October 29, 2009
I begin this at the end.
I do so perhaps because the end is so painfully fresh in my heart that it temporarily blurs the happier times which came before; before the cancer, the diagnosis, the treatments, the doctors, the prayers, the tear-filled nights and hysterical days; before the days of pre-bereavement filled with anticipated grief; and before the days we tried to forestall the inevitable decision we would have to make. It overwhelms the memories of the days, months and years of games and toys and brushing of fur and laps, kisses, hugs, petting and cuddling and arms that cradled her as she slept ... and love. I try to focus on those times. I try to remind myself that while the petting and cradling and laps will be over, the love will never ...ever ...end. I try. But on this day, on this last day I hold her and rock her and sing to her our favorite song, on this day the ache in my chest and the low moan of pain that rises from my gut spilling from my eyes in constant streams of tears is too overwhelming. And so it blurs those happier times.
And so this diary or journal of the beauty and love she brought into my life and the painful void that I know will come when she leaves it is begun at the end. Even though in many ways, we 'lost' her months ago when she was first diagnosed with the fatal illness, she was at least still here to pet and talk to and rub against our ankles. Tomorrow I will hold her again. But then it will be for the last time.
Some of the chapters are taken from letters I wrote to Sandy weeks before the exact date we knew we would lose her. Before I made the hardest decision in my life when to call the vet.
Death does not always come uninvited or unexpected or when we have chosen to look the other way because we cannot bear to stare it in the face as it hovers over the ones it claims. Certainly, inviting death to hover and claim the ones we love, is unthinkable. Impossible. Yet I try to convince myself that there are times when those invitations of Death are made out of love and as our final act of love and kindness and respect. Support groups and counselors try to reassure me that it is our love for our pet children to want them free from pain or never to feel the pain at all or sense their own slow, gradual demise and lost quality of life which impels us to make this otherwise unthinkable decision. In my logical brain, I try to accept that. Yet, in this heart of mine that aches even before I kiss her fur the last time, it seems it is exactly because of my love for Sandy that I cannot accept the decision.
And yet, I have made it.
So this is dedicated not just to my Baby Girl, but to the thousands and thousands of others with their own pet children who are struggling or who have struggled or who will struggle with the decision to open that dreaded door and extend that most unthinkable of invitations all because we love them as much as we do and always will.
***************************************************************************************
"MY BABY OF MINE" Our favorite song and one I always sang to her even - and especially - as I held her for the last time.
***************************************************************************************
***************************************************************************************
Chapter Seven: ACCEPTING REALITY
You've heard the expression "The spirit is willing but the body is weak". I'd like to say that was the case as I struggled to release myself from Depression's grip. But by then my body was almost as weak as my spirit. The first few days without any food or much movement at all had left me lightheaded and weak kneed whenever I'd stagger out of bed and shuffle off to the bathroom.
But as the fourth day of darkness approached, so, too, did a gradual sense of strengthening spirit. I finally no longer just wanted to get out of bed but did, and like Lazarus, I eventually rose from my self-made tomb.
I even managed a shower, shampoo and some fresh clothes. Fortified with some broth, I was able to once again navigate through light and movement. In other words: The World.
*The World*: A place where no one else on it could ever possibly feel your pain.
You see when you lose what amounts to a part of your soul, and eventually stumble from your dark sleep of grief and step out into the light of the world around you, you're outraged. "Don't they know the world has stopped? Why are people still walking around? Why am I seeing birds flying and cars whizzing by?". But it's not the world that mourns. It's not the world that's suffered your loss or feels your pain. It's your world. Your own, private, personal, in-your-heart world that's come to a screeching halt. It's the same reason I don't laugh at the same jokes anymore, or want to watch television or interact with anyone or involve myself in anything that takes more than a modicum of concentration because nothing else seems as important as not seeing my girl roll on her back in the sun or greet me at the foot of the bed each morning.
But The World also represents reality and reality can be ugly, beautiful, cruel, generous, sadistic, empathetic, indifferent and compassionate, logical and illogical. For me reality had only been a curse in the form of my baby girl buried in the backyard. Or when my husband recently found one of her nail casings and a stray whisker beneath a chair where she sat most every day during the last week she was with us and he brought them to me and I sobbed uncontrollably. Again, cruel reality.
Yet, within the past few days while still navigating the light of the indifferent world, I've felt a slight shift in my perception of reality.
I'll look look at her picture or fondle one of her toys and remember....remember the love and beauty she brought into our lives, and in between the tears and reoccurring darkness I'll ask myself if reality might also represent a blessing in the form of her life. Her existence in the first place and the blessing we all shared together with her.
Perhaps if I can hold onto that positive concept of reality, the sole reality that was Sandy's life, her lovableness, her gentleness, her love for us - maybe I can accept reality on those terms. Maybe. I'm still not sure. I'm still navigating the light.
But as the fourth day of darkness approached, so, too, did a gradual sense of strengthening spirit. I finally no longer just wanted to get out of bed but did, and like Lazarus, I eventually rose from my self-made tomb.
I even managed a shower, shampoo and some fresh clothes. Fortified with some broth, I was able to once again navigate through light and movement. In other words: The World.
*The World*: A place where no one else on it could ever possibly feel your pain.
You see when you lose what amounts to a part of your soul, and eventually stumble from your dark sleep of grief and step out into the light of the world around you, you're outraged. "Don't they know the world has stopped? Why are people still walking around? Why am I seeing birds flying and cars whizzing by?". But it's not the world that mourns. It's not the world that's suffered your loss or feels your pain. It's your world. Your own, private, personal, in-your-heart world that's come to a screeching halt. It's the same reason I don't laugh at the same jokes anymore, or want to watch television or interact with anyone or involve myself in anything that takes more than a modicum of concentration because nothing else seems as important as not seeing my girl roll on her back in the sun or greet me at the foot of the bed each morning.
But The World also represents reality and reality can be ugly, beautiful, cruel, generous, sadistic, empathetic, indifferent and compassionate, logical and illogical. For me reality had only been a curse in the form of my baby girl buried in the backyard. Or when my husband recently found one of her nail casings and a stray whisker beneath a chair where she sat most every day during the last week she was with us and he brought them to me and I sobbed uncontrollably. Again, cruel reality.
Yet, within the past few days while still navigating the light of the indifferent world, I've felt a slight shift in my perception of reality.
I'll look look at her picture or fondle one of her toys and remember....remember the love and beauty she brought into our lives, and in between the tears and reoccurring darkness I'll ask myself if reality might also represent a blessing in the form of her life. Her existence in the first place and the blessing we all shared together with her.
Perhaps if I can hold onto that positive concept of reality, the sole reality that was Sandy's life, her lovableness, her gentleness, her love for us - maybe I can accept reality on those terms. Maybe. I'm still not sure. I'm still navigating the light.
Chapter Six: REALITY CRASH
In many ways I thought the grieving that I experienced before Sandy's loss, was almost as bad as actually losing her. At least that’s what I thought then. I have come to realize that it only seemed worse because the weight of anxiety was added to my already overloaded heart full of sadness. At the moment of her passing and every week, day and second since, however, the anxiety vanished. Oh, the sadness increased ten fold because now it was real. Now there was no anticipation of how the house would feel without her or how I would go through the simplest motions without her being there or waiting at home when I was out. Now …was here. Now was Now. Anxiety was replaced by Reality and Reality is a fearless foe.
