID times—snuggled up with my pandemic Yorkie watching the ball drop from the vantage point of my couch. I did get to experience the joys of New York City during the brief post-Delta, pre-Omnicom season, seeing Porgy and Bess at the Met over Thanksgiving. I felt we were in the midst of a better future … and we surely will be one day soon!
2021 was a year of loss, but also of big changes.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve lived with my puppy Beau for close to a year. As it was almost impossible to adopt, I flew to Nashville on Valentine’s Day (of course!) to pick him up from his Kentucky breeder. I was sure to love him, even though he’s a Republican from the deep South! Beau has attended school taking group obedience classes at Doggie Doo, a venerable establishment of canine instruction. It was difficult to gain admission due to the high demand of puppy parents on the Upper East Side – kind of like being a parent trying to get her child into the “right” school. Beau discovered his passion – continuous treats! He went on to obtain his Masters in Disobedience, and now has a private trainer who instructs military dogs. I am armed with tools such as a water gun and party horn struggling to teach him “to sit”?
During the past year, I earned a certificate in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) from Columbia Teachers College. I am especially interested in the intersection of business and English language and am currently an Executive Business Coach at Berlitz International. I hope to expand my passion for coaching international business executives into a private practice over the next year. I am in the pursuit of communications assignments, and will publish my book, “My Slip Was Pink” in 2022. Traveling to Israel is still on my agenda!
Again, I wish you and your family a safe and secure passage through this continuing pandemic and look forward to seeing you as we are liberated from our captivity!
You had a bad beginning as a puppy mill breeding dog.
One day I unexpectedly came to your rescue. And you mine …
I scooped you in my arms and burst through that old door of misery. You were broken, and I didn’t know if I could fix you. I couldn’t even keep a plant alive. But then again, I figured your life could only improve.
Throughout our life together, I saw how love could make cold, hard soil fertile with blossoms. This was true for both you and me.
I learned from your resilience, courage, and compassion. Your purpose in life was to give with all of your heart, until your very last breath. Your absence has left an indelible hole in my soul. But I am so much better for having received your love. And for loving you until the end.
I recall the words of the Statue of Liberty, the Mother of Exiles, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” Now she’s saying, “I don’t want any of this anymore. I’ve retired to Florida.”
This was the motto of Mother Teresa, a tiny woman whose “small” actions had a global impact. I’ve learned through Covid-19 how love is transformational. Perhaps the greatest disease today is not the virus, but the feeling of being unwanted, uncared for, alone on Zoom. The pervasive pandemic is the lack of love and charity that has brought us to this this place.
A small act, like giving a stranger a casual smile when entering a the grocery store or an elevator single file, when performed with love, becomes vast. In all the chaos, this message is reverberating … that love and caring are the most important things in the world.
So … when I saw a guy in the dog park this morning with his Labrador, both unleashed and unmasked, I didn’t growl or bark.
Beware the ides of March! There I was, supposed to get the next installment in a series of shots to diminish the chronic pain in my neck. I wasn’t sure whether I should keep the appointment because of the Covid situation, so I emailed my doctor via the patient portal.
“Is it safe over there?” I gulped while typing the message. I hoped he would tell me to cancel and stay home like an obedient citizen. (The Hippocratic oath says Do No Harm, doesn’t it?)
“Sure. As long as you don’t take public transportation.” I could almost feel him shrug beneath his PPE gear. He never mentioned the obvious—I would be hurling myself upon the summit of Covid-19, Mount Sinai Hospital. The very source of the shocking photos of nurses sporting protective garbage bags that splattered the front-page news. My neck started to throb.
My first touch with Covid-19 occurred a few weeks earlier before the virus reached pandemic status. I was ill with a respiratory infection so severe, my usual asthma inhalers were ineffective weapons against the pain and tightness in my chest. I crawled to the urgent care center two blocks away. I was immediately tested for Covid-19. I thought it would be no big deal. A quick blood test? Before I knew it, swabs the size of mammoth locusts were shoved up my nostrils seeming to reach my brain. A few caring friends resented that I got the test for the emerging plague when many front-line workers couldn’t. How unfair! I explained that I was flagged because of my job as an adjunct professor at a local college. Apparently, that’s considered high-risk work. I thought it was just low paying.
