Eulogy for a Long-Lived Cat

A family says goodbye to a beloved pet when they feel the time of death is near. I have tearfully said goodbye to Pete approximately 18 times. I really believe that one of his favorite pastimes was playing “Ding-Dong Ditch” with Death.

Born into the Flood of 1993, he immediately became separated from whatever home he’d been born into, and as a stray, was adopted by a woman who had a love of Siamese cats, but felt bad for the homeless kitten. However, after a few short weeks of terror at the claws and teeth of this unruly barn cat, the purebreds were at their wits ends, and the woman began a search for a new home for the wild mongrel she’d named Pizza Boy, and we were so happy to have him.

An irreplaceable replacement cat after the unfortunate death of the perfectly docile, white fluff ball, Flo, Pete was far from perfect. He was a wild beast who prowled the flowerbeds and bit children (who were usually trying to force him into doll dresses). He killed rabbits and strewn their intestines between three different neighbors’ yards. He wouldn’t sleep with us at night. Instead, he would terrorize us by running through the halls while we were sleeping, batting at the light switches and turning lights on and off as he pleased. He could turn door knobs and would bat at your feet under a closed door if you dared to shut him out.

If you did not feed him first thing in the morning, he might bite at your stocking feet as you sleepily trudged past the pantry. If you were having trouble sleeping, he would begin to mewl at the top of his cat lungs just as you’d finally drifted off.

He was aggressive and had many face-offs through screens and windows until Mom would go outside and throw ice at the other cat to make them leave. Pete was always triumphant.

Except for when he wasn’t.

Pete learned to stalk baby birds who couldn’t fly very well, and faced the wrath of a pair of newly-childless Blue Jays who dive-bombed him with frightening coordination and teamwork. This attack and the impending infection nearly killed him.

Despite being such a terror, he really was the best cat for us. He was fun and kitten-like long past being dubbed “geriatric” by the vet. I have so many memories of using him as a pillow as he slept in the sunshine and I read or napped. Christmas morning was always extra entertaining due to his wrapping paper-induced euphoria. He performed acrobatics that would impress any member of Cirque de Soleil for a chance at catching a dangling shoelace or thread. He could purr so loudly that you could hear it in the next room with the door closed.

A few years ago, our vet informed us that Pete’s kidneys were beginning to fail. He began drinking copious amounts of water. I came home from college to say goodbye to him, but other than extreme thirst, he was still his playful self – just a little slower and sleepier.

About two years ago, we believe he had a stroke. He began having balance problems, and it became apparent that he was blind in at least one of his eyes. His appetite began to decline, and we all knew it was the end.

But it wasn’t the end yet. As my mom’s illness progressed, he never left her side. He always wanted to be on her lap, and I wished over and over that he would make it a few more months.

After my mom passed away, I really believe he knew she was gone and missed her. I would find him on her side of the bed when that had never been a popular Pete hangout before. Sometimes, when I got home, he’d come running stiffly to the door, only to take a look at me, as if saying “oh, it’s just you,” and head back to whatever chair he’d been sleeping on.

Two mornings ago, I came downstairs to find that he was very, very ill. For the past few months, he had been losing weight and sleeping more and more, but this was different. I could tell he was miserable, and when I picked him up to put him in his bed, I could feel his insides through the fatless, tissue-thin layer of skin on his belly. He looked up at me, and our eyes met, and I knew it was time.

When we took him to the veterinarian’s office, I was not as sad as I expected to be. I really felt like we owed this amazing pet, friend, and family member some dignity and peace. After the vet gave him the first injection, he began to relax immediately, and soon was lying on his side, looking just like he used to when he’d lie for hours in the sunlight. I kissed him and wished him sweet dreams, and my dad said he was in Kitty Heaven, chasing the birds and squirrels unlucky enough to end up in Bird and Squirrel Hell. I think he is sitting on my mom’s lap, purring loudly and happily as she scratches his ears. No more suffering – only peace.

Pete at Christmas two years ago

My Birthday

Today is my birthday.

I've been dreading it for weeks because I knew I wouldn't receive a phone call or gift from my mom. I knew we wouldn't go shopping together over the weekend or have margaritas or watch Mama Mia together. I knew she wouldn't be able to tell me that she was so happy to have me (and my sister) in her life.

I didn't really want a birthday if I couldn't have those things.