Reality is there in the morning; throughout the day; into the evening and it doesn’t even rest while you try to. It invades your dreams. You can turn in one hundred different directions and each time it will be there, staring you in the face, reaching into your chest clenching your heart. There is no escape and no denial of its existence. Reality can be the embodiment of crippling emotional memories that never leaves.
For a few days last week I began to feel a reassurance that Sandy’s loss wouldn’t ‘break me’ as I feared it would. I knew I’d done the right thing. I knew I’d chosen the right doctor to care for her and another right doctor to come to our home when we needed a familiar hand to guide her back to God. There wasn’t the usual Guilt I’d read about. Were there things that could have been done better or events that could have gone better? Of course. Nothing is ever perfect or as planned. If there was such perfection, then the cancer would never have eaten its way into my little girl’s body and she’d still be sitting in my lap purring that motorboat purr of hers.
But yesterday I was blindsided. In my almost frenetic attempts to occupy myself, my energies and my time away from the house, I found myself at home barricaded by a series of events that, in and of themselves, could have been dealt with individually. But for whatever reason, they all began to build and meld together into one of those large, insurmountable boulders made all the more impassible by the two-steady days of torrential rains and constant gray skies. A package with a picture of Sandy I’d wanted her vet to receive had gotten lost in the mail; letters I’d painstakingly and heartbreakingly written to those people I felt should know about Sandy had met with no response, and worst of all, I’d made the terrible mistake of trying to take on too many new tasks at once.
Literature and grief therapists ‘say’ to “just do something…. but not too much at once”. I’d filled my head and blathered on to my husband about all the changes we’d intended to make in the house should be done now; that I’d do all the necessary preliminary research and we’d start on those minor to middling remodeling tasks we’d been putting off for so long. It would provide the diversion from Reality I desperately needed. Rain, gray skies, seemingly piddly events piling up, stuck in the same surroundings and routine I was desperately trying to alter if just enough to ease the pain of Reality - suddenly came to a thundering halt. Suddenly I was suffocated by Reality.
Reality can’t be conned. Reality can’t be fooled or evaded or swept under the new carpet or painted a different hue. Reality remains stoically ever-present in whatever form it personally chooses for you. Now Reality didn't rise upon me like a slow tide or creeping fog. No. This Reality was that large, unavoidable boulder hurled off the cliff I’d been trying to climb in the hopes of eventually facing it and honestly dealing with it and hopefully accepting it but...maneuvering my climb in my own way and at my own pace. Reality decided it was time for us to meet on its terms and at its pace. Reality always has the upper hand.
Today, for the hour or so I’ve been sitting here typing this, is the fist time in two days I’ve been out of bed. I haven’t showered. I've only eaten some toast yesterday morning. But I'm trying to drink some water at least. I never knew one could sleep so long even after they totally awaken. When I’d lay there more than a few minutes, with my eyes wide open, I’d start to think or cry or howl into a pillow and pull my entire body into a fetal position and before I knew it, I’d be fast asleep again. The same actions were repeated every few hours or so. I speak little or not at all when I slog to the kitchen for water or to the bathroom. My husband, I’m sure, is afraid to leave me. But I also feel he’s helpless and he knows it. I no longer want to do anything. I just want to escape ...Reality. But now Reality had assumed yet another face: Depression.
Reality is there in the morning; throughout the day; into the evening and it doesn’t even rest while you try to. It invades your dreams. You can turn in one hundred different directions and each time it will be there, staring you in the face, reaching into your chest clenching your heart. There is no escape and no denial of its existence. Reality can be the embodiment of crippling emotional memories that never leaves.
For a few days last week I began to feel a reassurance that Sandy’s loss wouldn’t ‘break me’ as I feared it would. I knew I’d done the right thing. I knew I’d chosen the right doctor to care for her and another right doctor to come to our home when we needed a familiar hand to guide her back to God. There wasn’t the usual Guilt I’d read about. Were there things that could have been done better or events that could have gone better? Of course. Nothing is ever perfect or as planned. If there was such perfection, then the cancer would never have eaten its way into my little girl’s body and she’d still be sitting in my lap purring that motorboat purr of hers.
But yesterday I was blindsided. In my almost frenetic attempts to occupy myself, my energies and my time away from the house, I found myself at home barricaded by a series of events that, in and of themselves, could have been dealt with individually. But for whatever reason, they all began to build and meld together into one of those large, insurmountable boulders made all the more impassible by the two-steady days of torrential rains and constant gray skies. A package with a picture of Sandy I’d wanted her vet to receive had gotten lost in the mail; letters I’d painstakingly and heartbreakingly written to those people I felt should know about Sandy had met with no response, and worst of all, I’d made the terrible mistake of trying to take on too many new tasks at once.
Literature and grief therapists ‘say’ to “just do something…. but not too much at once”. I’d filled my head and blathered on to my husband about all the changes we’d intended to make in the house should be done now; that I’d do all the necessary preliminary research and we’d start on those minor to middling remodeling tasks we’d been putting off for so long. It would provide the diversion from Reality I desperately needed. Rain, gray skies, seemingly piddly events piling up, stuck in the same surroundings and routine I was desperately trying to alter if just enough to ease the pain of Reality - suddenly came to a thundering halt. Suddenly I was suffocated by Reality.
Reality can’t be conned. Reality can’t be fooled or evaded or swept under the new carpet or painted a different hue. Reality remains stoically ever-present in whatever form it personally chooses for you. Now Reality didn't rise upon me like a slow tide or creeping fog. No. This Reality was that large, unavoidable boulder hurled off the cliff I’d been trying to climb in the hopes of eventually facing it and honestly dealing with it and hopefully accepting it but...maneuvering my climb in my own way and at my own pace. Reality decided it was time for us to meet on its terms and at its pace. Reality always has the upper hand.
Today, for the hour or so I’ve been sitting here typing this, is the fist time in two days I’ve been out of bed. I haven’t showered. I've only eaten some toast yesterday morning. But I'm trying to drink some water at least. I never knew one could sleep so long even after they totally awaken. When I’d lay there more than a few minutes, with my eyes wide open, I’d start to think or cry or howl into a pillow and pull my entire body into a fetal position and before I knew it, I’d be fast asleep again. The same actions were repeated every few hours or so. I speak little or not at all when I slog to the kitchen for water or to the bathroom. My husband, I’m sure, is afraid to leave me. But I also feel he’s helpless and he knows it. I no longer want to do anything. I just want to escape ...Reality. But now Reality had assumed yet another face: Depression.
Chapter Five: FIRSTS
- Unearthing a lost catnip mouse or fur-encrusted ball under the couch.
- Finding a dropped whisker or nail casing on the carpet or furniture.
- Deciding to wash one of her old blankets.
- Deciding to wash any of the clothing I wore the last day of her life.
- Afraid to put on the clogs I wore around the house because one of her first morning routines was to stretch her front paws on them and scratch at them.
- Watching movies or television (which I've done little of) that feature a cat - especially ones with cats in jeopardy that were always turned off in the past anyway.
- Realizing I can no longer sign a card to a friend or relative "From Us & Sandy, too"
- Coming across clothing that feature "I Love Cats" on them.
