Little Miss Muffet no more

I have always lived in fear of spiders. Actually, terror. Visceral, gut-wrenching terror. It probably stems from the time my brother killed a spider at my behest, then laid the corpse on my pillow. Or the time a mother spider laid her babies in my light fixture, and all those babies drifted down oh so gently upon my bed as I lay in quiet repose. This fear followed me into my adulthood; I once called my husband home from work to save me from what appeared to be a giant arachnid intent on terrorizing me and my defenseless children. Only, as it turned out, the spider in question was already dead. I can still picture the look on hubby's face as he turned to face me, stifling a laugh (unsuccessfully, I might add), reporting the demise of the poor creature. When I looked closer, I could tell that it was already in an advanced state of decay. Fear had prevented me from noticing this before calling for my knight in shining armor.

My fear didn't feel to me like something I could control. I once had a therapist tell me that he could cure me, if I wanted him to. No, thanks, I said. I'd prefer to keep a healthy distance. Spiders are creepy, and crawly, and nightmarish. Shudder-inducing. I spent 18 months in Venezuela, the country of origin of the spiders featured in the hit film, Arachnophobia. I have never seen that movie; it was the one time my husband put his foot down and went all patriarchal on me. He said he valued his job, and couldn't waste any more time rescuing me from deceased insects. Just as well. I experienced those spiders first hand; seeing them in a starring role of a movie just might have driven me over the edge.

But, I fear spiders no more. At all. Just the other day, my youngest daughter screamed in terror and climbed onto the kitchen counter, attempting to escape a creepy crawler speeding across the floor. Of course, I rushed to see what was causing all the commotion, then grabbed a glass, trapped the spider beneath it, put a piece of paper underneath the glass, and took the spider outside, releasing it into the wild of the backyard. Leaving my daughter standing on the counter open-mouthed with astonishment. "Mom!", she said. "Why didn't you just step on it? Now it's going to come back in and get me!" Nah, I replied. It's safely outside, away from the possibility of being crushed underfoot. "You rescued the spider? I thought you were rescuing me!!" Nope, my darling girl. You had no need of rescue. You were never actually in danger. It was just a harmless critter, doing what critters do, looking for a place to hide from your screaming. I just helped him out, literally.

What caused this fundamental change? Interesting story, as it turns out. It has been an interesting journey, and I never foresaw this conclusion. Me, unafraid of spiders? Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think that was possible. Nor did I care. I could have spent the rest of my life stomping on them, gleefully sending them on to their next carnation, without a second thought. Except for how to get their squished remains off my shoe. And yet, here I am, defender of the creepy crawlers.

My transformation began over six years ago, when my beloved mother-in-law was diagnosed with cancer. I loved my MIL, and her diagnosis was devastating to me. She was the best person I've ever known. We didn't always see eye-to-eye, but it didn't matter. Her kind, compassionate soul was capable of overlooking any and all imperfections in her loved ones, me included. Because she had so lovingly raised the man who would grow up to protect me from dead arachnids, I saw an opportunity in her illness to return the love, and I promised her that I would do everything I could to get her through the experience.

For over three years, I took Norma to every doctor's appointment, and every chemotherapy appointment, except for maybe a handful. We became very close throughout the ordeal, sitting for hours together, sometimes talking, sometimes enjoying the respite from our crazy families. I began to see her as more than my husband's mother; she became my friend. My very dear friend. I didn't mind accompanying her, sitting with her, being her nurse when called for, interpreting the doctor's instructions for her, cleaning her up when necessary. I sat up with her all night in the hospital, incidentally the night before Mother's Day. I felt it was my duty to care for her, but it wasn't like most duties I performed, usually with resentment. I look back on those days with some fondness, in spite of the horror of the disease process, and the effects of the chemotherapy. Through serving her, I learned to truly love her. I would never wish such an experience on anybody else, but I can say that I am glad to have been through that with her. It changed my life in ways I'm still discovering, all these years later.

Norma had good days, and bad days, but the last six months of her life were mostly the latter. She deteriorated rapidly, and by the end of the summer of 2009, she was unable to participate in any meaningful way with her family. She had a daughter with severe disabilities, brought on by a brain tumor at the age of nine, and Norma had been her primary caretaker for 50 years. Her husband, my father-in-law, was also dependent upon Norma's ministrations. Their marriage was very traditional: husband worked to support the family, wife did everything else. Everything. She was the cook and housekeeper in every sense of the word. The daily grind laid upon her shoulders was heavy, but she bore it well, in the manner of women from her generation, without complaint. It was her lot in life, as she saw it, and she cheerfully went about the business of making life happen for those in her care. Until cancer stepped in, and put a stop to it. Then she had to lay the burden down, to the dismay of those who had so depended on her. They were unable to face her impending death, and were unable to allow her to accept that it was inevitable. Her husband told her once that choosing hospice was suicide. Ouch.

So, because they were unable to accept what was happening, she chose to keep fighting. Keep going for chemotherapy. Keep allowing the doctor to pump poison into her veins. Keep watching her life seep out through her pores. Keep smiling in spite of the loss of dignity, and the complete inability to care for herself, let alone others. I saw it as part of my job to make sure that she understood the options available to her, but I didn't think it was my place to make her choices for her. She had to be the one to call the game, end the torture. And, finally, she did. She had had a particularly rough day, and her husband had asked me, in despair, "How do you do what you do?" I just shrugged, and proceeded to bath her emaciated body as tenderly as I could. I could do it because I loved her. But, I told my husband that night (in a private conversation) that I could no longer sanction the continuation of chemotherapy by taking her to her appointments. If he, his siblings, and their father wanted it to continue, they were going to have to step up and take some responsibility for it. I could no longer take her into the doctor's office so they could inject her with the poison that was taking her life, and leaving an empty shell. However, the next day, before anybody else had a chance to make a decision, Norma spoke up, and she chose to be done. She looked me in the eyes, and said, "It's time. Call hospice." Hearing those words, I took control of the situation, and I made the necessary calls. With her permission, I stood between her and those who couldn't let her go, and I grabbed for her what dignity remained within reach. I didn't take my job lightly, but she had made her choice, and I was going to see to it that it was honored.

