In Memoriam
by Lisa Baron

In the past two weeks, my grandfather passed away, my husband’s beloved basset hound, Buster, died, and my mother said “sphincter.” Needless to say, it hasn’t exactly been a stellar month.

My grandfather, affectionately referred to as Pop-Pop, was 96 years old when he gently left us a few Sundays ago. He was a physician. It is my firm opinion that not all doctors are created equal. Having a degree means that they finished medical school. Having compassion, dedication and a warm and assuring bedside manner is what really makes an individual a true caregiver. And that was my Pop-Pop.

He worked until he couldn’t work anymore, and even when he stopped seeing patients, his patients still took the time to come and see him. What I want you to know about my grandfather is that he was not related to me by blood. He is the father of my stepfather. But he loved me like he was there when I was born. He loved my husband and he loved my baby. In the last year of his life I took Micah to visit him and my grandmother several times. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Truth be told, I had a love/hate relationship with my husband’s 60-pound basset hound. My husband loved that floppy-eared, howling dog so much that we often joked that Buster, not Micah, was his first born. I feared the day Buster would leave us; I knew that Jimmy would be devastated if anything ever happened to him. There were even times when I felt pangs of love for that dog. But then he would pee on my hardwood floor and I was back to him not being my favorite.

Buster started having trouble breathing four days before he died. We immediately took him to see his veterinarian. The doctor told us what we already knew: Buster was 12 and he was probably nearing the end of his life. Over the next three days he wagged his tail, lounged sleepily on the sunny side of the driveway, peed on the floor and barked at Micah – all things he loved to do.

Then Monday came and Buster wasn’t in the mood for breakfast ... or lunch ... or dinner ... or the McDonald’s hamburger my husband lovingly fetched him in a desperate effort to get his best friend to eat. So Jimmy, Micah and I gathered around our pet. We lovingly stroked his soft fur (yes, even me) and said our goodbyes.

I called my mom to tell her the news. I even recounted Buster’s last moments alive. I told her how we followed him into the kitchen (Buster loved the kitchen) and his legs gave out and his body gave out and he lost control of his bladder. “Oh, and his sphincter,” my mom said, in a matter-of-fact tone. There was just something slightly upsetting about hearing my mom utter that word. I made a face and changed the subject and passed the phone over to Jimmy, and she offered her sincere condolences to her son-in-law, who sat weeping over Buster.

The next morning I got up, drank a pot of coffee as usual and got ready for the day. I thought about my Pop-Pop and how missed he will be. He lived a long, prosperous life full of achievement, love and family. He even got to celebrate his 70th wedding anniversary.

I dressed the baby, loaded him up in the car, and together we ran all around town checking errand after errand off of my to-do list. As I gazed in the rear-view mirror at my young son, I was grateful that he spent time in the arms of his great grandfather. Grandparents are more than just the people who give you cookies when you should be eating cauliflower. They are a critical link to your past and, in our case, an outlet of unconditional love, grace and humor. I look forward to years of talking to Micah about his great grandpa and showing him the pictures we took of the two of them together. We were lucky to have Pop-Pop in our lives.

We will remember all of our loved ones fondly, even cantankerous Buster, as I vowed to my young son that when he gets older, we will take him to the Humane Society and he can pick out his own Buster. There is just something magical about your first childhood pet. And although it’s heartbreaking to lose them, I would be selfish not to offer my child this same experience. But, as for my mother, I am still trying to forget that she said … well, you know. I’m not saying it again.

– Lisa lives in Sandy Springs with her husband Jimmy.
To contact Lisa, e-mail her at LBaron@atlantaparent.com.