So, at first I tried to avoid my birthday. I told some of my friends not to wish me a happy birthday. I didn't talk to anyone about plans or gifts or fun things to do. I had the perfect cover – Halloween!

I met with my doctor on Monday for a follow-up visit about some medication and my anxiety attacks. I told her that I thought my anxiety was decreasing until the past few days as I was getting ready for my first birthday without my mom. She said that was normal, and that I should realize that the firsts are going to be the hardest. Of course, I know that, and I am dreading the holidays more than I've ever dreaded anything, but I really wasn't expecting my birthday to throw me for such a loop. I learned many years ago that birthdays were a lot like being single on Valentine’s Day – it’s just not that big of a deal to anyone else. I just don’t tend to have many expectations regarding my birthday.

Well, except for my mom to call me and sing Happy Birthday and tell me she loves me.

In a surprise turn of events, I actually had a pretty good day. My employer hosted a volunteer event at Harvester’s, so about twenty of my coworkers and I spent a couple of hours this morning sorting and repackaging food instead of entering data on our computers or answering phones. Hard work in the service of others is cleansing to the mind and spirit.

Then, since it was the official last day for some of the seasonal workers, we had a pizza party (yes, I recognize and acknowledge the irony here) and were able to talk and laugh and socialize in a way that’s not usually possible when you’re working.

Then, I was extremely touched to receive a birthday card from my coworkers. I didn't even know they knew it was my birthday! I felt really appreciated and happy to be there.

About twenty minutes later, a water main broke near our building, and we were told to go home because the water and air-conditioning were shut off, so the building was getting pretty warm, and you’re never thirstier or need to pee more than when there’s no water available.

As I was packing up my things and saying goodbye to some of the temps, a man arrived with flowers! For me! They were beautiful purple daisies and included a card from my sister, her husband, my husband, my dad, and all of our pets. I've never received flowers at work before, and it really is one of those times in life when you want to say to all of the other cube-dwellers, “yep, I just got flowers, people! Take that!”

Despite my good day and positive mood, when I got home, I did something that some of you might see as masochistic or even reckless. And I’m not sure I’d disagree.

I listened to the voicemail my mom left me last year on my birthday. It begins with her singing “Happy Birthday” to me, telling me she loves me, that she hoped I’d had a good day, and that she and my dad would just be hanging out at home, waiting for trick-or-treaters, so I should call her when I had time.

Hearing her voice was amazing. It was startling and disorienting, and at first I couldn't breathe. Then it was comfortable, like being home again after you've been away for a long time.

I listened to it about six or seven times, lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin and my dog’s head on my shoulder. I cried some, but I mostly listened. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Twice, I allowed myself to indulge in a deliberate delusion: that it was a message from this year, and that I was going to call her back in a few minutes and talk about my day.

After setting my phone aside, I fell asleep for two hours. When I woke up, I was disoriented and exhausted, my eyes still swollen from crying. I remembered listening to the voicemail and almost listened to it again, but decided I should get up and take the dog out before trick-or-treaters began arriving.

I was alone in the house, and I felt the loneliness sharply. It’s a really frustrating kind of loneliness, because I know I’m not alone. I know there are people thinking of me and supporting me all the time, but when this loneliness creeps up, it doesn't matter. The emptiness echoes inside me, bouncing off my bones, and causing my joints to ache with grief.

I picked up my phone as I grabbed the dog’s leash, and was stunned. In the past two hours I’d had five missed calls, four voicemails, and twelve text messages. They were all birthday wishes! And nearly all of them mentioned that they were thinking about me!

All the texts, calls, and messages don’t really make it any easier that I’m not getting a call from my mom today, but they are an answer to the loneliness, because even if it’s only temporarily, it has, as of now, mostly eased.

As I’m writing this, it’s nearly 8:30pm, but I'm feeling pretty positive about today, because I think sometimes, especially lately, when things seem so hopeless and empty, these reminders that I haven’t been forgotten and that not everyone has grown tired of me really reach inside me and soothe those aches of loss.

Thank you. 

Kassie and I dressed as Dorothy and Glinda
 for Halloween/our birthdays circa
1990 in costumes our mom made for us.

The Importance of Grieving Openly

I saw The Importance of Grieving Openly on Hello Giggles today. I tend to head over to HG when I need a break at work, or some inspiration for my nail art (yes, nail art). I don't know Becca Rose, the author, but I felt a connection to her today when I read her article.

