When our elderly cat Silver died in 2017, my husband Tony and I struggled emotionally. Our children were grown and our grandchildren were on the other side of the US. Within 6 weeks we had adopted a kitten. Well, Tony adopted him, I was just there for the ride. The kitten had a great deal of energy and Tony named him Sparky.

Thus began a great friendship between these two males. I sometimes felt left out but was glad they had each other. Because of where we live, Sparky had to stay indoors. I was still working but Tony was retired, so they spent a lot of time together.

Tony had heart disease and ended up in the hospital in November 2018 and January 2020. Each time he went away for about 8 days, causing Sparky great concern. The pandemic sent me home to work in 2020, just in time to be there as Tony recuperated. Sparky got used to me being home all the time, but he was still Dad’s cat.

Tony ended up in the hospital a final time in August 2021. Sparky knew the pattern and expected Dad home after 8 days. Only this time he didn’t come home because he caught Covid in the hospital. Sparky kept a vigil, night after night, waiting for Dad to come home, but he never did. 3-1/2 weeks after going in the hospital Sparky and I lost him. It took Sparky three months of keeping a vigil before he reluctantly realized his Dad wasn’t coming home.

Sparky is now my cat, a wonderful gift from my husband. Sparky is still full of energy and a true joy to have around. Tony and I share children and grandchildren, but we also share this amazing and remarkable animal who reminds me every that I am not alone, and that Tony is still with me in a way.

Donovan made me a mom.

His sister was born on his birthday, three years apart. A built-in best friend. They were great together. Donovan was the best big brother.

Forever 31.

Michael never worried, about anything. He never complained and rarely got angry.

After 25 years he said “You know, I really like my bacon limp.“ Shaking my head …

We lost him the first year. He was a nurse, his second chosen career. I miss him terribly, every day.

It was late morning, two years ago today. The live stream of the Divine Mercy Sunday Mass from the rectory at St. Elizabeth’s had just concluded. That seemed apropos of the situation with the novel coronavirus that was ravaging the world. The phone rang and caller ID told me it was the hospital calling with an update on your condition.

I answered the phone wondering who would be the bearer of news that morning. But, today, it was different. The two physicians assistants, Amanda and Edith, and the two RN’s, Becky and Lisa, were all on the line. They had cared for you since you were admitted to the hospital and now seemed so much like family. My stomach dropped. There had to be a reason they were all on the call. And there was. They let me know that you were on the last downhill of the COVID-19 roller coaster. Your breathing and other vitals indicated that your time with us was nearing its end. All I could think was that I would never have the opportunity to say goodbye.

But they surprised me. They asked if I wanted to come to the hospital to see you. I was amazed given that, in those early days of the pandemic, no one was allowed in the hospital. They explained that you had been moved to a hospice unit set up in an isolated part of the hospital with two or three others in your same situation. One family member was being allowed in for a thirty-minute visit. Of course, I jumped at the chance to be with you.

I went downstairs and, luckily, the bus arrived within minutes. I remember nothing about that trip. I sat there trying to accept the fact that this would be the last time I would ever see you: your smiles darkened; your wry sense of humor silenced; your determination to walk again thwarted.

Within minutes, the twenty-two block trip was over. I was at the hospital. Much to my surprise, the doors were all locked – another anomaly in the chaotic world we were navigating. I could see a security guard at a desk inside and waved. He came to the door, unlocked it, and surprised me when he said: “Are you Ed?” I guess the word was out that I had come to see you.

After a temperature check and answering “no” to a litany of COVID-19 symptoms, they decided I wasn’t a threat. The guards called upstairs to let them know I was there to see you. It was maybe ten minutes before someone, dressed from head-to-toe in a hazmat suit, appeared. It was the RN, Becky. Given the circumstances, she was cordial and comforting, apologetic that we were meeting like this. As she led me upstairs to you, I asked her what to expect. She told me you weren’t conscious but you were not in distress. Once we arrived in the area where you were being cared for, I could see you through the window. I felt the tears start rolling down my face. The staff gave me a few minutes to compose myself and then they dressed me up in the same type of hazmat uniform they were wearing. In a way, I was glad you wouldn’t see me like that. You would have laughed hysterically and had a risqué comment or two.

Becky escorted me into the room and told me to talk to you. It seems our sense of hearing is the last to go. There you were looking peaceful and serene, somewhere between heaven and earth. So, I sat at the side of the bed, took your hand in mine, and talked about the laughs and good times we had shared together for over thirty years. I think you knew I was there because every once in a while, the heart monitor would leap out of it normal pattern. Before I knew it, Becky knocked on the window and held up her hand letting me know I only had five more minutes with you. I couldn’t imagine how I could share all our hopes and dreams for the future in such a short time. So, I reminded you how you had fought the good fight against MS for so many years and suggested that maybe now you should let go and rest. I kissed your forehead, tapped your cheek, and headed out of the room. I removed the hazmat suit, took one last look through the window, and headed home.

I wasn’t home but thirty minutes when Amanda, the physicians assistant, called to let me know you had passed. I guess you waited for me to come so we could have a proper goodbye. I knew you were at peace. Later that afternoon, the hospital called to tell me they had your ring and your wristwatch. Could I pick them up? I headed back to the hospital and retrieved them. As I waited for the bus to go home, I looked at your watch. It had stopped at the exact time they had called me to tell me you had passed. Was that you telling me that you were still around looking after me? I think so.

Two years later, I still miss you all the time. I have your photograph on the wall and say good morning and good night every day. Sometimes when things get crazy, I look at the photo and cry out “Help me, Jody,” and everything seems to calm down. I know you are okay. Since you left, I’ve had occasional nightmares and when I woke up, shaking and heart pounding, there you were standing next to the bed, no wheelchair in sight, assuring me that everything was okay. That’s when I understood that heaven had sent an angel to look over me.

Until we meet again. Run free in the fields of the Lord.