Watermelon in the Bathtub

Our family was—and still is—enthusiastic about fireworks. There was a time David even slipped in some illegal in North Carolina, the kind purchased across the border in his state of South Carolina. Every Fourth of July, we sat on our lawn in anticipation. David stood yards in front of us on the street and lit the torpedo buzz, the rockets, all the funny-sounding popping crackers. We cheered and clapped and buried our faces in ripe slices of watermelon.

July 4, 1996, Daniel was in the hospital having his monthly chemo injections. Our celebration of our nation’s birthday would have to be held inside Daniel’s hospital room. Daniel looked forward to watching the fireworks, hoping his hospital room window would provide a good view. But a nurse informed us there wouldn't be fireworks from Kenan Stadium that night; the reason was unclear.

Daniel bounced back from his disappointment when friends Sue, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, entered the room with a watermelon and a knife. "We came to celebrate July Fourth with you!" said Sue in her vibrant Rochester, New York, accent.

Sue cut slices for each of us and served them on paper plates. Becca placed a plate on Daniel's tray table.

Daniel dipped his mouth into the fruit. With juice running down his cheeks and chin, he took another bite. He found a black seed and, facing Becca, spat the seed toward her and then, grinning, waited for her reaction.

She laughed; he filled his lungs and cheeks with air and let out another. It landed on his sheet. Our family comes from a long line of watermelon-seed-spitters. Mom had won contests, but it looked like Daniel needed some tips from her.

After the two left, Daniel said, "I think I've had enough watermelon." He lay on the bed, comically rubbing his tummy and grinning.

I looked at the half-consumed treat. It was too big to store in the fridge in the communal kitchen down the corridor. "Where can we put it?" Where did other patients keep their watermelons?

I'd read the thick binder about Daniel's medications and various procedures, but nowhere in any of the literature was there a section about proper protocol for taking care of leftover fruit.

"How about in the bathtub?" Daniel said.

What a great idea! "Why not?"

And so, we did just that.

[The above is an excerpt from the memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, by Alice J. Wisler. Get the book here.]

Superpower Levi

He wasn't just any dog; he had a superpower. Of course, when my husband brought him home, I didn’t see anything superior. I saw only a small mahogany boxer with white paws who peed on the kitchen floor.

I was not an animal lover (my husband was the canine-aficionado); I thought I could live the rest of my days without a dog. No dog fur to vacuum, no vet bills, and no grocery store trips for dog chow and treats suited me.

“What should we name him?” my husband asked the children as we watched the sleepy pup snuggle against my husband’s foot. He suggested Vegas because he likes the poker tables there.

Ben said, “How about Levi?”

Liz said, “I like that. He looks like a Levi.”

I wasn’t a participant in the christening. In my mind, this pup I had reluctantly allowed in the house was not going to win me over.

Levi didn’t try to gain my affection. In fact, he seemed to want to annoy me. He gnawed the jewel off a favorite sandal. He took my pink cap outside to the backyard every chance he got. On Thanksgiving, he stood by the counter on his hind legs and ate the pumpkin pie I’d baked.

When I dropped an ice cube on the floor, Levi chewed it. The next day I gave him one; he chomped it and anticipated another. I smiled. His ice cube love would save money on treats. If anyone peeled an orange, he appeared from the living room, the bedroom, or the den, begging for a slice. As he grew to adulthood, he "sang"—soulful songs—whenever my husband played the harmonica (badly).

Unexpectedly, my brother’s beloved border collie died. I surprised myself with tears over the loss. Levi cuddled up to me. Later, when my husband and I argued, Levi lay beside me. He looked at me with his dark brown eyes as though he could see into my soul. I sighed, let go of my anger, and apologized to my husband.

The furry bundle discovered that if he put his head on my lap when the clock chimed 6 PM—his dinner hour, I’d move from my computer to feed him. As I’d fill his bowl with kibbles, he’d twirl in circles—his happy dance.

One evening while my husband and I watched TV, Levi took his usual place between us on the sofa. As I stroked his head, I thought, I am a happy woman with these two men beside me.

The seizures were the start of his decline. The vet put him on medication, but the seizures continued. During the last days of Levi’s life, I sat with him on the sofa, certain I couldn’t live without him. He died on a December morning even though I begged him not to leave us.

When my husband and I drove 600 miles to pick up our new boxer puppy (I had already fallen in love with her photo on the breeder’s website), I was able to embrace the nine-week-old canine without a moment's hesitation. I suggested names for her, and one stuck—Bella.

Levi trained me well. Because of his superpower—a transforming strength that nudged its way into my heart—I can now call myself an animal lover.