When my mom died, I felt like it was ok to fall apart. So I did. But after a few weeks and months, I felt like I needed to "get it together" and "stop worrying people." So I tried. But it didn't work.

Something that Becca says in her article is that some of her friendships dwindled while she was going through her grief, but that she had to make the right decision for herself in dealing with her sadness.

...I made a decision that I couldn't afford to put a happy face on tragedy, and so I became brutally honest with myself and others. The friends I had, who stayed through that became my support system. In being honest with them, I felt like I had a net to fall back on. I wasn't alone in my grief, and that alone helped me so much. Those friendships became so much stronger because of what I went through.

This probably hit home the hardest for me. I wouldn't call what I've been going through "sadness" or even purely "grief" -- I feel that my grief over losing mom was a catalyst for the worst major depression and anxiety I've ever experienced in my life, and I've been so worried about worrying other people that I haven't been honest about how difficult it's been.

I feel a gap widening between some of my friends and me, probably due at least in part to not being forthcoming about my state of mind. But the truth of the matter is that I am juggling a lot, and maybe the friends who realize that will return after I've had some time to heal.

There are  friends who have checked on me every day and know -- and have known, before I was even ready to say it -- what I'm going through. I used to feel guilty about the burden I was placing on their shoulders. After all, my emotional problems are not their problems.

But maybe they are, after all? Simply knowing that I can text or call these friends anytime and they would drop everything they were doing to come be by my side is a security I can't describe. It's actually right in line with family, and I'm so grateful and so blessed to have both family and friends to lean on.

I've been doing a lot of putting myself in others' shoes lately, and I know that if a friend of mine needed my support, I would do whatever I could to help and support them. So, I think it's probably time to accept the help, welcome the support, and be real with everyone who cares about me that I haven't been well at all.

I have a plan that I put together with my doctor and therapist that perhaps I'll explain at another time, but I think the main bit of good news I'll leave you with is that a lot of the time, there's a tiny ray of optimism poking through my despair -- and I hope one of these days I'll have the energy and focus to reach some of my goals and dreams. I'll keep you posted.

My dad, sister, her husband, me, and Max on my sister's wedding day, October 13, 2012.

An Exchange

I want you to think about the last 6 months. Think about everything that has happened since you decided to come home early from England in April.

Don’t think of the individual events, think of everything at once. Let everything flash before your eyes.

It’s a lot for a person to deal with, right? Has your heart rate increased? Do you feel overwhelmed just thinking about it?

Yes.

Now, have you had anyone tell you they think you are strong, or that they think you’ve been through a lot?

Yes.

Do you believe them?

No.

You don’t think you’ve been strong or brave?

No.

Why not?

Because I cry every day. I keep gaining weight. I can’t pay attention at work. I can’t finish anything. I have to take medication just to function. I don’t take my dog for walks. I don’t have a real job. I’m so, so lonely. I’m losing my mind. I have no control. I just wish I could sleep for a really long time.

Switch places with a friend, any friend. Imagine you have their life and they have yours. Just think for a few minutes about everything your friend has been through, including her reactions and how she’s carried herself. Think about the talks you've had and how you wished you could help her. Don’t say anything, just run it through your mind – everything your friend has been through in the past six months.

10 minutes later

Why are you crying?

Because no one should have to deal with this.

That’s true, no one should. What do you think of your friend?

I think I feel so, so sorry for her.

That isn't what I asked. What do you think of her?

Long pause.

I think she’s doing what she can to get by. I think she’s in survival mode.

Do you think she is strong? Strong enough to survive and eventually come out of survival mode?

Long pause.

Yes.

Four Months - Only So Much

Our Family Photo from Thanksgiving 2011
Travis, Kassie, Dad, Mom, Uncle Wayne, Aunt Vickie, Max, Me, and Murphy

It has been four months since I said goodbye to my mom.

Actually, that’s not true -- we said our goodbyes before that, and I’ve been saying them ever since.

I think my goodbyes began on October 14^th of last year, the day after I had my gallbladder removed. My parents had gone to Chicago for chemotherapy at The Block Center, and then traveled to Lincoln so they could be with me after my surgery. My mom wasn’t doing very well – her liver was not recovering from the chemo, and she was starting to show signs of liver failure. Her skin had a yellow tinge, and she was very, very tired. The day after my surgery, my mom was too weak to go up the steps to our apartment, so my parents decided to go home so she could rest and be more comfortable.