** Like the sweatshirt I stumbled found on a rack at a clothing store during one of my forays just to get out of the house. Pretty white sweatshirt with blue turtleneck band and a picture of a chubby gray cat holding a red heart on which were printed the words: "Cats Purr With Their Hearts". I remember grabbing hold of the display rack and felt the entire store swirling. I thought I was going to faint. My eyes blurred and I felt tears welling up. But somehow I managed to catch them before they fell and before I fell.**
- Seeing the first stray cat wandering off in the distance.
- The first condolence card.
- Discovering a photo of her I'd totally forgotten I'd taken.
Whether each pet person has their own specific Firsts or can identify with all or some of the above, each person also may react differently. Today I faced another one of my own worst Firsts. One I'd faced before after my first cat, Mister, passed. Not so when my second cat, Tyler, passed because we had Sandy at that point already for two years. This First happened in the supermarket. For weeks before Sandy's passing, I wouldn't leave her side for longer than absolutely necessary so I hadn't ventured out very much at all. Going to the supermarket was one of those routine tasks that seemed almost pointless to waste time upon. But food and other household sundries were of some basic importance and, after all, my husband had to eat and Sandy needed food and litter. (I'm sure my husband would readily say that the former wasn't one-tenth as important as the later reason to go shopping.) So I'd write up a cursory list and he'd go to the supermarket for all of us. That routine went on for three or four weeks; that period of time I was most concerned about her every move and felt I needed to be present at all times to interpret any difference in her behavior or appearance.
During the week after she passed, neither of us went to the supermarket. Neither of us were concerned with anything other than somehow getting through the day. We managed to physically get by with whatever we had stocked in the house.
Finally, we began running out of true necessities and 'relatively' healthy food. So in my determination to get out and away from the house, the empty shell that it now was without her, I journeyed off to the supermarket for the first time in over a month. Now, this may seem trivial to many people, but then this whole narrative isn't directed to any one of those people. Actually, it isn't directed toward anyone at all. It's just me talking to myself online in the hopes that in getting it down "on screen" so to speak, I can find the answers to questions that gnaw at me or calm the depression, guilt and shore up the loss as best I can.
I was all right as I wheeled up and down the aisles in the usual fog that hovered over me wherever I go now. Until - as if the store had just set up an entire new section since I'd last been there - I wheeled my cart down the next aisle unaware it was the pet supply aisle. Despite the fact that the food she ate wasn't even sold at a supermarket and her litter brand could only be found in specific pet supply stores, there in front of me was shelf upon shelf and an aisle that seemed to elongate the more I stared at it, was another First. From now on I would always have to make a point to avoid that aisle.
It was a good thing I had the cart to hold onto. I grasped the handles till my knuckles turned bluish white like an afraid-of-flying passenger on their first flight. It steadied me because I felt my knees begin to buckle. The fog was blurring even more at that moment. I've had anxiety attacks in my life and this gave all the indications of one. Of course, as with any anxiety or pseudo-anxiety attack, one of the first feelings is that of embarrassment. The last thing you want is someone to come over and ask if there was anything wrong or try to scoop your limp body off the aisle floor along with the boxes of whatever you may have knocked off the shelf as you fell. Ask anyone who's had such a feeling and they'll tell you that's exactly what they go through.
The only way I could maneuver out of there with any safety and some semblance of dignity was to literally close my eyes and let the cart maneuver me away sort of on auto pilot. I opened my eyes when could feel I was turned in the other direction, making no eye contact with anyone, quickly grabbed whatever else I thought I needed at the moment and settled for coming back another day when at least I would be somewhat more prepared and plot my shopping cart course out more carefully.
The supermarket story was a means of expanding on one of the worst Firsts of all for me: The First time I realized, as I did after my first cat's death, that I was no longer one of the fortunate who, along with jotting down milk, toilet paper, bread, etc. on their shopping lists, could include "litter" or "cat food".
- Finding a dropped whisker or nail casing on the carpet or furniture.
- Deciding to wash one of her old blankets.
- Deciding to wash any of the clothing I wore the last day of her life.
- Afraid to put on the clogs I wore around the house because one of her first morning routines was to stretch her front paws on them and scratch at them.
- Watching movies or television (which I've done little of) that feature a cat - especially ones with cats in jeopardy that were always turned off in the past anyway.
- Realizing I can no longer sign a card to a friend or relative "From Us & Sandy, too"
- Coming across clothing that feature "I Love Cats" on them.
** Like the sweatshirt I stumbled found on a rack at a clothing store during one of my forays just to get out of the house. Pretty white sweatshirt with blue turtleneck band and a picture of a chubby gray cat holding a red heart on which were printed the words: "Cats Purr With Their Hearts". I remember grabbing hold of the display rack and felt the entire store swirling. I thought I was going to faint. My eyes blurred and I felt tears welling up. But somehow I managed to catch them before they fell and before I fell.**
- Seeing the first stray cat wandering off in the distance.
- The first condolence card.
- Discovering a photo of her I'd totally forgotten I'd taken.
Whether each pet person has their own specific Firsts or can identify with all or some of the above, each person also may react differently. Today I faced another one of my own worst Firsts. One I'd faced before after my first cat, Mister, passed. Not so when my second cat, Tyler, passed because we had Sandy at that point already for two years. This First happened in the supermarket. For weeks before Sandy's passing, I wouldn't leave her side for longer than absolutely necessary so I hadn't ventured out very much at all. Going to the supermarket was one of those routine tasks that seemed almost pointless to waste time upon. But food and other household sundries were of some basic importance and, after all, my husband had to eat and Sandy needed food and litter. (I'm sure my husband would readily say that the former wasn't one-tenth as important as the later reason to go shopping.) So I'd write up a cursory list and he'd go to the supermarket for all of us. That routine went on for three or four weeks; that period of time I was most concerned about her every move and felt I needed to be present at all times to interpret any difference in her behavior or appearance.
During the week after she passed, neither of us went to the supermarket. Neither of us were concerned with anything other than somehow getting through the day. We managed to physically get by with whatever we had stocked in the house.
Finally, we began running out of true necessities and 'relatively' healthy food. So in my determination to get out and away from the house, the empty shell that it now was without her, I journeyed off to the supermarket for the first time in over a month. Now, this may seem trivial to many people, but then this whole narrative isn't directed to any one of those people. Actually, it isn't directed toward anyone at all. It's just me talking to myself online in the hopes that in getting it down "on screen" so to speak, I can find the answers to questions that gnaw at me or calm the depression, guilt and shore up the loss as best I can.
I was all right as I wheeled up and down the aisles in the usual fog that hovered over me wherever I go now. Until - as if the store had just set up an entire new section since I'd last been there - I wheeled my cart down the next aisle unaware it was the pet supply aisle. Despite the fact that the food she ate wasn't even sold at a supermarket and her litter brand could only be found in specific pet supply stores, there in front of me was shelf upon shelf and an aisle that seemed to elongate the more I stared at it, was another First. From now on I would always have to make a point to avoid that aisle.
It was a good thing I had the cart to hold onto. I grasped the handles till my knuckles turned bluish white like an afraid-of-flying passenger on their first flight. It steadied me because I felt my knees begin to buckle. The fog was blurring even more at that moment. I've had anxiety attacks in my life and this gave all the indications of one. Of course, as with any anxiety or pseudo-anxiety attack, one of the first feelings is that of embarrassment. The last thing you want is someone to come over and ask if there was anything wrong or try to scoop your limp body off the aisle floor along with the boxes of whatever you may have knocked off the shelf as you fell. Ask anyone who's had such a feeling and they'll tell you that's exactly what they go through.
