Just before Thanksgiving, I lost Sasha, my 10 year old Balinese cat. It was sudden and devastating. On Friday morning he was sick and a trip to the vet told me to bring him back on Monday for tests and to be prepared for a long arduous task of finding out how to fix his anemia. But he couldn't wait, in the early hours, a mere 36 hours after I had retrieved him from the vet, I was taking him on his last journey.
At about 3AM, laying on the floor beside him--he with edema so severe, he was almost 3 times his normal size--I saw him try to get comfortable by laying his head down. This lasted about 15 seconds and then I heard the congestion and he roused himself back up. Almost exactly 19 years earlier, my mother had called me back to say my goodbyes to my father who was dying due to complications from diabetes and kidney failure. I remember her telling me that the night my father's kidneys failed he was going into congestive heart failure. She described the sound and I knew with my heart of hearts that this was the exact same sound I was hearing now with Sasha. A sound so fatal that the soul immediately identifies it for what it is--death, here amongst us. Death that usually hangs back a few steps, unseen but ever present, now here, ready to claim his bounty.
Although my father lingered for another 3 years after this, in and out of the hospital, I knew I had to let Sasha go and not try to hold on to him. I found a 24-hour vet clinic, called to let them know I would be on my way soon, and called my dear friend to take me because I knew I was shattered and could not do this alone.
The vet could only offer that she thought it was cancer and I can only surmise that it was aggressive--hope & pray it was--as I noticed no change in him save the last week and then not enough for me to be concerned until the Friday morning when, rather than waking me up at his reliable 6 o'clock, he called me from the food bowl.
The days following his death were surreal. Concern for his twin brother piled on top of my own grief. Misha took to under the bed and didn't come out for days. I fed him by spoon laying on my stomach worried to that I was going to make a second trip to the vet in a week. My own bed was suddenly devoid of cats that had been a fixture for 10 years. I was adrift in a sea of sorrow. The hole in my life Sasha's departure created has shocked me. He was, I tell myself just a cat, after all. I tell myself this over and over again after I recoil internally from kind intentions. "Are you getting other cat?" they ask. I, demure when I really just want to snap--"If someone lost their child, would you ask them if they are going to get another one?" And to rainbow bridges? "I'm really sorry that your religion has failed to find an adequate answer for what happens to beloved pets. My belief system has one--his soul is exactly the same as mine, yours and the tree outside--they leave us in the same damn way."
The holidays were fast approaching and I had zero interest in any of it. I wanted to cancel Thanksgiving, cancel Christmas but I couldn't--work related events from the 1st of December right up to a few days before Christmas demanded attention. I roused myself, told myself it was showtime and tried to feel sparks of festivity. I succeeded, at times in better measure than others.
Now I am on the other side of this. Misha is moving on although it seems he still misses his brother--he looks under the sofa and up in Sasha's chair and most telling of all, he hasn't played his ball game since Sasha left. Every day, I check to see if I have balls on the floor to pick up and put back into the toy but they remain steadfastly where they belong.
Me, I am at a crossroads for myself. The loss making me question my priorities. In the face of adversity, I am used to pushing through with sheer will. Now, this tactic seems to be pure folly. So now I am pushing out the edges of this new paradigm. For now I am shifting through my priorities to find out what makes me, me. Joy, has not entirely fled although the flame is guttering here and there. Now, I need to focus on the sparks, tend to them; turn my attention on the areas where they still linger. From the ashes, I will rebuild myself, find balance and not use sheer energy to force my way through.
Here I am, version 2.0, or perhaps it is 25.0--I have lost track.
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