I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see my mom. I was recovering from gallbladder surgery, which wasn’t super invasive as it was done entirely laparoscopically, but I was hurting, and I was very weak. I wanted to be with them, but I could barely do the steps, myself.

So, my parents left, and I said goodbye.

I look back and realize that that was such a huge moment for me. It was my first realization that my mom might not beat this disease. That she might not see my sister get married, or either of us have children. That we might never go shopping together again, or do all the things we’d planned to do “someday.” It isn’t that I gave up or lost faith – I saw a glimpse of how dire the situation was – something my mom had never let me see before.

Every birthday and holiday that followed became extra special and meaningful. We took family photos at Thanksgiving – that alone is something I will always be thankful for. I stopped going out as often when I was home, and instead stayed in to watch HGTV with my mom. I started thinking more seriously about the future, including things like children and my career.

Something else also happened during that time after my surgery – I felt a very abrupt change in my mom’s attitude. Again, I don’t believe for a second that she gave up or gave in, but she was so, so sick, and so, so tired. She’d made so many changes, so much progress, and gained so much time because of it, but now her liver was suffering due to all of the chemo and drugs that had been forced through it.

There is only so much a body can take.

This is the reality I denied for many, many weeks after she died. Why didn’t we find different doctors? She’d had no trouble in the past leaving doctors in favor of ones who shared her attitude and views, so why didn’t we do more? When she went for her final doctor appointment two days before she died, why didn’t they do anything for her then? When I begged the attending physician at Saint Luke’s to put in the catheter to drain the fluid that was building up inside her because her liver wasn’t doing its job anymore, why didn’t she do anything else for her? Why weren’t the doctors at the Block Center presenting us with new plans?

Now I know and believe that there is only so much a body can take. And by spending the past three years working WITH her body by feeding it the nutrients it needed and depriving the cancer of the toxins and sugars it needed to grow, she surpassed the expectations of all of her doctors.

Sometimes, though, I am just a greedy little girl who doesn’t care about any of that, and just wants her mom.

One of my daily rituals has become that “active mourning” exercise that I shared with you in my last entry. Once a day, I sit down somewhere quiet and look at photos of my mom with me, my sister, and my dad. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I feel better afterwards, and sometimes I feel worse. It all depends on how I woke up that day.

I think I’ve been waiting since last October to feel like my old self again, but I’m starting to think that is never going to happen. As my sister so aptly put it, “This is my life now.” 

There’s no going back. Only forward – and that is something I can try to do to honor my mom who was such a perfect example of moving forward when it was the hardest thing to do.

Mom and Dad, Thanksgiving 2011

Three Months

Mom when we were visiting Kassie in Springfield, MO, sometime in 2006.

I’m starting to believe more and more that Time is some kind of anomaly that the modest human brain can’t even begin to process, so it makes what it can of it, and thus, we experience Time in a perceivably measurable way.

Yesterday marked three months since my mom took her last breath. I haven’t been writing as much for a lot of reasons, but one of the reasons was that I didn’t want to worry people, as I have not been doing well.

Almost every night I dream about my mom – sometimes more than once – and they are usually dreams of her dying. In various ways, sometimes from cancer, sometimes in a car accident, sometimes she simply fades from view.

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer. My nights are filled with colorful, noisy expressions of my subconscious, and I often remember several dreams from any given night, although they do tend to fade as the day goes on.

When I was in high school, I had some very disturbing dreams about friends dying or leaving me. My therapist at the time suggested that I was probably anxious about upcoming changes and that in dream imagery, death can indicate a drastic change.

I don’t know what I believe about dream meanings, or if it matters, but I do know that my entire family has undergone the most drastic changes of our entire lives, because of the death of one person.

She was the center of our family. She was the president, receptionist, and director of the board. She planned everything, kept in touch with everyone, and kept us all going – while keeping herself going at the same time.

Sometimes it feels like it’s been years since it happened, and on certain days, I feel like it hasn’t happened yet. I still feel a sense of dread and anxiety about losing her. Not past-tense—not about having lost her¸ but about the process of actually losing her.