The only way I could maneuver out of there with any safety and some semblance of dignity was to literally close my eyes and let the cart maneuver me away sort of on auto pilot. I opened my eyes when could feel I was turned in the other direction, making no eye contact with anyone, quickly grabbed whatever else I thought I needed at the moment and settled for coming back another day when at least I would be somewhat more prepared and plot my shopping cart course out more carefully.
The supermarket story was a means of expanding on one of the worst Firsts of all for me: The First time I realized, as I did after my first cat's death, that I was no longer one of the fortunate who, along with jotting down milk, toilet paper, bread, etc. on their shopping lists, could include "litter" or "cat food".
Chapter Four: HEARTS UNDER FALLEN LEAVES
By now most of the leaves have fallen off the forest of oaks that surround our house. A patchwork quilt of gold, rust and brown carpets the still green grass hidden underneath now only revealed in swaths made by the passes of the lawnmower from yesterday’s first fall mulching. The birdbaths have frozen, which means it's time to plug in the heated ones and upturn the cement baths so they won't fill with freezing rain or snow and crack in frigid temperatures. The feeders and hanging suet cakes are busy bird buffet bars throughout the day. Nearly all of the annuals and many of the perennials in the garden have finally succumbed to several nights’ freezes. Last night’s seems to have sealed their fate for winter’s onset. Scavenging birds, squirrels and chipmunks aren't dissuaded by the demise or dormancy of my garden. They still manage to ferret out fallen seeds or strafe clean remaining intact seed heads. I’m never sad to see the garden flora fade in the fall because even mawkish browned leaves and near-barren branches still manage to provide life to hungry, cold-hardy birds and pre-hibernating mammals.
The natural tenacious continuation of animal life I observed through my window that morning, however, only served to remind me of the futile finality of other animal life. My gaze turned from the front window that overlooks the major part of my garden to the glass doors at the rear of the house which opened onto the deck and revealed a broad view of the backyard, the woods beyond and our little blue shed. For days I'd avoided that view fearing my eyes would wander toward the shed. Sandy is buried near the side of the shed. Yet at that moment my slippers seemed to drag me toward the glass doors where I could see an even thicker carpet of multi colored leaves cloaking the ground. I stood there my fears eventually came to fruition when my eyes wandered toward the little blue shed.
My head battles with my heart to stave off welling tears by distracting my eyes toward the frenetic antics of an extremely fluffy-tailed squirrel splashing through the crumpled sea of leaves. As it usually does these days, however, my heart wins out and I peer past the shed to see a portion of Sandy’s grave site. Despite more than several attempts, I was not yet able to go back there. But from the window, I could just barely spy a thread of golden leaves beginning to weave the autumn quilt eventually to cover where her body lay in the casket wrapped in her favorite sweater of mine along with two of her precious brushes and several of her most loved and nuzzled toys One was an organic catnip-filled alligator I placed between her paws as I laid her on her side, wrapped the arms of that sweater around her and placed a picture of my father above her head.
Seeing the growing leaf quilt, I could only think that it would never be as warm or thick or comforting or protective as her many, many soft fleecy and wool blankets or her insulated beds and cat hutch. Certainly no thickness of leaves or covering of snow would ever provide the warmth from the curve of my arm as she lay cradled against my chest while I’d sing to her, "Baby Of Mine" and brush her or just stroke her fur. No. No sweater or thick cover of gnarled leaves or layered frozen snow could never come close to the warm blanket of safety, security, togetherness and love we provided each other.
I pulled my robe closer to me as I stood there at the glass door. The coldness I felt wasn't drifting through the old, uninsulated glass panes. It welled up from deep within me; from my heart; my gut. I wrapped my arms even tighter around my body, only now it was just to steady myself and try to hold myself together for yet another day.
She must be so cold, I kept thinking and felt my heart grow heavy once again. I lowered my head, unable to look any longer or bear thoughts of that cold ground surrounding her body. I stood there slumped against the door with the unbearable knowledge that the only warmth I could give her now was warmth of tears sliding effortlessly and unconsciously down my cheek onto the robe still speckled with her soft, gray fur.
The natural tenacious continuation of animal life I observed through my window that morning, however, only served to remind me of the futile finality of other animal life. My gaze turned from the front window that overlooks the major part of my garden to the glass doors at the rear of the house which opened onto the deck and revealed a broad view of the backyard, the woods beyond and our little blue shed. For days I'd avoided that view fearing my eyes would wander toward the shed. Sandy is buried near the side of the shed. Yet at that moment my slippers seemed to drag me toward the glass doors where I could see an even thicker carpet of multi colored leaves cloaking the ground. I stood there my fears eventually came to fruition when my eyes wandered toward the little blue shed.
My head battles with my heart to stave off welling tears by distracting my eyes toward the frenetic antics of an extremely fluffy-tailed squirrel splashing through the crumpled sea of leaves. As it usually does these days, however, my heart wins out and I peer past the shed to see a portion of Sandy’s grave site. Despite more than several attempts, I was not yet able to go back there. But from the window, I could just barely spy a thread of golden leaves beginning to weave the autumn quilt eventually to cover where her body lay in the casket wrapped in her favorite sweater of mine along with two of her precious brushes and several of her most loved and nuzzled toys One was an organic catnip-filled alligator I placed between her paws as I laid her on her side, wrapped the arms of that sweater around her and placed a picture of my father above her head.
Seeing the growing leaf quilt, I could only think that it would never be as warm or thick or comforting or protective as her many, many soft fleecy and wool blankets or her insulated beds and cat hutch. Certainly no thickness of leaves or covering of snow would ever provide the warmth from the curve of my arm as she lay cradled against my chest while I’d sing to her, "Baby Of Mine" and brush her or just stroke her fur. No. No sweater or thick cover of gnarled leaves or layered frozen snow could never come close to the warm blanket of safety, security, togetherness and love we provided each other.
I pulled my robe closer to me as I stood there at the glass door. The coldness I felt wasn't drifting through the old, uninsulated glass panes. It welled up from deep within me; from my heart; my gut. I wrapped my arms even tighter around my body, only now it was just to steady myself and try to hold myself together for yet another day.
She must be so cold, I kept thinking and felt my heart grow heavy once again. I lowered my head, unable to look any longer or bear thoughts of that cold ground surrounding her body. I stood there slumped against the door with the unbearable knowledge that the only warmth I could give her now was warmth of tears sliding effortlessly and unconsciously down my cheek onto the robe still speckled with her soft, gray fur.
Chapter Three: A WEEK AGO TODAY
In any loss there is that minuscule moment in wake time when you are not sure whether you are still dreaming or that everything will be in its place and as it should be once you do finally and fully awake. It's toward the end of that minuscule moment - milliseconds more likely - when you become painfully aware you are indeed not dreaming and, indeed, nothing is in its place or as it should be. The pain with which you fell asleep rises up again like a giant tidal wave to crash over your body, drowning your heart and crushing your will to lift yourself from the bed. As aimless, drifting flotsam you manage to place your feet upon what surely feels like sifting sand awash with a tide pool of tearful memories when happier, more welcome mornings were brightened with the secure and loving caress of soft fur gently brushing your bare ankle. And you ask yourself: "Is this really worth it then?"
