The Things We Carry
A nascent hopefulness stirred in my heart
Photographs by John Patrick Weiss
My friend Joe just celebrated his eighty-ninth birthday a few months back.
We were in the little sushi restaurant us retired guys visit every Wednesday afternoon. Joe told us a story about Christmas cards, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
At 61 years old, I’m the young guy in the group, but the others tolerate me because I’m a decent listener. And I was listening as Joe blew out his birthday candles and started reminiscing about an old friend from work.
It was a random story about creating a new division, business travel, and how the chemistry between Joe and his friend made them an effective team.
And then Joe went quiet for a moment.
Like a fire in the hearth
Joe looked down at the lingering smoke from his birthday candles, and then he continued his story.
“You know, after we both retired, we kind of lost touch,” he said.
He took a sip from his green tea and continued.
“We lived in different states. You know how that is. You grow apart. But every year, I sent him a Christmas card. I never heard back, but I didn’t mind. I just kept sending him cards, for old-time’s sake.”
“Few people send cards these days,” one of the guys said.
“That’s true. I don’t get many Christmas cards anymore, but I still send them to my friends. Last December, I got to wondering about my old work buddy. How was he doing? Was he still alive?” Joe said.
“Did you try Googling him?” I asked.
“No, I phoned him. And darned if he didn’t answer,” Joe said.
His crow’s feet deepened as he smiled. He swallowed, trying to steady something in the depths of his eighty-nine-year-old soul. Something we must all nurture and tend, like a fire in the hearth.
He gazed briefly at us, and then continued.
“The first thing he said was that I was the only one left from work who still sent him Christmas cards. That after his wife died and the house grew quiet, those cards meant a lot to him. And that he was sorry he didn’t reciprocate. The tremor in his hands, you see.”
Joe’s eyes glistened.
There was a long pause. He dabbed his napkin at the corners of his eyes. And then, in nearly a whisper, he repeated himself.
“Those cards meant a lot to him.”
The growing sense of irrelevance
Recently, a tooth in the upper corner of my mouth started to go south on me.
I scheduled an appointment with my dentist. Scans were taken, and he sat down next to me with the results.
“You’ve got an abscess. It’s above an old crown. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics and refer you to an endodontist. Other than your bum tooth, how’s everything else with you?” he said.
I like my dentist. He exudes a caring, quiet humanity.
I’ve been going to him since 2018. We’re about the same age. He knows I’m a retired police chief, and I think he’s eyeing retirement in a few years.
Whenever we talk about it, I tell him I love the free time but miss the professional engagement. Having retired and moved to another state, I know very few people. After years of being in the public eye, I enjoy my solitude and anonymity now.
But I don’t enjoy the creeping sense of irrelevance.
You two are a sad pair
I picked up my prescription, went home, and scheduled the appointment with the endodontist. That night, the pain in my tooth started to amplify.
I slept poorly.
The next day, I took my dog, a 16-year-old Alaskan Klee Kai named Nanuk, to the vet. Nanuk had most of his teeth removed years back due to age and infection. But now his remaining teeth were tender and emitted a foul stench.
I knew the only remedy was dental surgery, but I was worried about Nanuk undergoing anesthesia at his advanced age. Not to mention the expense.
Sure enough, the veterinarian confirmed that Nanuk’s teeth were infected. The lymph nodes in his throat were enlarged.
He said they had an opening and could do the surgery that day.
“Despite his age, I think he’ll do just fine,” the vet said. I gave Nanuk a hug, and the veterinarian’s assistant led him away.
I went home and took my antibiotics, but by that evening, the pain worsened. I recalled my dentist saying that it might take a few days for the antibiotics to kick in and nullify the pain.
I was up all night.
But there were a blessed few hours when sleep came. My late mother appeared in a dream, handing me a cardigan and saying, “Always bring a sweater, Johnny. It can get cold outside. You have to take care of yourself.” Then she bent over to pick up one of her cats, and the two of them dissolved quite naturally in the way things like that make sense in fitful dreams.
The next day, groggy and irritable, I drove to the vet’s office to pick up Nanuk.
The vet told me that Nanuk’s infected teeth were successfully removed, and to feed him only soft food. “We don’t want busted stitches and bleeding,” he said.
Nanuk looked how I felt.
I brought him home and gave him his meds. Afterward, he promptly fell asleep on the couch.
I lay down next to Nanuk, downing my own antibiotics and painkillers. My wife came into the living room and said, “You two are a sad pair.”
