CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
In September 2017, I lost my father. The person with the big heart who loved helping total strangers and would always tell me not to worry about the small stuff in life was gone. I could no longer hear his funny jokes or interesting stories or have conversations about life, politics, philosophy, medicine, music, science, world events, and soccer with him.
I sacrificed a lot of important things by moving to America at the age of eighteen, including spending all my adult years away from my father. I always wondered about the life experiences I missed out on during my twenties, thirties, and into my forties with him. I wasn’t there for him to share his life lessons and ever-evolving wisdom with me, except during rare visits and occasional phone conversations. I wasn’t there to accompany him places. I denied him the joy of being proud of me, of having me stand beside him at events. I wasn’t there to take him to his medical appointments or care for him when he had health problems. He didn’t get to enjoy watching his only son grow and mature. We didn’t get to enjoy watching Besiktas matches on weekends like we used to when I was a kid. We didn’t get to enjoy a game of backgammon while sipping tea by the Bay of Izmir. Part of me will always feel a degree of guilt because I was absent from his life after 1990.
Leonard Nimoy said, “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.” Even though my father and I were separated by thousands of miles, it was always comforting to know that he was a phone call away. I am now left with my memories of childhood and youth with him and the rare times we got to see each other when I returned to Turkey. I think of all the good times we had together and try to cherish them. I sometimes pour myself a drink, play the song “The Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics, and start looking at the albums containing his photos with tears running down my face.
When I woke up on Sunday morning, August 3, 2014, my best friend and companion Nakita Alexius of Wilhelm, aka Kita, lay motionless on her bed. A few years earlier she had been diagnosed with hip dysplasia, a common problem in shepherds. I remember wrapping a towel around her back legs and under her stomach and supporting her weight every time I took her out to empty her bladder and bowels during her last couple of years. She was so used to letting us know when she needed to go out, she hardly made a mess up until her last few days.
When she was sick, vomiting and having diarrhea over the years, she would get embarrassed and afraid. Kita was very intelligent and sensitive. Her feelings were always evident in her behavior and expressions. We always paid great attention to making sure we never made her feel bad. To us, she was a member of the household like anyone else and worthy of being treated with dignity and respect. I talked to her as if she was human and often included her in our conversations. A couple of years before she passed away, I purchased a doggy wheelchair for her, but she could never get used to it.
Kita was born on April 25, 2000. From the day we welcomed her to our house in Wichita, Kansas, we showered her with love and attention. We took her for daily walks and gave her special food to keep her joints and bones healthy. I can proudly say that during those thirteen-plus years, we always picked up after her during our walks. Kita loved three people the most in her life: me, Melissa, and my cousin Sercan. She was tolerant of a few people who came around to visit us, such as family and friends, but was extremely protective of us with strangers.
For a few months prior to her passing, she hadn’t been feeling well. During that period, I took her to the vet multiple times and even to urgent care at night. The night before that Sunday morning, I lay next to her on the floor by her bed. Around 3:00 AM, I went to bed and when I woke up around eight in the morning, my companion of over thirteen years was gone.
That was one of my toughest days. It took me a long time to find the courage to take her to our local vet that morning. I knew I was going to have to come back home without her, an act that was going to require a lot of strength. I felt great sorrow carrying her lifeless body and gently placing her in the back seat of my car. Once we arrived at the vet, I stayed with her as long as I could. Eventually I had to leave my girl behind and come to a home where, for the first time in almost fourteen years, I didn’t have my best friend greeting me, her tail wagging with excitement. Gone were the happy days of her running freely on green fields with her big ears flopping.
We didn’t wash her beds for a long time. I cherished each hair I found on the floor for many years to come. I still have her water and food bowls. My home number is listed on my phone under her name.
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