The doctor at the urgent care instructed me to go straight to a hospital emergency because of my breathing condition. “Don’t wait ‘til midnight when it gets worse,” she warned, while handing me an official document from the Department of Health and Human Services, a modern-day divine commandments. “You must protect others from YOU! Wear a mask and gloves at all times, disinfect everything continuously including door knobs, and self-quarantine for at least 14 days.” This didn’t exactly sound like a get-well blessing. Do I have to hang this on my doorpost? I felt like a low-life, but without the sex. I decided to head back to my apartment to remain at home with my dog, rather than spending my last moments on earth alone in a densely packed ICU. Choking most of the night, I braced myself for the end. But the terrier and I drifted off and miraculously woke up the next morning. She wanted her breakfast. I waited 10 days to get the negative test result. At least I got a head start on my social isolation.
For adventure, I’d take an occasional jaunt to the drug store next to my apartment building. Over those two weeks at home, I had lost my appetite for real meals, so I applied myself to consuming junk food. My pandemic panacea was marshmallow binging. I’ll bet you thought no one would trek to Duane Reade with mask and gloves to buy those ever-present Kraft bags filled with toxic, shelf stable delectables. Not so! I figured I might perish, so why not indulge my toddler palette! Who really needed to be thin now anyway? On the other hand, I could live, suffering the reward of an added ten pounds of Covid-induced misery.
As directed, I had been religiously staying at home, listening to the sirens screech around-the-clock. Now, after almost two months of confinement, the prospect of going to the hospital for an excruciating procedure would be a welcome change of pace, an outing — my only human face-to-face contact was chatting with the cashiers at Duane Reade.
So, how have a spent all this time besides snacking? I honestly can’t say. It’s as if the days have blended into one another. My head continually aches, and I am numbed by the constant calling of the news and Zoom. I have difficulty concentrating. I suffer from fits of boredom and agitation—needing to do something, but at the same time, feeling an overwhelming inertia to do nothing. And to top it all off, my dog Sweetie was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease just as Mother’s Day approached. My mother died of that, so it doesrun in families. I’ve been hysterical for days. Will the terrier soon hateme? Perhaps my sister will swoop in to persuade my canine to write me out of her will. Already she’s forgotten how to use her wee wee pads. I wonder what’s in store for me –that’s if I have the opportunity to age . . .
And there’s so much bad news. Retail is failing. My favorite Neiman Marcus flagship store at Hudson Yards is in trouble and has announced a corporate restructuring. I thought about how it opened last spring, generating lots of crowds and excitement. Preparing for a headshot photo shoot, I found that I had nothing to wear in my closet full of sample sale designer clothes and shoes. So, I forayed into the rarified atmosphere of Neiman’s women’s active wear department with the mission of finding a lavish cashmere sweater at an affordable price. In my sweater hopping frenzy, I somehow got locked inside the sparkling new dressing room beneath a tsunami of pink castaways. Battle-weary and dejected, I was released by a bevy of salesgirls, recent college grads that used their collective acumen and apps to find the one,that perfect pink cashmere.. After scouring the store, they presented me with a simple, rose-colored crewneck sweater that was an ideal match – or at least slimming. And the fuzzy gem was on sale! This store is a keeper, I thought. Now, it’s just one in a myriad of toppling businesses.
So, on the day of my Mount Sinai appointment, I took a taxi to the hospital to be cautious. Sitting in the back seat of the car as it whizzed up fashionable Madison Avenue, I was shocked at the sea of closures before me, block after block. Many storefronts already looked shabby –posters slapped on windows touted realtor numbers. There were the heart-wrenching goodbye notes. “WE HOPE TO SERVE THE SURVIVORS OF the COVID.” The mercilessvirus has taught me that I need to make the moments of my life count.
The pit in my stomach was tightening. Memories flooded my thoughts from just a few months ago – noisy holiday parties with tipsy friends and tasty hors d’oeuvres, twinkling Christmas lights festooning store windows, a quick hamburger at Doc Watson’s, a warm neighborhood sports bar with a friendly wait staff, of would-be actors. And precious hugs. It all disappeared instantaneously into a mysterious virus vapor. It was still hard for me to wrap my mind around it. And more important, the souls that have passed. The funerals are getting closer. Friends have lost loved ones. I call to console them. I could cry a mountain of tears.
The taxi turned onto Fifth Avenue as we neared the hospital’s medical offices. On my right, I saw the white plastic topped party tents you typically saw at celebrations. But here there were no tables with crystal vases and flowers there. There were no white-gloved bartenders. The steel-framed tents had been repurposed to contain Covid patient overflow. Outdoor canopies housed assembly lines of cots with ventilators.