Oddly and almost sadistically, this was the first morning I did not experience that gap nor those doubts or ask myself that question. It was odd and sadistic because it was exactly a week ago today we loss our little Sandy. A week ago today that we had scheduled the vet to come in the afternoon to help us. Help us? Help us say goodbye to our baby girl.
It wasn't until I was halfway along the seemingly endless journey from the bedroom to the kitchen that the ton of bricks came crashing onto me. It was Friday. Again. By this time last week we'd been arranging the area where we would sit with Sandy. It was also around this time last Friday my husband, Jim, and I sat cross legged on the floor, each holding a favorite brush of hers with Sandy going from one loving stroke to another. She was in Heaven. She would be in Heaven. And that's all I could think of as I spoke gently to her through tears I didn't want her to see or sobs I didn't want her to hear for fear she'd begin to stress out. Always sensitive to our every mood, our pets pick up on our happiness, anger and our sadness. All I wanted Sandy to feel from us then was Love. Eternal Love.
I would occasionally glance at the clock to check the time. I remember feeling like a condemned prisoner waiting for a call from the warden or the governor for a reprieve. The vet was due to call half an hour before he arrived, which was around 3:00pm. Twice the phone rang before that and twice we both scrambled to get it and twice it was a recorded political announcements. Normally these would be calls I'd find annoying. Now they were that sort of 'reprieve' I spoke of. The minutes ticked by like hours. The hours went by like minutes. We wanted her with us for just one more second. She was herself. She was seemingly happy. Yet when she'd stop again and again to lick at her wounds and ulcerated tumors on her belly and chest and I could see the patches of skin hanging and the black horrible tumors beneath or notice the drops of blood that stained the carpet or blanket where she'd been laying....I knew that each second brought her closer to more discomfort, more bleeding, more ulcerations, more tumors and eventual pain and leave only a distorted, shadow of her real self and definitely not a happy self. I knew it was the right thing we were doing, yet my heart ached with that knowledge.
Today is that 'anniversary'. I have not yet gone out to see the grave my husband dug for her in the backyard next to our Tyler. I was with him, of course, when we buried her. But could not remain while he finished. Besides, I think he wanted to cry by himself as he paid homage to her by neatening everything and extending the little fence that had formerly surrounded just Tyler's grave and now included hers. I'd asked him to place a similar stone cat upon the center of her her grave as we'd done on Tyler's site. I didn't see him do it, but he told me he did.
Perhaps this afternoon I will go out there for the first time. Perhaps. I do know I don't think I could stand to hear that phone ring.
I sit here, the blinking cursor my only 'companion' for it now has become the conduit of my thoughts, feelings, words and ultimate emptiness. I sit here late into the afternoon still in my robe, unable to eat or do much of anything else. The minutes tick by and the hour approaches. It's 3:15. It's 3:30 and now it's nearly 4:00pm. It was 4:00pm last Friday when my heart broke and my baby was gone.
I want to melt into the floor. I want to drown in pools of tears till I sleep. But no. What I really want is just to hold her in my lap. It would be about that time in the afternoon when she would come find me for "lappies". I think cats wear watches under their fur. And yet every time she'd shove her paw in my hand or raise it to rest on my chest as we sat together for our afternoon lappies, I could never feel anything other than the softness of that fur or the gripping of her pads on my finger.
My heart is so full. But maybe, just maybe, it's not so much filled with tears or ache as it is filled with her. For that's where she'll forever live and for as long as I can't tell the difference between my beating heart and her purrs.
Oddly and almost sadistically, this was the first morning I did not experience that gap nor those doubts or ask myself that question. It was odd and sadistic because it was exactly a week ago today we loss our little Sandy. A week ago today that we had scheduled the vet to come in the afternoon to help us. Help us? Help us say goodbye to our baby girl.
It wasn't until I was halfway along the seemingly endless journey from the bedroom to the kitchen that the ton of bricks came crashing onto me. It was Friday. Again. By this time last week we'd been arranging the area where we would sit with Sandy. It was also around this time last Friday my husband, Jim, and I sat cross legged on the floor, each holding a favorite brush of hers with Sandy going from one loving stroke to another. She was in Heaven. She would be in Heaven. And that's all I could think of as I spoke gently to her through tears I didn't want her to see or sobs I didn't want her to hear for fear she'd begin to stress out. Always sensitive to our every mood, our pets pick up on our happiness, anger and our sadness. All I wanted Sandy to feel from us then was Love. Eternal Love.
I would occasionally glance at the clock to check the time. I remember feeling like a condemned prisoner waiting for a call from the warden or the governor for a reprieve. The vet was due to call half an hour before he arrived, which was around 3:00pm. Twice the phone rang before that and twice we both scrambled to get it and twice it was a recorded political announcements. Normally these would be calls I'd find annoying. Now they were that sort of 'reprieve' I spoke of. The minutes ticked by like hours. The hours went by like minutes. We wanted her with us for just one more second. She was herself. She was seemingly happy. Yet when she'd stop again and again to lick at her wounds and ulcerated tumors on her belly and chest and I could see the patches of skin hanging and the black horrible tumors beneath or notice the drops of blood that stained the carpet or blanket where she'd been laying....I knew that each second brought her closer to more discomfort, more bleeding, more ulcerations, more tumors and eventual pain and leave only a distorted, shadow of her real self and definitely not a happy self. I knew it was the right thing we were doing, yet my heart ached with that knowledge.
Today is that 'anniversary'. I have not yet gone out to see the grave my husband dug for her in the backyard next to our Tyler. I was with him, of course, when we buried her. But could not remain while he finished. Besides, I think he wanted to cry by himself as he paid homage to her by neatening everything and extending the little fence that had formerly surrounded just Tyler's grave and now included hers. I'd asked him to place a similar stone cat upon the center of her her grave as we'd done on Tyler's site. I didn't see him do it, but he told me he did.
Perhaps this afternoon I will go out there for the first time. Perhaps. I do know I don't think I could stand to hear that phone ring.
I sit here, the blinking cursor my only 'companion' for it now has become the conduit of my thoughts, feelings, words and ultimate emptiness. I sit here late into the afternoon still in my robe, unable to eat or do much of anything else. The minutes tick by and the hour approaches. It's 3:15. It's 3:30 and now it's nearly 4:00pm. It was 4:00pm last Friday when my heart broke and my baby was gone.
I want to melt into the floor. I want to drown in pools of tears till I sleep. But no. What I really want is just to hold her in my lap. It would be about that time in the afternoon when she would come find me for "lappies". I think cats wear watches under their fur. And yet every time she'd shove her paw in my hand or raise it to rest on my chest as we sat together for our afternoon lappies, I could never feel anything other than the softness of that fur or the gripping of her pads on my finger.
My heart is so full. But maybe, just maybe, it's not so much filled with tears or ache as it is filled with her. For that's where she'll forever live and for as long as I can't tell the difference between my beating heart and her purrs.
Chapter Two: UNBEARABLE EMPTINESS
I am beyond inconsolable. I had been through horrendous grief after the loss of my first two cats, Mister and Tyler, but this euthanasia-by-appointment was cruelly clear and disastrously different. Her diagnosis of mammary cancer created the unavoidable, damnable decree that no amount of denial, procrastination or pleas with God for more time and more time and still more time would forestall our inevitable Decision.
