Make It Make Sense

We lost Willow on May 13.

She had surgery to remove a vulvar tumor on April 22, and she seemed to be recovering just fine.  She didn't like wearing a collar, and she didn't like being shut away in a room overnight.  But otherwise, she was eating and drinking.  A couple of days before she died, she was playing with a toy.

On the evening of May 12, she began to drool badly. She threw up a few times, and she crouched and hid. We should've taken her to the ER vet that night.  I still have such horrible regret when I think that we let her down, when I think that maybe they could've done something for her.

When I got up on May 13, I looked for her and found her lying on her side beneath the bed, right under the foot.  I got on the floor and touched her.  She felt cold and didn't move.  I gently shook her and she still didn't move.

Starting to cry, I woke Eli up, repeating, "I think Willow's dead."  He blearily got out of bed and slid his hands under her to bring her out from beneath the bed.  She stirred with a soft "mew."

He put her in the carrier and drove to the ER vet in Arden Hills.

Her body temperature, blood sugar, and heart rate were low. The vet didn't know what was wrong with her. She said they could keep her at the hospital for a few days, try a few different things, but in the long run, she wasn't sure anything they could do would help.

Eli called me and explained this, and we decided to let her go.  He couldn't go in to be with her because of COVID protocols.

To this day, it rips my soul apart to know that she died surrounded by strangers. Was she aware of what was going on? Did she realize we weren't there?

And then it enrages me. Because people in this fucking country refused to take COVID seriously and do what was necessary to suppress it, Willow had to die without us there.  It makes me sick and sad and furious all at once.

I don't think I'm ever going to accept not knowing what happened with her.

One Week Times Four

I had a dream last night.

As with most of my dreams, many of the images didn't really seem to fit together.  I remember standing in the living room of the old house.  I turned, and my dad was there.  I know I had a longer conversation with him, but all I can remember is that I asked him about Duncan - how he was, if he were there with my father.  Dad said Duncan was confused at first, but that he was okay now.

It's been 28 days since I watched the light go out of Duncan's eyes.  Today, I learned that a co-worker lost her cat, who had battled a short illness and passed on Tuesday.  That knowledge, along with my dream, brought it all rushing back.

I'm glad you're free, Punkin, but I miss you.

Missing You

The sun is streaming through the blinds, and it's making me cry.

Duncan loved sleeping in the sun, stretched out on his soft cat bed.  As soon as he heard the blinds open, he would hurry over to start soaking up the warm beams.

It's been a week and a day since he had to leave, and I am missing him fiercely today.

Everything Hurts

There are no more pills bottles, syringes, liquid medications sitting on the table.

The medication chart I used to keep track of his dosage schedule is gone.

The fluffy pet bed he used to sleep on has been washed and will be donated to the vet.

I didn't have to sleep curled around a furry body last night.

There is silence instead of the clickclickclick of his claws on the wood floors.

There are no more vet visits written on the calendar.

I only had to put down two plates of food this morning, instead of three.


All the things I don't see and don't hear are deafening.

Goodbye, My Friend

In December, our beloved cat Duncan began losing weight.  We found out he had anemia and dehydration.  We remedied those conditions, and still he was losing weight.  He was interested in food, but wouldn't eat much when we offered any to him.  We held out hope that once the anemia and dehydration were taken care of, his appetite would bounce back and he'd return to his old self.

Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver.  The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more.  He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids.  He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.

I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while.  I told him that I loved him.  I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him.  I told him it was time to rest now.  I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.

He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut.  He was crazy for cake donuts.  When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut.  Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.

His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m.  We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad.  He was purring the entire time.  Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye.  She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek.  I think that meant a lot to her.  She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.

Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death.  He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.

He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm.  I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system.  They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone.  I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened.  A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.

Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle.  When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him."  It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.

We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back.  They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.

We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina.  I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger.  Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.

We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.

We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies.  The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water.  I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.

Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home.  For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives.  The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here.  It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.

Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering.  It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was.  He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.

I love you, Duncan.  You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us.  Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace.  You've earned it.

Back Again

A few years ago, I had trouble getting signed into this blog and, at the time, Google was no help at all.

On a lark, I attempted to return to these virtual pages today...and here I am.

I hope to come back here on a regular basis, now that I've found access again.

A Few of My Favorite Things

This Yuletide, I find myself waxing nostalgic for reasons I can't explain. Maybe it's because I'm growing more fully aware of the passage of time. Battling health issues - even relatively minor ones - has a way of making you look at your own mortality. Maybe as the world seems to grow larger and darker and more sinister, I wish for the return of a simpler, brighter, and more innocent time.

Whatever the reason, it makes me think back to my childhood with a mix of sweet and of bitter. There was a purity of heart, a sense of astonished wonder, that I had as a child. Magick was real, and it was all around. Children can feel this magick. Their hearts are unburdened and open and exquisitely naive. The cynicism that comes with age hasn't touched them yet - cynicism that blinds adults to elves spying through windows and makes them feel foolish for looking for reindeer or sleigh tracks in the snow on Christmas Eve.

I remember the feelings of anticipation and excitement I had, knowing Santa was coming, wondering what would be in the wrapped packages beneath the tree. I can remember the feelings but I can't touch them anymore, can't taste them. When I was an age I can't quite remember, my cousin told me that Santa wasn't real. I didn't want to believe it but eventually, the facade fell, and I couldn't go back, couldn't un-learn, and the magick was lost to me. The part of my heart that believed in the jolly old elf who delivered presents to children swung shut.

Little by little, the simple joys of the season began to be lost. The unbridled glee of flying down a slippery hill on a sled or a saucer or even on a plastic garbage bag, tumbling to a halt at the foot of the slope only to climb up and do it all over again. Sitting by the radio early on a snowy morning, listening intently to the school closings, silently hurrying the announcers through their alphabetic list, ecstatic when they reached the B's and said, "Big Lake." Bundling up in snow pants and coat and scarf and hat and mittens and boots to conquer the drifts, building structures that were castles or forts or houses or, one year, even a dragon. Helping Mom make spritz cookies, using the copper and white cookie press, eating more dough than finished product. Being amused when Dad tried to sneak his gifts open out of turn, looking like a naughty child all the while, perhaps even thinking he was getting away with it without us noticing.

Time has a way of stripping the bad from a remembrance, creating a selective amnesia that allows only the good to flow through the filter. Sometimes a flight down the hill resulted in a bloody nose or other slight injury. Sometimes the announcers never said "Big Lake." The dragon melted away into a slushy pile on the lawn. Too much raw dough caused a stomachache. Dad hasn't been with us for six Christmases now.

Memories can be tarnished but, as with a cherished antique, the burnishing and imperfections can be what makes something valuable and loved. As the Skin Horse said in The Velveteen Rabbit: "Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

I don't mind the nicks and dings. What I miss is the heart-magick that seems to be inherent in us as children. The sweet innocence that lets us believe - TRULY believe, without reservation - there are toy-making elves and flying reindeer. The uninhibited spirit that allows us to get fully, totally, blissfully lost in the sensation as we fly down an icy hill or birth mystical creatures from snow.

I want to peel away the hardening of adulthood. I want to again know the joy of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on a cold December night. To experience the nearly painful anticipation of lying in bed, waiting as long as possible before rushing down the stairs to open presents. To fall back into the snow and make an angel and stare up at the sky, pondering the impossible number of possibilities.

I want the return of my favorite things.