Once hospice stepped in, it took five long, agonizing weeks before she finally died. I was there at the end, standing at her bedside, watching as she drew her last breath, and the hospice nurse declared that her heart was no longer beating. I waited expectantly for some sign, some communication from Norma that she had made it safely to the other side. Some feeling, as I'd heard others express in similar situations, that the death had been attended to by otherworldly beings. Nothing. I felt nothing. She was just gone. What remained was an empty shell, just the flesh and blood remains of what had once been my mother-in-law. She was no more. I was sad, of course, but I also felt some small measure of satisfaction that I had done what needed to be done to release her from the agony that had become her life. I had stood up to those who lovingly insisted that she stay with them, without regards for her health, or her wishes. I loved her too, and would have liked nothing more than to have her stay here with us forever, but, as that wasn't possible, I take pride in the fact that I made sure she got what she really needed in the end.

Norma died in December of 2009. Just over a year later, our beloved yellow lab, almost 13-years-old, became feeble, and too weak to climb the deck stairs. It happened seemingly overnight, so we took her to the vet for a check-up. She had been limping, and favoring her left shoulder, so it was x-rayed to determine the problem. What the x-ray revealed was extensive cancer that had invaded her lungs, and it was so invasive that there was no way to determine the original site. There wasn't any other choice but to put her out of her misery. Libby was just a dog, just a pet, but she had been with us for so long that she was every bit as much a member of the family as I was. And the kids liked her more. It was a very painful decision, but, as I said to the kids when they questioned me, "How are you going to explain to a dog the side effects of chemotherapy? That the chemo will possibly, maybe, but probably not, save her life, but will more likely just prolong it, and make it miserable in the process?" They pointed out that Grandma's life had been prolonged by another 3 years after the diagnosis; why couldn't we do that for Libby? I reminded them of the hell that had become their beloved Grandma's life; was that what they wished for Libby? Of course not, they said. It was just heart-wrenching to have to say goodbye to their dog, their playmate.

The responsibility of that decision seemed to rest squarely on my shoulders. Everybody, hubby included, looked to me for confirmation that we were making the right choice. I questioned myself a few times, but the memory of what my mother-in-law had endured was fresh, and I couldn't see any other option than to put the poor dog out of her misery. We chose the following Saturday morning, the day before Easter, to have the vet come to the house and perform the procedure. It was a somber occasion, and we all walked around in a tearful daze. We went out and sat on the back lawn, waiting for the vet, and watched the dog limp around, wandering from house to canal, sniffing her old haunts. Crying, each of us of taking turns sobbing uncontrollably, petting the dog obsessively whenever she was within reach. I can remember clearly the details of that spring morning, the bright blue sky overhead, and the songbirds in the nearby trees. I can even still feel the damp grass underneath my knees as I knelt beside the dog.

The vet finally arrived, and proceeded to place an intravenous catheter in Libby's paw. Once that was done, she paused, and told us it was time to say goodbye. We were sitting in a circle, with Libby in the center, petting her fur and telling her through tears how much we loved her, and how much we would miss her. I remember noticing that the birds had stopped singing; I think our grief was so loud, we scared them. As the vet injected the heart-stopping drug, Libby turned her head to look at me. I had been feeling the tremendous weight of this decision all week, and it had intensified in that moment. Libby looked right into my eyes, and held my gaze until the light went out. Those beautiful brown eyes closed for the last time, and she dropped her head into Alix's lap. I know, in my rational mind, that she was just a dog, just a dumb animal, but I felt, in that last moment, that she was forgiving me for the events I had set in motion, and thanking me for insisting that we let her go. It was one of the most meaningful moments of my entire life, and, even now, I am moved to tears at the memory.

A few weeks after Libby died, I was sitting in an Adirondack chair on the front porch, visiting with a friend, enjoying a lovely summer evening. I happened to glance over at the table that sat between the chairs, and noticed a medium-sized, black spider slowly crawling along the edge. Hubby was standing nearby, and I said, with some alarm, "Honey! Kill that spider! It's creepy!" He ambled over, peered down at the spider, and said, "Spider! You, having been deemed creepy by my wife, have hereby been sentenced to die!" And he smashed it. Smashed that sucker flat. And I had a very unexpected reaction: I burst into tears. I had been the one to sentence the spider to death, and for what? Being a spider? A creepy one, sure, but still. I had held in my hand this creature's life, for a brief moment, and I had cavalierly decided its fate. It died, because I felt threatened by its creepy existence. I had taken upon myself the responsibility to determine another living being's fate, and I had taken it lightly. And it was too much. It was just too much.

It had been me who had taken steps to honor Norma's wishes, and it had been me who had decided to end Libby's life. And it was me who decided that a measly spider was too creepy to live. Life, in all its carnations, is sacred, and should be cherished. I know, I know! It was just a spider! And they're still creepy, and crawly, and, to be honest, if I were facing down a spider with an ominous red hourglass marking on its belly, I just might have to rethink my position regarding the sanctity of life. However, until then, I'm done playing God. I have no way of knowing where all these deceased loved ones, and creepy things, have gone, no way of knowing if they have gone anywhere at all; therefore, I'm through playing judge and jury. Creepy things, crawly things, rabid squirrels, all are safe within my presence. Except maybe for the squirrels. I'm not stupid, after all.