Lazarus’ Kitten


Six months ago, at the Best Western in Naples, I was awoken by a call from Nora at six a.m. My father was dead. The date was April 2, 2012. In the hours and days that followed, we kept busy by eating at Hooters and planning the best memorial service ever.

I didn’t know how I’d function back in Vermont. I was in a bubble at the Best Western with my brother and my sister and our family. We were in a space outside of time and place. There was peace and comfort, and lots of chicken wings. I don’t think calories count in these circumstances. Sadness burns more fat than exercise.

I got home to a tidal wave of shock. WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

My amazing psychiatrist said, “You did everything you could to keep Beau alive.”

“I did?”

“Yes,” she said. “The book, the diaper project, the foundation, the blog, the visits, everything.”

“Is that what I was doing?”


Six months later, I actually feel like I’m beating death.

Beau gets to stay alive in my book about him, thanks to all the people pictured in this post. Lifesavers, one and all.

Oh, that little weird dwarf kitten? No part in this story. I just like him. Besides, looking at kittens lowers your blood pressure. And if you are a Bercaw, a weird dwarf kitten is the cat’s meow.

What am I trying to say here today? Thanks to a whole lot of people, I am alive and well, and so is Beau’s memory.



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