I don’t know why the gods decided that so much of the forces that have interacted with my life have September 8 as an essential date, but it’s true. The worst part of it is now what was, essentially a happy date is t almost completely associated with the death of loved ones and those who I admire. Probably explains why I’m sad today.
This probably requires some explanation. The most important person to be related to this date in my life is, of course, Laura Elizabeth Carlson, because this was her birthday, and would have been her 56th, although she would still probably only own up to it being her 39th. Laura loved holidays and, naturally, her birthday was one of the biggest annual holidays we had. Yellow cake with white frosting was always assured. Many of the gifts, such as the Tiffany’s jewelry and rock T-shirts, that I gave out to her friends at the celebration of her life were given to her on her birthday. Of course, she didn’t like getting older (30 was especially hard on her, although 40 and 50 didn’t bother her as much as I thought it might – however, she only owned up to being 39 anyway. So, for 20 years of us being together, September 8 was generally a happy date on the calendar.
Another reason September 8 was a happy date was because of our white Turkish Angora cat, Shawnee Catsidy. We got him as a kitten (the cutest little kitten I had ever see – at least until Little Boris came along) from an animal shelter in North Platte, Nebraska, where we were living at the time around the last week of October and it was determined that he was about 8 weeks old. So, I took it upon myself to designate a birthday for him and thought it would be cute to give him Laura’s birthday as his birthday. So, we always celebrated his birthday at the same time as we did Laura’s, which was our usual tradition of giving all four cats ―which include Hopalong “Hoppy” Catsidy,” Arden Blue Spike “Spike,” and Butch Catsidy ― a cat of tune to split four ways. So, again, another happy association with the date.
However, in 2013, which now ranks as the second-worst year of my life (2019 being the far and away leader in the clubhouse), forces conspired to change September 8 from a happy date to something much darker. Laura’s pride and joy, as many people know, was Spike. Her world revolved around him and I often felt I was competing for affection from her with him ― and sometimes playing second violin. She loved that cat and that cat loved her right back. He loved me too ― don’t get me wrong. He was a highly personable, affectionate Russian Blue who could do no wrong. However, due to a veterinarian’s, or possibly veterinarian assistant’s, malfeasance, he suffered neurological damage during an ear and teeth cleaning during a visit in August 2013.
He suffered along for about a month, but never recovered and finally took a turn for the worst in the first week of September, a few days after we had to put Hoppy to sleep, who seemed to take ill after seeing Spike take ill. We made several attempts to keep him going, but he finally succumbed to whatever was wrong with him in Laura’s arms ― on the morning of September 8 ― Laura’s birthday. Needless to say, I had a basket case on my hands, and Laura was never the same after that. Not long after that, a few days before Thanksgiving, we also ended up putting Butch to sleep because of kidney issues brought on by an overprescription of thyroid medication.
Also, for much of 2013, Shawnee has some kind of virus or illness that seemed systemic. No matter how many vets we took him to, we could never get a proper diagnosis. He took a turn for the worst in early December and passed away in my arms a few days later. So, now his birthday ― September 8 ― became a reminder that he was no longer with us.
Additionally, many people who know me well know what a huge fan I am of The Cars. I was one of the first people to take to social media to promote their need to be inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, which finally occurred in 2018, saw them in concert three times, and have every album in every format several times over. So, it also happens that September 8 was also the birthday of Benjamin Orr, the bassist and co-lead singer of The Cars. Laura had some cool famous people to share her birthday, but Ben Orr was the coolest in my mind. However, way too young, Ben Orr passed away in 2000 at age 53 from pancreatic cancer. Another dark mark added to the ledger of September 8.
Then came 2019. Many bad things happened in my life in 2019 ― actually beginning in December 2018 when my uncle Gene passed away. My aunt Nora passing away in June was especially devastating because she was my last living close blood relative (I have some distant cousins still alive and that’s it). But her death was nothing compared to Laura’s passing because I talked to my aunt via telephone once every 10 days or so, and Laura was my life partner/girlfriend/fiancée/partner in crime/cat parent/lover/etc./etc./etc.
So, now, it’s September 8 once again. As I sit here typing this, I know how I’ll spend the day, which will be most editing and proofreading the content that makes up my work. Then, around a meal or two, I’ll listen to some of Laura’s favorite songs, maybe watch the slideshow I made for her celebration of life, and probably have myself a little cry. Definitely not how I thought I’d be spending my September 8s for the next few years. But you gotta play the hand you’ve been dealt. Some people get pocket aces and some of us get 2 and 7 off suit. Love you, Sunshine. Kiss the kitties for me. And say hi to Ben (and Ric) if you happen to see them.
The Journalism Gypsy 