The Decision of when would prove to be the hardest to bear and the most avoided. When you know the time of their loss is up to you, there is a state of pre-bereavement which places you in a ghastly fugue state for that period of time. It is the same with any terminally ill being as it was with my father and my mother. You live their death and their loss every day and long before their actual passing. You try to imagine your life without them. And so it was with Sandy. Sometimes I'd even ignore her presence as if to prepare myself for her inevitable absence. I'd plod through my daily paces masochistically blotting out her usual, dependable interaction, companionship and affection - only to be followed by incredible guilt and selfishness for denying even one second of her presence just so I could protect myself from pain - or somehow prepare myself. As if I could have ever prepared myself for that. As if anyone could.
In many ways the anticipated loss of my Sandy was harder than the actual loss of my other cats only because the ultimate decision when to end her life would fall directly into my hands. (A Macbeth metaphor comes to mind, but it wouldn't be till weeks later when I'd feel the delayed reaction of guilty blood on my hands that wouldn't wash out.) With my other cats, Mister and Tyler, I waited too long and let nature make the decision for me. No metaphor there. For years I bore the guilt of cowardice and still do. But that's a guilt for another time.
True pet people bear a vast difference from people who merely have or own or keep pets True pet people are generally owned and kept by their pets. True pet people make little or no differentiation between them and any another member of their human family except that they are the only ones who will consistently offer, unquestionable and non-judgmental love and attention. There is no barrier or censorship placed between your lap and their fur or feathers. . The only 'request' they maymake is perhaps a stroke, a brushing, a tweak of a tail, a toss of a ball, a maybe a "Good girl!" or "Good boy!" and sometimes nothing is required more than that look from you which conveys to them instantly that you love them and are grateful for the gift of their presence. I don't know if it's been said before or perhaps I'm remembering a quote from some learned philosopher or just another old pet person like myself, but To Look Into The Eyes Of A Pet Is To Look Into The Eyes Of God. Who else would do and give you all of the above and seek no reward other than perhaps an occasional "Thanks" or a look of true Love?
I would have stayed in bed the entire day, but past depressions made me realize that one can sleep only so long and lying awake - even buried under the covers - thoughts manage to sadistically creep under there, invade your dreams and jog your not-yet-awake mind. Surprisingly I awoke earlier and earlier each day. No doubt, unconsciously motivated to just keep occupied otherwise I'd crumple in a heap if I thought of Sandy too long - especially dwelling on her last day.
Soon after arising, however, would be the realization that she would no longer come padding around the bottom corner of the bed to greet me, nor follow me into the bathroom rubbing around my ankles waiting for me to walk down the hallway where she would pause and raise her paw which always meant "Pick me up". Almost afraid to look around the bottom corner of the bed, I finally managed to drag myself through that now lonely routine, flip on the coffee and glance around the kitchen devoid of her bowls and mat and litter box in the hall and remember even more usual morning routines that no longer existed.
I couldn't stand to be home. My house had become an empty, lonely shell during the day. It was every effort to invent things to do. Cleaning is by rote as are other 'daily chores'. But even those routine daily events were fraught with effort because always, in some way or another she had been a part of them. The dreaded vacuum cleaner comes to mind first. Only in the last few weeks of her life did I finally purchase one of those quiet, battery-operated carpet sweeper things which didn't emit the terrible roar of the behemoth vacuum-cleaner monster she feared. The first time I used the silent sweeper near her, she just laid there a moment in her favorite chair (for that day anyway), lifted her eyes (not her head) stared at it and quickly nestled her chin back on her paws recognizing this as a mere new human toy and no threat to the peace and quiet of her world.
The first few days afterward, I never lifted a shade. The early morning, low winter light which would normally brighten my kitchen and provide a perfect spot for her in which to bask, seemed intrusive, misplaced and yet another sadistic reminder of what no longer was. I did not feel like the light. I didn't like the world outside. I was aware of its existence, yet I no longer felt part of it.
The Decision of when would prove to be the hardest to bear and the most avoided. When you know the time of their loss is up to you, there is a state of pre-bereavement which places you in a ghastly fugue state for that period of time. It is the same with any terminally ill being as it was with my father and my mother. You live their death and their loss every day and long before their actual passing. You try to imagine your life without them. And so it was with Sandy. Sometimes I'd even ignore her presence as if to prepare myself for her inevitable absence. I'd plod through my daily paces masochistically blotting out her usual, dependable interaction, companionship and affection - only to be followed by incredible guilt and selfishness for denying even one second of her presence just so I could protect myself from pain - or somehow prepare myself. As if I could have ever prepared myself for that. As if anyone could.
In many ways the anticipated loss of my Sandy was harder than the actual loss of my other cats only because the ultimate decision when to end her life would fall directly into my hands. (A Macbeth metaphor comes to mind, but it wouldn't be till weeks later when I'd feel the delayed reaction of guilty blood on my hands that wouldn't wash out.) With my other cats, Mister and Tyler, I waited too long and let nature make the decision for me. No metaphor there. For years I bore the guilt of cowardice and still do. But that's a guilt for another time.
True pet people bear a vast difference from people who merely have or own or keep pets True pet people are generally owned and kept by their pets. True pet people make little or no differentiation between them and any another member of their human family except that they are the only ones who will consistently offer, unquestionable and non-judgmental love and attention. There is no barrier or censorship placed between your lap and their fur or feathers. . The only 'request' they maymake is perhaps a stroke, a brushing, a tweak of a tail, a toss of a ball, a maybe a "Good girl!" or "Good boy!" and sometimes nothing is required more than that look from you which conveys to them instantly that you love them and are grateful for the gift of their presence. I don't know if it's been said before or perhaps I'm remembering a quote from some learned philosopher or just another old pet person like myself, but To Look Into The Eyes Of A Pet Is To Look Into The Eyes Of God. Who else would do and give you all of the above and seek no reward other than perhaps an occasional "Thanks" or a look of true Love?
I would have stayed in bed the entire day, but past depressions made me realize that one can sleep only so long and lying awake - even buried under the covers - thoughts manage to sadistically creep under there, invade your dreams and jog your not-yet-awake mind. Surprisingly I awoke earlier and earlier each day. No doubt, unconsciously motivated to just keep occupied otherwise I'd crumple in a heap if I thought of Sandy too long - especially dwelling on her last day.
Soon after arising, however, would be the realization that she would no longer come padding around the bottom corner of the bed to greet me, nor follow me into the bathroom rubbing around my ankles waiting for me to walk down the hallway where she would pause and raise her paw which always meant "Pick me up". Almost afraid to look around the bottom corner of the bed, I finally managed to drag myself through that now lonely routine, flip on the coffee and glance around the kitchen devoid of her bowls and mat and litter box in the hall and remember even more usual morning routines that no longer existed.
I couldn't stand to be home. My house had become an empty, lonely shell during the day. It was every effort to invent things to do. Cleaning is by rote as are other 'daily chores'. But even those routine daily events were fraught with effort because always, in some way or another she had been a part of them. The dreaded vacuum cleaner comes to mind first. Only in the last few weeks of her life did I finally purchase one of those quiet, battery-operated carpet sweeper things which didn't emit the terrible roar of the behemoth vacuum-cleaner monster she feared. The first time I used the silent sweeper near her, she just laid there a moment in her favorite chair (for that day anyway), lifted her eyes (not her head) stared at it and quickly nestled her chin back on her paws recognizing this as a mere new human toy and no threat to the peace and quiet of her world.
