Steve Jobs -- Which Legacy?

Screenshot from Apple.com

Steve Jobs passed away yesterday, 10/5/2011, after a long battle with cancer.

Rest In Peace.

I'm appreciative of the technology he brought to the everyday-consumer and the amazing innovations he and his teams delivered to a market they helped create. Yes, my first exposure to a "personal computer" was dot-matrix programming on a Mac. Hellooo green dots on a black screen. It was genius to put Macs in every school to set a foundation of respect and desire for a brand. Yes, I rushed to acquire that newfangled thing called an iPod. No, I'm not a devotee. The only "iAnything" I own is that classic iPod.

I'm more impressed by the way he dealt with his cancer. Naturally, all I know is what's in the public domain. Well, that, and what my mother has gone through battling two different types of cancer -- first breast cancer then leukemia. I know Steve Jobs had neither of those. He suffered from pancreatic cancer. Yes, every cancer treatment is unique to the patient.  What's not unique?

Chemotherapy

It ravages the body. The more aggressive the treatment, the more the side-effects become their own disease.  Your body rebels against you. Your mind does too. Every gotten queasy and just "shook it off" "plowed through" "ignored it"? Cancer patients don't get to do that. All too often "queasy" leads to collapse. Steve Jobs couldn't hide the side-effect that made him emaciated. My mother couldn't hide the exact opposite. She could gain fifteen pounds in a day, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. That's sort of stuff one expects to see from a cancer patient. What very few understand is the a nasty little phenomenon that attacks the mind.

Chemo-Brain

At its worst, imagine a manic-depressive with dementia, paranoia, and vivid delusions. Before the leukemia, my mother was a volunteer-extraordinaire for both the Girl Scouts and the Red Cross. She trained the trainers on how to save lives. Once the leukemia compromised her immune system, the chemotherapy deprived her of a reliably functioning body. The biggest crushing blow came when her brain went on the fritz.  Now, imagine a billion-dollar visionary at the helm of a tech company teetering on the edge of market boom or bust. Recall that Steve Jobs was diagnosed in 2002. He received a liver transplant in 2009. He stepped down from the helm of Apple -- for the final time -- August 24, 2011.

I don't know what went on behind the scenes at Apple. I do know the new technology with which he is credited would never have launched without a stellar team making it happen. The same can be said for those overseeing his health and well-being. My heart goes out to the people who shared the difficult times, the quiet moments, and the small everyday accomplishments healthy folk take for granted. 

I'm lucky. My mother's cancers are in remission. The heinous chemical side-effects are working their way out of her system -- some faster than others. She's coping with the emotional wreckage -- most days.

For a man who zealously guarded his public image, I absolutely understand and appreciate why the public will never know the extent to which his illness affected his technology legacy. I rather imagine he'd like to be remembered for his successes and not his illnesses. So, with full respect for all he did for the public... 

Dear Steve, thanks for the tech.

Alas, Sir Hairy, I Loved You Well

The starry night of August 8, 2000, was the big interview. My partner at the time and I were gut-fluttering nervous. Were we good enough? Was our home good enough? Were we ready for this kind of commitment? Would the PtB think we were ready? Was there any chance as twenty-somethings we were not going to screw this up?

Clank. Clank. Clank.

 
A brass door-knocker, far too large and too heavy for weathered wood, shook the front of my tiny townhouse. A young Samoyed scampered through the front door followed by a robust man from the rescue league. This judge of lifestyle and character dropped the leash and plopped into the cream leather chair-and-a-half dominating the living room. The wee guest of honor immediately took off for the postage-stamp kitchen. My partner raced after him. I stared agape at this little so-not-what-I-was-expecting are-you-sure-he's-a-Samoyed marvel.

I know Sams. My mother is a bit of a Samoyed fanatic. Both sets of grandparents had had them, my sister had one, and I had had one as a teen. Sams are built for snow and cold. Thick, plush, double coats of glimmering white keep the Samoyed dogs warm in the frozen tundra. The Samoyed nomads who bred them used them as herding dogs and breathing blankets.

This fella had lost more than his mittens, he'd lost the whole damn coat.

Sams are skosh vain with the temperament akin to a teenager. They are by no means stupid. You only need to show them a trick twice, after that, it's, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Next?" They will gleefully romp through a bog, but they will sulk if not cleaned forthwith. They are proud of their dense coats, luxurious ruffs, and long fluffy tails. ~insert hair flip here~ Clearly, these coats keep the dog warm in winter, but blowing the undercoat creates an air pocket that allows them to keep cool in the heat. Any responsible Sam owner knows never, ever, shave a Sam.

Did I mention he was bald?

The lug from the league shrank exponentially in my esteem, until he rushed to explain this young dog had been so matted and his skin so raw from insect bites when they retrieved him that they had had no choice but to bring out the clippers. On the one hand, I was furious that someone would allow a dog, much less a Sam, to get to such a state.

On the other hand, he was awfully cute nekkid.

Typically, a rescue league rep pays a visit to your home with the potential adoptee, does an interview, takes a tour, and goes home with the wee-beastie to pass judgment on your worthiness as a pet owner. A very necessary part of the process that takes one to two weeks before you know if you've passed muster.

The man from the rescue league left.
Alone. 

My partner and I were insta-parents. 

Woohoo! 

Oh, crap.

I didn't have a leash. Bowls. Bed. Food. It was late in the evening. The stores were all closed. Five seconds into being a parent and I had already FAILED!

My grand plan for "bringing home baby" had not involved immediate approval. After the initial inspection/introduction, the plan called for two weeks of nail biting followed by phoned-in approval. Then we'd schedule the pick-up. Then we'd acquire beastie necessities. Then, and only then, would we acquire said beastie.

Plans. I love them. 

Plans, the first casualty.

Thank god my sister has a creepy sense of ESP. A bowl, a leash, and huge ziploc of dog food magically appeared from her car...along with her Samoyed. All hail the welcoming committee. My new child developed an immediate crush on my sister's Sam. His affections for us? Meh, not so much.

The next six months were spent gaining trust from a dog who had been horribly abused.  The next ten years were rife with love, shedding, and devotion.

Two weeks ago, a mystery illness beset my now abundantly hairy beastie. It has been a rapid decline, leaving everyone who strove to aid him baffled.

Today, August 16, 2010, I made the heart-wrenching choice to end his suffering. 

May he find joy in the next-life.