From the day they first met Cisco, my parents were completely smitten with her. Who could blame them? When she gazed at you with her deep, soulful cocoa eyes accompanied by the endearing little tilt of her downy head as you spoke to her – especially if what you said ended with an inquisitive inflection – you could deny her nothing. My parents, not yet grandparents to any human grandkids at that time, offered to keep Cisco with them whenever we went out of town, and it was no surprise when we came to know that during her stays at their home, Cisco ate human food much more often than she ate dog food. My parents doted on her, my dad taking pictures of all her adorableness, my mom drying Cisco’s damp paws with a soft, warm towel every time she returned from a walk. Even after human grandchildren arrived, Cisco occupied a precious place in my parents’ hearts.
So, it was no wonder to me that, in July 2001, when my mom’s cancer returned with a vengeance, and I had to resign myself to engaging in conversations with her about how she wanted to die at home, amidst details about the kids and my dad, Cisco’s name came up. Ma asked me to promise just one thing when it came to Cisco: when it got close to the end, she wanted me to bring Cisco to see her so she could pet her just one more time. Specifically, Ma said that even if she became disoriented or unconscious, she wanted me to put her dying hand on Cisco’s sweet, furry head – she wanted a chance to say goodbye to her beloved Cisco.
Quite precipitously, the tumor hit critical mass causing liver failure. Ma’s clinical deterioration was incredibly rapid and within 72 hours her condition progressed to the point of fulminant hepatic encephalopathy – bedridden, floating in and out of consciousness, unable to eat or drink. I knew what all of this meant – I called and rounded up friends and extended family from near and far, I sat in stuporous consolation with my father, I tried to prepare my young children for their grandmother’s impending death, I discussed her “comfort measures only” protocol with the hospice physician.
Somewhere in all of the physical frenzy and emotional havoc, I forgot about Cisco. She was safe and sound at home with the kids and our nanny, but I completely forgot to bring Cisco by, if only for a few minutes, so that I could place Ma’s frail but ever-loving hand on her head and they could say their goodbyes.
In the full context of the situation, and maintaining perspective within the extraordinary degree of emotional trauma I was experiencing, I realize this is not a monumental mistake, particularly to anyone outside our family. I’m quite sure Ma, from her celestial vantage point, forgave me long ago, though it may have been after she considered, and silently admonished me for all the times I had forgotten her very clear instructions. And we all know that dogs, with their hearts and capacities for love knowing no bounds, never hold grudges.
That being said, it doesn’t matter that neither Ma nor Cisco could possibly harbor any ill feelings – I haven’t forgiven myself. It hurts to this day like a deep, dull ache – one that, although it doesn’t rise to the surface very often, can bring a merciless flood of tearful anguish with it. I’ve deliberated on this countless times in the years since my mom’s death, and it wasn’t until just about a year ago that I realized what was at the core of this regret I have carried with me now for over a decade.
As a physician, I thought I could be of some real value when we first found out my mom was sick. There were aspects of this whole, incomprehensible chaos that I was going to control and make sense out of. I made dozens of phone calls to colleagues and experts in the field all around the country, I made special arrangements for her case to be studied extensively to ascertain the value of any and all potential treatment plans, I called in every networked association I had in medicine – surely, with my knowledge and experience, my connections, and the huge body of information I had amassed, I could help my mother beat this thing. I would make her better. This is where I could cash in on all the studying, the schooling, the hard work, the numerous years of dedication, the cache of knowledge that was collected at my fingertips. It sucked that my mom got cancer, but hey, at least I was a physician – by God, I was going to help my mother beat this.
Obviously, this was all a wishful, unrealistic load of crap I had fed myself because, as anybody in medicine knows, being a doctor isn’t nearly enough to alter reality. Regardless of the connections or strings pulled or experts consulted or special protocols instituted, cancer will do what cancer wants – it doesn’t care and it doesn’t play favorites, it is ruthless and it will laugh in the face of anyone who thinks they somehow have an upper hand on it.
I had absolutely no control, despite the fancy degree and the impressive academic suffix at the end of my name. Ma realized this well before I ever did. No surprise there. Sadly, when I realized it, it was much too late to tell her so, to confess to her my delusions of grandeur (though she clearly already knew), to admit my limitations, to ask her to forgive me, to cry on her shoulder, to have her tell me it was okay.
So caught up in my professional inadequacies, I didn’t pay enough attention to all the ways I could have actually made Ma “better.” There were many opportunities I had during those last few weeks – in particular, the last few days – to genuinely help my mom, ease her pain, offer her comfort. I was virtually blind to these things because I allowed myself instead to focus on all that I was not able to do and wallow in that self-absorbed, selfish state.
Ma, herself, had given me a way that I could help her – I listened, I really did, and I had every intention of following through with her simple yet heartbreakingly tender request. Unfortunately, when I needed to tend to that effortless task before me, when I should have taken Cisco to Ma’s bedside to give them their special, meaningful moment to be together one final time, I failed. Over that situation, unlike Ma’s illness, I had had definitive control and yet, I blew it. I will always regret that, despite my intentions, I failed to fulfill this wish of my mother’s – a closing, palpable show of love for a creature with whom she shared so many beloved memories. How did I not realize the lasting power and compassionate value of that simple act?
After my mom passed away, something extraordinary happened whenever we all went over to my parents’ home to spend time with my dad. Cisco would, almost immediately upon arrival into their house, go straight to my parents’ bedroom and, after sniffing around the bed, particularly the side that my mom had slept on, she would go into their closet and arrange herself into a snuggle on a just-right patch of carpet under my mom’s still neatly hung clothes. We would call out to Cisco, not knowing where she was in the house, and if she wouldn’t come, we would eventually find her in her spot: her tan body curled up, seemingly safe and warm and happy, in the very spot where Ma had stood many a morning. Cisco found comfort there, and I found comfort in the sight of her. She remembered Ma well.
Cisco passed away a few years ago. The night before we had to put her to sleep, I slept on the couch downstairs, alongside her bed, and I stayed up most of the night, intently watching her tired, fragile body struggle for each breath, each step. The next night, after Cisco was finally allowed to rest, I fell asleep with a beautiful image in my mind. There was Cisco – a youthful, energetic fluffy mass of tawny gold, with her beagle ears flapping in the breeze and her tail wagging with the joy that only dogs can conjure. She was running gleefully across an expanse of sunny, verdant meadow towards Ma, who was healthy and vibrant, arms outstretched and calling Cisco’s name through a broad smile. My mind’s eye never completed the picture for me, though.
That’s okay – the two of them, each so delighted by the sight of the other, about to revel in their long-overdue reunion? I’m pretty sure I know how that scene ended. 
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