The first few days afterward, I never lifted a shade. The early morning, low winter light which would normally brighten my kitchen and provide a perfect spot for her in which to bask, seemed intrusive, misplaced and yet another sadistic reminder of what no longer was. I did not feel like the light. I didn't like the world outside. I was aware of its existence, yet I no longer felt part of it.
Chapter One: WE BECOME A NEW FAMILY
It was early winter 2003 when Sandy came into our home. As noted above her picture to the right, she was my Father's cat and five years old when he adopted her from an animal shelter five years earlier. My Father had a stroke in the fall of 2003. I made daily or semi-daily visits to his house while he was in hospital. I'd go there after visiting him. I'd change her box, check and refill her food and water and generally keep her company. Mostly, I'd just sit with her. She seemed to enjoy that most. She was always very much a quintessential lap cat. Unfortunately, my father couldn't brush or comb her well enough or often enough which created mats in her already thick fur that could only be removed by picking them apart piece by piece. Each time I was at his house, I'd sit with her in my lap and she let me painstakingly remove little knots and mats of fur. Oh, she hissed a few times. After all, it probably hurt a bit. Overall, however, I think she welcomed it because her purrs far outweighed any hisses. It took weeks. Eventually, by the time she was as smooth as silk I had enough fur to make almost another full cat.
It was at dusk when I'd have to leave and return home that hurt both of us the most. Sitting in the same chair where I brushed her and in that Buddha pose with her feet tucked under her belly she looked so sad and forlorn. Through welling tears I'd reassure her, "You be a good girl, now. I'll see you maybe tomorrow or the next afternoon at the latest." I always left more lights on for her than I knew my father thought necessary, and I knew her eyesight in the dark was better than most any humans. But I couldn't bear the thought of her in an empty house with only a few nightlights plugged into wall outlets.
Staring at me as I stood at the door as if to say, "Where are you going?" was what tore me apart. I cried when I'd leave my father at the hospital and I cried when I left Sandy at his house. After a few weeks of this, she, sadly, became accustomed to this behavior pattern of ours. Her farewell look at me then became more of, "Okay. I know I'll see you again. I'll just wait here till you come back". And that is usually exactly what she did. The next time I returned, I'd find her in the same chair she was when I left before. She wouldn't jump down immediately, fearing I might be a stranger. But once she heard my voice or saw me, she'd fly as fast as her short little legs could fly over to my targeted ankles for more than just a cursory rub. This was an ankle rub generated out of loneliness and being desperately glad to see me again. She would raise her paw to be picked up and purr louder than any cat I'd ever known. She'd lift that paw even when the tumors on her belly became too painful for her only a few days before her passing. But I dared not put pressure on her to pick her up, which of course, broke my heart. It didn't stop me, though, from getting down to her level and petting her soft fur. And that purr! That purr remained as loud as ever.
The initial plan had been that after my father recovered, he would return home with either a full-care or part-time care healthcare professional. How long that might take, no one seemed certain. But my routine visits to care for Sandy as well as taking care of my father's affairs would willingly be done as long as necessary. I kept telling her he'd come back to his little girl as soon as he felt better. Sadly, he was never pronounced well enough to do that even with full-time healthcare. He was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home. How long he'd be there was equally uncertain. Eventually, it became necessary to sell his house. In addition to the painful task of breaking that news to him there was also our mutual concern for Sandy's well being if strangers (realtors, buyers, etc.) started traipsing through the house when I wasn't there. Already a painfully shy cat, I knew that kind of intrusion would deeply affect her.
I was adamant with the real estate agent to take special care when coming to the house and that no way would Sandy be removed from her home during this process. He had to promise the front door would be kept closed after his comings and goings.
Her journey and mine, however, would alter courses after the very first multiple-listing open house. I'd come to my father's house about an hour after the last realtor left, and I couldn't find Sandy anywhere. I was terrified she'd gotten out. I called the realtor in charge and he assured me that when he left she was still in the house. After a frantic search of every nook and cranny in the house and the surrounding property, I finally found her underneath the guest bed scrunched against the wall at the very top of the bed when the flashlight bounced off her glowing green eyes. Not even my voice, nor temptings of brushing or cat treats could entice her out. So I sat outside in the living room and just sang to myself hoping my voice might soothe and eventually coax her out. It worked. She appeared at my feet, quizzically looking at me, "Oh, it's you! You're here.", and jumped up in my lap for her usual brushing. I cried and rocked her just thinking at how terrified and frightened she must have been hearing all those strange voices and feet clomping through her house. After we both calmed down enough and she'd reached her brushing quota, she jumped from my lap for some, obviously, overdue and much needed food and water. I'd no idea how long she had been hiding under that bed. It was then that I immediately called my husband.
I told him to clean out the den, get down one of our cat, Tyler's, old litter boxes and some of his bowls and arrange everything in the den. "Make sure Tyler's in the bedroom and close the door when you hear me drive up", I instructed him. I had no doubt in my mind what not only had to be done at that moment but what I wanted to do and what she needed. Not that it matters, but to this day I still don't know or really care which was the stronger motivation. "I'm bringing Sandy home," I declared. From that moment on she'd be living with us until she joined my father in the assisted living quarters I was arranging for him.
By Christmas my father was still in the nursing facility so my husband, our cat, Tyler, and I celebrated our first Christmas with Sandy in our home. We were a family of four then if only for a short period of time I thought. Tyler was slowly - very slowly - introduced to her. She was kept in the den behind closed doors while he had the full range of the house since, after all, it was his house long before it became hers, too. He was allowed to sniff under the door at 'who that strange cat was in there'. Occasionally, we'd crack the door a bit so they could actually see each other. All of this was done in increments. A little larger crack of the door each time and open for a little longer each time time; until finally, they were allowed full cat-to-cat contact. Tyler, by that time declining in health, was admittedly and rightfully upset. Yet, true to his perennial nature, he remained non-plused and blasé effecting an attitude of "Oh, it's that one you've been talking about. Yeah, yeah, I know her whole sad story and that her real Dad's sick and, well, I guess you've got no choice but to take her in. Not like I'd want you to kick her out in the cold or anything. So ...I suppose it's okay."
Initially he just 'tolerated' her. She seemed well aware that she was - for the moment - a guest and behaved like the we all wish guests would behave. Being timid and recognizing that Tyler was the Alpha male here, she aqcuiessed to his every whim, move and mood. Occasionally she'd jump or sit on one of his favorite spots, but he'd just walk around her and she'd scootch over a bit to allow him the lion's share of space.
After finally deciding upon one assisted living facility out of the five or so that accommodated pets, my husband and I spent that Christmas week and right through New Year's Eve moving all of my father's furniture into the small apartment and setting everything up. I remember hanging blue curtains above the window while snow began to fall outside. It was a pretty little place and close to our home so that I could be there at a moment's notice for him and take care of Sandy, too, or take her to the vet if necessary. I'd even constructed a platform for her to climb and eat so that my Dad wouldn't have to bend over and fill her bowl.