Police were positioned along the streets directing traffic and pedestrians. I observed a line of masked zombies marching along Fifth Avenue toward Alfredo’s pizza truck. Masses of protectively garbed hospital workers, crowded around the gleaming vehicle dispensing those slices of heaven. So much for social distancing. Well, I at least hope it was good pizza.
“We are living in a war zone. Like Gaza.” I said to the driver. As I spoke, two massive trucks on each side suddenly flanked the car; each appeared to be half a block long. My heart was pounding, as I feared the worst.
“Are those steel trucks for food distribution” I asked the driver tentatively.
He responded dryly. “ Those trucks are morgues. They hold the bodies.” Why, I wondered, did they have to park so close to the food cart? I felt nauseated.
In the midst of this sea of human mortality, I thought about my life, as if an MRI machine scanned it. I’ve taunted people with “my busyness,” a distinctly New York tool of intimidation. I bragged to feel worthy, puffing myself up over how many activities I could squeeze into a day. But I was continually racing somewhere as a distraction from my own discontent. I didn’t care enough about others, about the hunger in my own city and throughout the globe. I thought about how much I really depended on my colorist.
The cab turned down 98thstreet. It had begun rain. The sky was gray – its standard uniform over the past couple of months.
“You going to the middle of the street?” The driver asked nonchalantly.
“Yes, I’m looking for the medical offices. I’ll just get off here near the corner.” I needed an immediate breath of air.
“I’ll drop you, but okay.”
The ride cost over $35.00 to go twenty blocks. A bit of price gauging, but nothing compared to the price of Sweetie’s chicken. I was wearing plastic gloves that were too large, so it was hard to maneuver sliding my worn credit card out of my wallet. Fumbling with my plastic fingers, I pushed my Amex through the glass divider-separating passenger from driver.
“Be safe,” he said.
“Be safe” I replied. The new Namaste. I stepped out into the cool, possibly infected air.
From the chards of the chocolate Easter bunny and matzo crumbs come surrender.
The bunny was broken! Yet, he stood for sale in the window of Duane Reade with a noticeable gash. Maybe the store clerk didn’t notice that the confection had been maimed. It flew in the face of what we expect on Easter Day, this ancient rite of spring — garish hats decked with birds and flowers, perky marshmallow Peeps, and new pastel pumps.
But then again, this was no normal holiday. Over the past months, humanity has been fleeing one another, only hoping to be spared from a modern-day plague.
All at once, it hit me. Here was the perfect metaphor in a chain store window. It’s about me.I feel hollow and bruised like the boxed-in bunny. Frightened of slipping down the rabbit hole. My underpinnings have been torn away. I am fatigued from hoarding toilet paper and wee wee pads. Exhausted trying to figure out where this will all end.
All at once, the bunny spoke to me. “Yes, I am not perfect. I bring the parts of me that have been shattered and gutted to the full beauty of life’s experience. And so will you.” I stood dumbfounded on a painful Easter Day as I contemplated my broken humanity.
I know we are not the same as when I came to my forever home seven years ago. Over the past year, my fur has turned snowy white. I blend into the pale comforter on the bed. My little face is wizened like a very old woman. I know when you look at me, you see a mirror image of yourself- your older reflection staring back, only through my still-loving, and devoted brown eyes. You do not hide or cover up my soft, silvery strands the way a humans does, trying to preserve the last shreds of youth.
I have loved you more with each year that has passed. Old canine love is special—Each day is a precious gift as life fades away. I know you are taking more pictures of me. Even when I’m asleep. (You think I don’t notice, but I do…) You never complain about my many accidents. I dotry to go on the paper. I’m not able to stand on my paws for a bath, so you hold me in your water soaked arms. And our many trips to the vet—I perk up for those occasions so the doctor won’t worry about me.
You don’t leave me alone nearly as much. I’m getting many more belly rubs. And you bring out my old favorite squeaky toys to try to renew my puppyhood When we walk outside you are behind me to gently hoist me up the stairs. Or to carry me.
I don’t have to bark for you, my human. You are just there. I am your snowy Valentine. And you are mine. We are old dogs together. I wrap my paw around your hand. And there it will rest for the remainder of our journey.
Jane Ranzman Writer 