Making Rounds with Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat - By David Dosa Page 0,30

had about Saul’s health and his end-of-life choices; it was one I’d had before with Barbara on the telephone and one I was sure we would have again, probably soon. But this was not the time. It was not time to say to her that the father who took her and her son to baseball games would never return.

“This isn’t something you need to decide today,” I said. “Though it won’t make you feel any better, I understand how hard it is to see someone who still looks like your father, but has lost so much of what made him the person you knew. I’ve had caregivers who have lost family members to cancer and car accidents tell me it’s far worse seeing someone close to them die slowly with dementia.”

She nodded and I could see that she had accepted what I had just said. After a few moments of silence her tears ceased and her mood brightened. Maybe it was as simple as hearing that she wasn’t alone in her grief.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“For the pair of slippers?” I replied, a grin coming to my face.

“Sure.” She returned my smile. “For the slippers.”

CHAPTER TEN

“A cat is always on the wrong side of the door.”

ANONYMOUS

IT WAS TIME TO GET BACK ON THE TRAIL OF MY MYSTERY—but where to turn? As usual, it was Mary who pointed me in the right direction.

“You know, David,” she reminded me one afternoon while I was seeing patients, “you still haven’t talked to Rita and Annette. Of all the families I’ve dealt with over the years, they’ve probably spent the most time at Steere House.”

Of course.

The two sisters had spent an uninterrupted decade at the nursing home, tending first to their father, and then their mother. Who better to provide insight into my four-legged enigma?

I dialed Rita’s number, figuring that they would never want to set foot inside a nursing home again. On the contrary, they offered to meet me at the nursing home a few days later.

“We’re always happy to talk about Oscar,” said Rita. “And it’ll be nice to see our old friends as well.”

As I drove to Steere House from a busy day at the outpatient clinic I couldn’t help but think about the last decade of my life and everything that had changed. My own career had transitioned from medical school through three years of residency, two years of fellowship, and toward the development of an established medical career. I had met and married my wife and fathered two children—had gone from the sort of selfish, self-sufficient life of a bachelor to a family existence, with all its joys and responsibilities. Physically, I had changed too. Much to my displeasure, I had added twenty pounds to my frame, developed a receding hairline with more gray hair than I cared to have, and learned to cope with my own chronic illness and developing physical limitations.

It seemed slightly odd to me, if not unfair, that all that had occurred while Rita and Annette were caring for one parent after another—first at home and then at Steere House. As much as I like to tell my patients that dying is a part of living, it seemed like I had gotten the better end of the deal.

I found the sisters seated in the lobby, holding court with several of the nursing home’s staff. It had been months since their almost daily visits, and it was clear that they were catching up with people who had become very important to them. I lingered in the background for a few moments, watching as aides and nurses came by to chat. I noticed how at ease each daughter was with the rest of the staff. There were no tears or sad faces, just laughter and warm smiles. It was a little like a family reunion, one I didn’t want to interrupt. But Rita saw me hanging in the background and greeted me with a wave of her hand.

“Hello, Rita,” I said. “You look well. You too, Annette.”

We exchanged pleasantries as we walked toward the library.

“It must feel strange to be back,” I offered.

Rita and Annette nodded but said nothing as we walked down the long corridor. They seemed lost in thought, as if each door they passed was a portal to a particular memory.

“A lot of people don’t want to let go,” Rita said, as if out of the blue. We were in the library now, and she seemed a little distracted, looking around a room that was part