January 22, 2021 - Survivor's Guilt

 

Last week we had to say goodbye to Winnie. This is not the first cat I've lost, but it's the first time I've been present for it. I said goodbye to Daisy, the cat I grew up with (she was 18 years old), but I was at college when it happened; I got a phone call from my mother after the fact. I said goodbye to Norm, the cat we fostered my senior year at college, but we returned him to the shelter, and I hold onto hope that he found his forever home and had a long and healthy life. I said goodbye to Squiggy (he was 14 years old), but I had re-homed him with a friend from work; I got to see him before he left, but I wasn't there when it happened. Being present to say goodbye to Winnie was, unsurprisingly, devastating. 

I have no doubt we made the right decision for her. While she had overcome numerous health problems throughout her nineteen years, we could not in good conscience watch her suffer as her health visibly deteriorated. She was having litter box issues. She began falling off the bed and not landing on her feet. She had increasing difficulty walking. I say all this not to convince anyone, myself included, that what we did was for the best. I say this because even though I know it was for the best, it still sucks. 

When we took her to the vet to say our goodbyes, it was one of the most emotionally trying times of my life. Being in that room with her as it happened is something I could not be prepared for. The vet told us what would happen every step of the way, that she would be gone before the syringe was fully pressed. And it was true. She was gone. After it was done, there was a body on the table, but it was no longer Winnie. It looked like her, but it wasn't. At least not as far as I was concerned. I still can't process how she was there one moment and was gone the next. 

Knowing we did right by her - and this sounds selfish; this is selfish - doesn't lessen the hurt that has continued. Every night, I used to say, "I'm going to feed the kids." Now I say, "I'm going to feed Logan." It hurts. Every night when I clean the litter boxes, I clean half as many. It hurts. When we come home, I say, "Logan, we're home!" instead of "Kids, we're home!" It hurts. When Logan jumps on the bed at night, I instinctively move to keep him away from another cat who's not there. It hurts. When I look at Logan, I am now forced to consider how much time we have left with him. It hurts. When I walk by the bedroom and glance in, God forbid there's a black tee shirt on the bed, because I come this close to saying, "Hey, pretty girl!" And it hurts. 

What hurts most at the moment, though, is the fact that the hurt will abate over time. Knowing this makes me feel conflicted. I know that grief passes over time, but I feel that the lessening of grief equals a lessening of the love I feel for her still. I feel that as time goes on, I will remember her less as that time inserts itself between us. I can't (and don't want to) forget her, but remembering is still painful. I know that someday the memories will no longer be intertwined with the pain. I know others have gone through this, and they will rightly say something along the lines of time heals all wounds. And I know that they're one hundred percent correct. But it doesn't help me now. 

So for the time being I will dwell in this self-pity and push myself to remember while fighting through the pain. I will remember with fondness the following times:
*visiting her and Jessy in Waltham and leaning over her to say hello. And she bit my nose

*when we wouldn't know where she was (in the closet, under the bed, in the other room...), all we had to do was whistle, and she'd come running - or stealing her from Jessy's lap by whistling and bringing her to my lap

*watching her curl up with her mother every night

*hearing her growl at her brother who also wanted to curl up with their mother every night

*knowing she had a chance to meet her human brother

*coming back from the vet, and giving her a treat for being so good and giving her brother a treat, too, because we can't give one cat a treat and not the other. And seeing her turn and smack him across the face so hard that he spat out the treat, and watching her walk over and eat it

*being bewildered by her lack of object permanence, as she would growl at Logan until I covered her eyes; I'd uncover them, and she'd resume growling until I covered them again

*hearing her meow hello from the bedroom window as we came up the walk to the front door

*after years of Logan trying to eat her food, her turning the tables and eating his, to the point of literally pushing him aside to do it

*giving her chin scratches, feeling her lean into them

*having her remind us who was in charge as she insisted I hold her dish while she ate

*having her lie on my lap, purring contentedly, as I read or graded or watched television

Normally my blog entries are intended to spark a conversation by putting forth an argument or trying to raise awareness about an issue. This one is simply a means of trying to unburden myself of something I can't define. That said, I will endure the pain in order to have my memories. And someday I will do it with only a smile instead of a smile and tears.