But my Father was never destined to live in or even see his beautiful, new apartment and share it with his Sandy. Nor would he ever even see Sandy again. He developed pneumonia and another intestinal infection while at the nursing facility and was sent to the hospital in late January. He never left the hospital. He remained there until early March. We got the call at 5:00am on a Saturday morning that we should come as quickly as possible if we wanted to say good bye to him. I knew this would be the last time I'd speak with him. To the eyes and senses of others he was unconscious of his surroundings and unable to know who was there or who wasn't. But I knew differently. I knew he was well aware of my presence and anything I said to him. I knew he would still be aware even during those last moments as I held his hand, stroked his hair from his forehead and assured him "It's okay now. Go to Mommy, Daddy. Don't worry about Sandy. We'll always take care of her. She'll be our little girl now".
I'd like to think that as my Father closed his eyes for the last time along with the peace and comfort of knowing he'd see my Mother once again, that God allowed him a certain peace and comfort by knowing that his Baby Girl would be taken care of and loved for the rest of her life.
And she was.
It was at dusk when I'd have to leave and return home that hurt both of us the most. Sitting in the same chair where I brushed her and in that Buddha pose with her feet tucked under her belly she looked so sad and forlorn. Through welling tears I'd reassure her, "You be a good girl, now. I'll see you maybe tomorrow or the next afternoon at the latest." I always left more lights on for her than I knew my father thought necessary, and I knew her eyesight in the dark was better than most any humans. But I couldn't bear the thought of her in an empty house with only a few nightlights plugged into wall outlets.
Staring at me as I stood at the door as if to say, "Where are you going?" was what tore me apart. I cried when I'd leave my father at the hospital and I cried when I left Sandy at his house. After a few weeks of this, she, sadly, became accustomed to this behavior pattern of ours. Her farewell look at me then became more of, "Okay. I know I'll see you again. I'll just wait here till you come back". And that is usually exactly what she did. The next time I returned, I'd find her in the same chair she was when I left before. She wouldn't jump down immediately, fearing I might be a stranger. But once she heard my voice or saw me, she'd fly as fast as her short little legs could fly over to my targeted ankles for more than just a cursory rub. This was an ankle rub generated out of loneliness and being desperately glad to see me again. She would raise her paw to be picked up and purr louder than any cat I'd ever known. She'd lift that paw even when the tumors on her belly became too painful for her only a few days before her passing. But I dared not put pressure on her to pick her up, which of course, broke my heart. It didn't stop me, though, from getting down to her level and petting her soft fur. And that purr! That purr remained as loud as ever.
The initial plan had been that after my father recovered, he would return home with either a full-care or part-time care healthcare professional. How long that might take, no one seemed certain. But my routine visits to care for Sandy as well as taking care of my father's affairs would willingly be done as long as necessary. I kept telling her he'd come back to his little girl as soon as he felt better. Sadly, he was never pronounced well enough to do that even with full-time healthcare. He was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home. How long he'd be there was equally uncertain. Eventually, it became necessary to sell his house. In addition to the painful task of breaking that news to him there was also our mutual concern for Sandy's well being if strangers (realtors, buyers, etc.) started traipsing through the house when I wasn't there. Already a painfully shy cat, I knew that kind of intrusion would deeply affect her.
I was adamant with the real estate agent to take special care when coming to the house and that no way would Sandy be removed from her home during this process. He had to promise the front door would be kept closed after his comings and goings.
Her journey and mine, however, would alter courses after the very first multiple-listing open house. I'd come to my father's house about an hour after the last realtor left, and I couldn't find Sandy anywhere. I was terrified she'd gotten out. I called the realtor in charge and he assured me that when he left she was still in the house. After a frantic search of every nook and cranny in the house and the surrounding property, I finally found her underneath the guest bed scrunched against the wall at the very top of the bed when the flashlight bounced off her glowing green eyes. Not even my voice, nor temptings of brushing or cat treats could entice her out. So I sat outside in the living room and just sang to myself hoping my voice might soothe and eventually coax her out. It worked. She appeared at my feet, quizzically looking at me, "Oh, it's you! You're here.", and jumped up in my lap for her usual brushing. I cried and rocked her just thinking at how terrified and frightened she must have been hearing all those strange voices and feet clomping through her house. After we both calmed down enough and she'd reached her brushing quota, she jumped from my lap for some, obviously, overdue and much needed food and water. I'd no idea how long she had been hiding under that bed. It was then that I immediately called my husband.
I told him to clean out the den, get down one of our cat, Tyler's, old litter boxes and some of his bowls and arrange everything in the den. "Make sure Tyler's in the bedroom and close the door when you hear me drive up", I instructed him. I had no doubt in my mind what not only had to be done at that moment but what I wanted to do and what she needed. Not that it matters, but to this day I still don't know or really care which was the stronger motivation. "I'm bringing Sandy home," I declared. From that moment on she'd be living with us until she joined my father in the assisted living quarters I was arranging for him.
By Christmas my father was still in the nursing facility so my husband, our cat, Tyler, and I celebrated our first Christmas with Sandy in our home. We were a family of four then if only for a short period of time I thought. Tyler was slowly - very slowly - introduced to her. She was kept in the den behind closed doors while he had the full range of the house since, after all, it was his house long before it became hers, too. He was allowed to sniff under the door at 'who that strange cat was in there'. Occasionally, we'd crack the door a bit so they could actually see each other. All of this was done in increments. A little larger crack of the door each time and open for a little longer each time time; until finally, they were allowed full cat-to-cat contact. Tyler, by that time declining in health, was admittedly and rightfully upset. Yet, true to his perennial nature, he remained non-plused and blasé effecting an attitude of "Oh, it's that one you've been talking about. Yeah, yeah, I know her whole sad story and that her real Dad's sick and, well, I guess you've got no choice but to take her in. Not like I'd want you to kick her out in the cold or anything. So ...I suppose it's okay."
Initially he just 'tolerated' her. She seemed well aware that she was - for the moment - a guest and behaved like the we all wish guests would behave. Being timid and recognizing that Tyler was the Alpha male here, she aqcuiessed to his every whim, move and mood. Occasionally she'd jump or sit on one of his favorite spots, but he'd just walk around her and she'd scootch over a bit to allow him the lion's share of space.
After finally deciding upon one assisted living facility out of the five or so that accommodated pets, my husband and I spent that Christmas week and right through New Year's Eve moving all of my father's furniture into the small apartment and setting everything up. I remember hanging blue curtains above the window while snow began to fall outside. It was a pretty little place and close to our home so that I could be there at a moment's notice for him and take care of Sandy, too, or take her to the vet if necessary. I'd even constructed a platform for her to climb and eat so that my Dad wouldn't have to bend over and fill her bowl.
But my Father was never destined to live in or even see his beautiful, new apartment and share it with his Sandy. Nor would he ever even see Sandy again. He developed pneumonia and another intestinal infection while at the nursing facility and was sent to the hospital in late January. He never left the hospital. He remained there until early March. We got the call at 5:00am on a Saturday morning that we should come as quickly as possible if we wanted to say good bye to him. I knew this would be the last time I'd speak with him. To the eyes and senses of others he was unconscious of his surroundings and unable to know who was there or who wasn't. But I knew differently. I knew he was well aware of my presence and anything I said to him. I knew he would still be aware even during those last moments as I held his hand, stroked his hair from his forehead and assured him "It's okay now. Go to Mommy, Daddy. Don't worry about Sandy. We'll always take care of her. She'll be our little girl now".
I'd like to think that as my Father closed his eyes for the last time along with the peace and comfort of knowing he'd see my Mother once again, that God allowed him a certain peace and comfort by knowing that his Baby Girl would be taken care of and loved for the rest of her life.
And she was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
