Other People Are Keeping Me Going

By Carol Tannenhauser

Jean-Paul Sartre said “Hell is other people.” I used to jokingly invoke that quote when human relations got too messy or disappointing.

But I have changed my tune. Because now “other people” are keeping me going.

Every morning for the past three weeks since my beloved dog died, I have laid in bed for a long time after waking, wondering if I could — or wanted to — survive. Getting up was an ordeal and monumental achievement, going out, mostly, an aspiration.

Let me explain: six months ago, my husband of 53 years also died. Our dog Maggie, part of the family for 10 years, was not just my cherished companion, but a crucial part of my life and recovery — and now she’s gone, too.

I am still going, I believe, only through the grace and goodness of other people. My loving children, grandchildren, family, and friends, who have refused to let me give up. But, also, a group of very special Upper West Siders, who helped me as only they could. This story is about them.

My husband died in April after a long and grueling illness. Maggie helped me through the ordeal. We were partners, perfectly in sync. She gave me a reason to get up and go out into Central Park every morning, a reason to be kind and responsible.

She was always by my side. If I changed rooms, she would come with me. She wanted to be near me all the time.

Did I make her feel safe, or was she protecting me? Both. Everything seemed in balance when we were together.

We walked along mowed paths, cutting through fields of weeds and wildflowers in the country. They had a beautiful lavender cast. She explored and I implored, “Maggie, don’t go in the deep grass, ticks, stay with me”…nervous always that I would lose her.

And now I have. To a fast-growing cancer that took her in two weeks.

But she left behind a legacy of some of the kindest humans I’ve ever known.

When you go into the park at the same time every morning, you see the same people and their dogs. You become “dog friends,” starting your days together, sharing stories, moods, and gripes, enjoying the camaraderie, the play of the pups, and the splendor of the scenery. You may not see your dog friends outside of the park – though you also may – but they are as dear to you as any other.

I found out how dear after Maggie died.

Leading the human pack was Wieke (pronounced Vieka) Vandervelden from the Netherlands. Here for a while for her husband Paul’s work, they are the first Dutch people I have ever known. I love them both, but it is Wieke who steals the show. Paul is tall, handsome, and gentlemanly, with a warm smile, deep dimples, and an easy laugh. Wieke is a burst of color, with an angelic face and short blonde hair worn stylishly askew. But what’s best of all about her is her laugh, hearty, free, booming across the park making even the saddest of people – me – smile in spite of ourselves. To lean against her as she hugs me and feel her softness brings peace.

Wieke lost her dog about four months ago. The day after, she turned up in the park with a bag of treats for the other dogs, ready to take our regular walk around the Great Lawn.

“I lost my dog, I don’t want to lose my friends too,” she said.

Now, she is my role model.

She and a man named Dave who looks just like Clark Kent, both of whom are young enough to be my children, made it their business to meet me at my building the first day, and escort me into the park. Being dog lovers themselves, and knowing Maggie and how we interacted and loved each other, they understand the depth of my grief.

They have met me every day since. Once in the park, we join up with a group of other humans and dogs: Hunter and Ren and Charlie, their chocolate lab, and Bailey, Michael and Jenn’s “berner” and Maggie’s best friend. There’s Rita Moreno and Popcorn and Cash and Stanley and Jordan and Levi and Mack and Kathleen and River and Sheila. As the dogs play, the humans all surround and embrace me. I fall into their hugs, holding on for dear life.

My heart still aches as I watch the other dogs frolicking – all I see so far is what is missing, not what is there. The memories are not comforting yet, if they ever will be. I still feel the stab of pain when I remember Maggie, especially the weak wag of her tail when I came into the room to help her die. She knew I was there and she didn’t suffer. What more can I say?

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