My therapist suggested I take time every day to “actively mourn” my mother. She said I should sit down in a deliberate manner and think of my mom and how I miss her. I have found this to be the most helpful advice anyone has sent my way since May. Sometimes I lie in bed with my teddy bear like a little kid and cry into my pillow, and sometimes I look through photos. I listened to some voicemails I saved (and thanks to my tech-savvy husband, will always have saved—on my computer, a thumb drive, and my external hard drive, as well as saved in my inbox) on my phone during one of these “active mourning” sessions, and that was still too hard. But one thing I’m grateful for is that in nearly every voicemail she ever left, even if it was just a “call me back!” message, she always told me she loved me.

The most useful part of “actively mourning” is that by giving myself permission to cry and be sad every day, I am not as worried about public meltdowns, or crying on friends’ couches at inopportune moments. Another perk is that through the practice of pulling myself out of the sadness and grief, I am better equipped to do so if a meltdown does occur.

In my head, three months feels like forever. A long, sad, lonely forever. In my heart, I’m not sure it’s even been three minutes. 

Mom in October 2006 when she came to visit me in Lincoln, Nebraska, shortly after I started going to school there. Frisco is the Railroad her father worked for.

Life Goes On

Mom and me at my wedding rehearsal, September 3, 2010.

I have had a lot going on lately, and I've learned that nothing is as fun or exciting as it used to be now that my mom isn't here to hear about it and share it with.

I know I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s been 2 months, 2 days, 8 hours, 39 minutes and 22 seconds since my mom took her last breath, and I think my brain is still keeping an inventory of everything I need to tell her. For the most part, I’ve stopped having the impulse to call or text her, and when it does still happen, the pain isn’t quite as sharp. I haven’t had a panic attack in several weeks, and I haven’t had a meltdown in a couple of weeks. I don’t cry every day anymore. I’m functioning pretty “normally” for the most part. I get up at a decent time, go to the gym, play with the dog, look for jobs, write, talk to friends, go to the grocery store, cook dinner, etc.

But I am so, so lonely. And I’m not lonely because of a lack of people but because of a lack of one person who was such a huge part of my life and who I am. How am I even supposed to react to things when I don’t have her to consult?

I’m still figuring it out.

In the past two weeks, I have found out that two of my favorite people in the world are getting married and that a dear old friend is pregnant. I went to a concert and got to meet my favorite band! I scheduled a job interview. I witnessed a 14 year old boy suffering from heat exhaustion and not know who or where he was and be rushed to the hospital by paramedics.

None of it seems half as exciting as it probably would have just a few months ago.

My job interview is a week from today, and I am hopeful that means my job hunt will soon be coming to an end. Not that job hunting isn’t a huge thrill…

I’ve been making a lot of phone calls trying to get everything organized for Kassie’s wedding in October. She is so busy, and I know what it is like to be planning a wedding while being crazy busy, so I’m trying to help as much as I can, and so far we are getting along great! I didn’t know if it would be possible for two sisters to work on a wedding and not have a huge fight, but so far, so good.

I’ve also been exercising a lot. I’ve lost 6 pounds and 1% body fat. I’ve been doing cardio and weight training at the gym that mom went to. Mom had purchased 8 personal training sessions that she never got to use, and the manager at the gym was nice enough to let me use them, so that has been incredibly beneficial to me. I’ve also made some friends at the gym – some of them knew my mom, and some of them heard about her. It seems like everywhere I go, someone has heard of mom. At first, I actually found it to be really overwhelming. I couldn’t go to the grocery store without being stopped by someone wondering if I was Kristie’s daughter, and wondering how we were all doing. But now I am so touched by it. My mom touched so many lives. Sometimes I wonder if she even had a clue how much of an impact she had.

Thanks for reading my rather fractured blog post today. I just knew I needed to get back into writing, so I didn’t really plan this one out at all. It was more of a stream-of-consciousness than a planned essay or observation.

I’m going to close with the lyrics of the chorus of a song I heard for the first time at the Avett Brothers concert on Tuesday. The song is called The Once and Future Carpenter.

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me

And when I lose my direction

I’ll look up to the sky

And when the black cloak drags upon the ground

I’ll be ready to surrender

And remember –

Well, we’re all in this together.

If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.

My friend Lindsey and I were lucky enough to meet the Avett Brothers on Tuesday at their show in Council Bluffs! It was a thrill!