The last thing I remembered was falling asleep on the couch next to Nanuk.
The things we carry
When I awoke, Nanuk was no longer beside me.
He’d gone to his water bowl. When he walked around the dining room table toward the living room, I noticed blood all over his muzzle and white paws.
He was bleeding profusely.
I called to my wife to grab a bathroom towel. We wiped the blood and then I rushed Nanuk back to the veterinary office. Inside, Nanuk left a trail of blood as if he’d been struck by a car.
A woman in the reception area shrieked and said, “Oh my God, poor baby!”
The staff immediately took Nanuk into the back and led me to an empty waiting room. As I sat there, my tooth ached, and I began to feel a strange sense of sadness and defeat.
I’ve buried my parents and lost friends. I’ve faced critical incidents, a police shooting, and even the suicide of a dear friend during my law enforcement career. Through it all, I’ve always maintained a stoic sense of balance. A resilience in the face of life’s inevitable challenges and turbulence.
But this was different.
The cumulative effect of the things we carry. The loss of loved ones, my wife's breast cancer, concern for my old dog, sadness over a dear friend's early dementia, frustration that I no longer possess the energy I once did.
And the infernal tooth pain.
Life has seasons that creep up on us, like the winter of the soul. And so we suffer and shiver and wonder how to get warm again and find our balance.
I thought of that dream. My mother’s sweet voice.
Always bring a sweater, Johnny.
A nascent hopefulness stirred in my heart
The vet finally entered the exam room and said, “Nanuk will be okay. He busted a stitch or two. Sometimes it happens.”
I sighed in relief.
“We’ll fix him up and keep him overnight, just to make sure he doesn’t turn into a blood donor again,” the vet said with a smile.
I went home, updated my wife, and swallowed more antibiotics and painkillers. That night I slept on the couch. No sense keeping her awake with my agitation and restlessness.
It was a long night.
More fractured dreams about the past. I was a boy again in the woods behind my childhood home, dangling from a rope swing and pretending to be Tarzan.
My buddy Steven was in the dream, bespectacled in his thick black glasses, the cracked bridge held together with tape. We took turns on the swing, both of us yodeling our best Johnny Weissmuller imitations.
It was odd that I dreamt of Steven.
We were inseparable childhood friends until after high school, when we left for different universities and pursued unrelated careers. I reached out to him last year when I was in California, and we met at a brewery to catch up.
But otherwise, we hadn’t spoken since.
Steven at the brewery
The next morning, the vet called and said Nanuk was ready to come home. At the veterinary office, Nanuk was happy to see me, wagging his tail and licking my hands excitedly.
There were a few minor bouts of bleeding throughout the day, but mostly Nanuk was on the mend. I was on the mend, too. By late afternoon, I noticed that my tooth pain had diminished to a dull ache. The antibiotics had finally kicked in.
For the first time in several days, it felt like things were beginning to look up. Like I found a sweater to fend off the chill. A nascent hopefulness gently stirred in my heart.
I stepped into the backyard for some fresh air. Clarice, our little statue who stands guard over the garden, greeted me. Funny how she always steadies my equilibrium.
And then early that evening, as I sat quietly on the couch reading a novel beside Nanuk, my phone started buzzing on the end table.
Thanks for being my lifelong friend
It was peculiar because I seldom get calls or texts in the evenings.
During my ten years as police chief, phone messages were relentless. And evening calls often contained bad news.
I picked up the phone and looked at the screen. It was a text message from Steven.
I pondered the coincidence. My recent dream and now this random text. I remembered something my wife often says: “We do not live in a coincidental universe.”
Steven’s text message held a familiar photo. It was taken when we were young boys at a local swim club. In the photo, Steven is making a silly hand sign, and I’m looking at him with amusement.
Steven and John
Below the photo, Steven wrote the following:
“Still my favorite pic of all time. I hope you and your family are doing well. Come up north and let’s get a tattoo related to friends. I need one more and I think you need one. Thanks for being my lifelong friend.”
I typed a brief reply.
I told him I loved that old photo. That we don’t see enough of each other. That we’re overdue for another brewery get-together.
I ended with the words, “Thanks for this.”
A kind of peace washed over me. Perhaps that's why we tend the fire in our hearth. To welcome loved ones in from the cold, but also to warm ourselves.
I thought of Joe.
What he was feeling that day at sushi. And the reason why he continues to send his Christmas cards to old friends.
Whether they reply or not.
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