In the last month I have begun training a new project manager at work (on top of existing heavy workload), broken up with my boyfriend of 23 months, and lost a very dear furry friend quite suddenly. My oldest son just turned 17, and because of his Asperger's Syndrome is struggling through the last weeks of school and a bit of a burden at home. My youngest son continues to be the most exquisite expression of who he is.
It's amazing to me how the recent loss of my cat, Streak, has hit me. I feel completely depleted internally, yet also extremely aware of the breath and beauty in each moment. It's as if I have no filter or padding protecting me from experiencing my environment. The dichotomy of feeling loss of a past friend and feeling joy in a present moment is off-putting yet I'd prefer it over gray bland hiding-from-reality any day.
Streak was a cat that seemed more human than feline. Accuse me of anthropomorphizing if you will, but everyone who met her remarked on how they were drawn to her. She was "big mother energy". Forrest, my oldest boy, would often say, "Isn't it funny how Streak's face looks like a face, but other cats just look like cats". I think he was trying to describe the way Streak had of telegraphing approval, impatience, interest, boredom, reproach, humor, and most of all, love.
If I was late to bed, she would sit at the stairs and look over her shoulder, meowing progressively more harshly until I minded her and went to bed. In the morning her purr was the first thing I sensed, her head on the pillow next to me, eyes half-open while welcoming another day with whiskery love. I miss finding her sitting outside the bathroom door, waiting for me to exit the shower or toilet, with a look on her face of "Took you long enough! I missed you!" Each school-day morning would find her waiting for me on my younger son's bed, ready to help me wake him for the day. Every bout of tears or heartache, she would come jogging into the room to find me, approach tenderly and purr her comfort to me while nuzzling my face and hair. She even allowed me to grip her tightly like a teddy bear.
Little things hit me, like missing the weight of her on my chest while I watch a movie late at night. Or making up the bed and not having her running in to play under the linens. The way she would wait until the moment when she could sneak into your warmed spot on the couch, and then glance at you with gratitude for giving her such a toasty location while you struggle to find a seat near her bulk. Her paw gentle on my chin or neck as I drifted off to sleep each night.
I first suspected that Streak was sick on a Monday night, took her to the vet on Wednesday morning, and on Friday afternoon when it was clear she wasn't responding to medication and both her liver and heart were failing, held her while she was sent from her pain. I knew she was in horrible pain and hospitalization could not guarantee a recovery, her body was shutting down so rapidly.
It is also difficult because Streak was given to me as a kitten by a dear friend, who was like a mother, who died from cancer in her early 40's. Caryl's cancer spread into her chest and even the weight of the small kitten she had just given her daughter caused her pain when the kitten jumped on her to be petted. I adopted the kitten, and cared for Caryl through her hospice and final days in the hospital. Along with three other women, we held Caryl in our arms and spoke encouraging words to leave this pain and pass over. Finally she did, when her daughters had left for a brief erran. It was a powerful experience that taught me much by going through the pain and coming out the other side with a deeper understanding of the transitions of life.
Fighting the lure of guilt is difficult for me. Thoughts of could-of should-of whirl around, tempting me to jump into pain and self-pity. That would be my mother's legacy of guilt and self-recrimination. If I hadn't changed her food three months ago... If I had noticed she was "off" a little sooner...
What is, is. She came to me and gave me seven years of lessons on love, relaxing, playing, self-acceptance, and courage. I'm very grateful.
It's amazing to me how the recent loss of my cat, Streak, has hit me. I feel completely depleted internally, yet also extremely aware of the breath and beauty in each moment. It's as if I have no filter or padding protecting me from experiencing my environment. The dichotomy of feeling loss of a past friend and feeling joy in a present moment is off-putting yet I'd prefer it over gray bland hiding-from-reality any day.
Streak was a cat that seemed more human than feline. Accuse me of anthropomorphizing if you will, but everyone who met her remarked on how they were drawn to her. She was "big mother energy". Forrest, my oldest boy, would often say, "Isn't it funny how Streak's face looks like a face, but other cats just look like cats". I think he was trying to describe the way Streak had of telegraphing approval, impatience, interest, boredom, reproach, humor, and most of all, love.
If I was late to bed, she would sit at the stairs and look over her shoulder, meowing progressively more harshly until I minded her and went to bed. In the morning her purr was the first thing I sensed, her head on the pillow next to me, eyes half-open while welcoming another day with whiskery love. I miss finding her sitting outside the bathroom door, waiting for me to exit the shower or toilet, with a look on her face of "Took you long enough! I missed you!" Each school-day morning would find her waiting for me on my younger son's bed, ready to help me wake him for the day. Every bout of tears or heartache, she would come jogging into the room to find me, approach tenderly and purr her comfort to me while nuzzling my face and hair. She even allowed me to grip her tightly like a teddy bear.
Little things hit me, like missing the weight of her on my chest while I watch a movie late at night. Or making up the bed and not having her running in to play under the linens. The way she would wait until the moment when she could sneak into your warmed spot on the couch, and then glance at you with gratitude for giving her such a toasty location while you struggle to find a seat near her bulk. Her paw gentle on my chin or neck as I drifted off to sleep each night.
I first suspected that Streak was sick on a Monday night, took her to the vet on Wednesday morning, and on Friday afternoon when it was clear she wasn't responding to medication and both her liver and heart were failing, held her while she was sent from her pain. I knew she was in horrible pain and hospitalization could not guarantee a recovery, her body was shutting down so rapidly.
It is also difficult because Streak was given to me as a kitten by a dear friend, who was like a mother, who died from cancer in her early 40's. Caryl's cancer spread into her chest and even the weight of the small kitten she had just given her daughter caused her pain when the kitten jumped on her to be petted. I adopted the kitten, and cared for Caryl through her hospice and final days in the hospital. Along with three other women, we held Caryl in our arms and spoke encouraging words to leave this pain and pass over. Finally she did, when her daughters had left for a brief erran. It was a powerful experience that taught me much by going through the pain and coming out the other side with a deeper understanding of the transitions of life.
Fighting the lure of guilt is difficult for me. Thoughts of could-of should-of whirl around, tempting me to jump into pain and self-pity. That would be my mother's legacy of guilt and self-recrimination. If I hadn't changed her food three months ago... If I had noticed she was "off" a little sooner...
What is, is. She came to me and gave me seven years of lessons on love, relaxing, playing, self-acceptance, and courage. I'm very grateful.
