To you Sensi

The numbing feeling of shock and then the coverup, trying to pretend that everything is OK. Hearing about the death of a loved one makes my body go cold, especially at the extremities. Instead of circulating evenly around the body, all my blood flows inward towards my heart, making sure my vitals keep ticking normally despite the news that I am receiving.

Sensi died on Thursday and I was told of her death on Friday night, to protect me and allow me to get through my busiest and most difficult day of the week. I had finished school after 14 hours of work when I received the news. Before hearing the news, all I wanted to do was have a glass of wine and unwind after such a stressful day but my body and mind were now tense, not to be unleashed until I allowed my sorrow to consume me.

Sensi was not a human being (it hurts me to say “was”), she was a dog but to me, for me she was so much more.

Sensi was born on July 7th, 2000. I was ten years old and my mother’s parents had just died of cancer in England. We had spent the summer with them, waiting for what we all knew would come. Our previous dog, Sam, a Schipperke, the same type of dog Sensi, had died the same year. Sensi was a breath of life in a family where death had hung over for months. During my grandparents’ funeral, this six week old puppy made me laugh and feel that everything would be OK.

We picked up Sensi on our way to the funeral in the Midlands. We were at the time based in Hamble, in the south of England. My mother felt that it was a good idea to get another dog and found a Schipperke breeder in Wales. One of the breeder’s dogs had given birth to a litter recently. After having a male dog (and suffered his wanderings) we decided that we wanted a female. There was one female in the litter. The runt of the litter.

My first memory of Sensi is walking into this woman’s house in Wales and hearing a piercing scream. Sensi had been recently weaned from her mother and obviously did not like visitors. She hid under the couch and would not come out for awhile but we slowly won her over.

Sensi then accompanied us on our journey (by boat) back to the Caribbean. She was a treasure to us all. A promise of life after everything that we as a family had been through.

From the age of ten to the age of 24, Sensi was a constant in my life. When we sailed around the world for two years, she was my only friend and confidante (Who better than a dog?) and throughout my teenage years, despite the changes in identity that I was experiencing, she was there without judgement.

Because we welcomed Sensi into our home during a time of hurt and sadness, I never took for granted her presence. Every moment I had with her was precious. In the Spring of this year I was lucky to have her all to myself for two weeks while my parents travelled to Nevis. I treasured every moment. We walked the streets of Greenpoint, travelled to upstate New York and even went to Coney Island together. Sure, I was a little jealous that she paid so much attention to Barney but I lived with it and realized that it was a good omen.

This year we were again in a difficult time. Dad was diagnosed with cancer and we were in shock. Sensi helped pull us through. When Dad was in hospital I smuggled her in so that he could see her. At Christmas I got to see her play in the snow and she loved it. She kept us going.

And almost as if she realized that we would all be OK again, she herself became sick.



When I returned to the States after spending the Summer in Paris I finally saw Sensi’s fragile mortality. She had developed a tumor in her mouth, making it hard for her to eat and breath. The rapidity with which the tumor grew was frightening and astounding. I didn’t want to admit it but in my heart I knew that we were reaching the end.

Sensi, you will always be missed by both myself, Mom, Dad, Barney and the many people that you touched during your life. The hole that you have left in my life is unfathomable at the moment but I know with time, I will be able to navigate that space and just be thankful for the time I had with you. You were an angel in more ways than one and I will always miss you.

Sincerely,

Your Sister

In Recovery

Boston Commons in the snow.

It’s like entering the Starship Enterprise when you walk through the constantly rotating doors of Mass General Hospital. There is a swarm of human activity, of nurses, doctors, cleaners, loved ones, sick ones, every human characteristic, both emotional and physical, can be seen here. 

At Mass General, there seems to an electric static in the air that makes the place pulse like a heart. This is all subjective of course. Only those that work there may perhaps give a more objective, more drab description of the place, but for the rest of us, we are there to either see loved ones who are sick or to see new life being given. Both highly emotional moments in our lives.

 I was there with my mother and we clutched to each other as we made our way up to the 14^th floor at 8:00pm on January 15^th. We had been told that the surgery had gone well and he, my father, would be brought to the Bigelow wing soon.

My father had undergone a laparoscopy surgery to remove a part of his colon which had been around the tumor. The tumor was now gone but the specialist wanted to be extra sure that the cancer would never come back. This also meant disconnecting his small intestine and giving him a bag for a couple of months as well as a monthly dose of chemotherapy.  

He was finally brought to his room at 9:00pm. He was groggy but that was to be expected after 6 ½ hours of surgery.

It was hard, so hard to see him in a hospital bed, so weak and seemingly so vulnerable. But we spoke and we cried and assured each other that this had to de done.

Over the next few days he improved. There were setbacks of course and sleepless nights, sometimes with a lot of pain, but he is certainly getting better.

We went for walks around the hospital floor, all three of us. We would then go to the hallway between two wings where the walls were windows, and gaze out over the city of Boston.  One day there was sun and we could feel the warm rays, reminiscent of a warmer climate that we called home. The next day snow fell silently onto the rooftops and pavement below. We watched it all. Mom and I willed him to become better and to feel that snow on his face sometime soon.

I find it hard to see strangers taking care of loved ones. Yes they are nurses, doctors, professionals, but strangers nonetheless. It is frustrating when they take that little bit of control out of our hands.

But they were good at Mass General. They saw our determination to care for him and left us to it. Of course, all the nurses love dad because he flatters them whenever he can. And he is a good patient to, one that rarely complains.

He will be out soon hopefully. All that is left now is to rest and heal. I am currently on a train taking me away from him, which feels altogether wrong. But I know he will be OK. He has my mother and he has the determination to make this his first and last lengthy stay in a hospital.