A new life...
Day One without my boy was the hardest day of my adult life. Rough around all my edges and exhausted from a poor attempt at sleep, I found myself mindlessly driving to work, reluctantly working up the nerve to walk in the door and endure one painful question: How was your weekend? Normally a benign question requiring an effortless response, that morning’s query was a loaded gun, and one that threatened to completely unravel the tiny shred of control I was clinging to in order to get through the day.
The simple act of having to tell coworkers, supervisors, friends and family – who have all been incredibly supportive – is one of the hardest things to do. Saying the words out loud is a necessary step in the grieving process, to be sure. But saying the words out loud and feeling the full weight of them is a small, but devastating act of bravery. Coming to work was a bit of a relief, however, because being alone in the apartment is a special, isolated form of emotional torture.
You cannot, however, delay the inevitable no matter how many times it takes you to turn the doorknob and hold your breath as you walk in. For the first time in 14 years, I did not have a furry, meowing, excited friend waiting inside the door for me. Instead, I was met with complete silence and hit with the dizzying realization that my Dante was truly gone. I can assure you, I have never wished more to feel the discomfort of stepping on a petrified piece of cat food or trip over one of his many beloved prized possessions.
The complex maelstrom of emotion that gripped me shook me to my core. The “why” and “how” combined with completely rational and irrational reactions throughout the evening resulted in a completely unhinged and uncontrollable session of sobbing, screaming and a desperate attempt to make sense of a situation that defies definition. Then something happened.
I realized how upset Dante would be if he saw me like this. It always amazed me how visibly and audibly unsettled he would become when I would cry. Of course, I will never apologize for tearing up when I think of him. And hell, I’m likely to get weepy when I see a cat litter commercial or pass the pet food aisle at the grocery store. The point is this: somehow in the midst of my despair, I found him again.
Upon hearing the news of Dante’s passing, my sister-in-law hit my feelings squarely on the head when she wrote, “your heart and your home must feel so empty”. My apartment doesn’t feel like my home right now – sure, the cat toys have been boxed up, food and water bowls dismantled and stored, litter box removed and carpets vacuumed; but it’s that intangible feeling of reciprocated warmth and unconditional love that’s missing. My heart is broken. There isn’t a single thing in my apartment that I can look at without having a constant reminder that he’s not here. But now I wonder, is that a BAD thing?
The night of his passing, I was plagued with nightmares, restlessness and waking images of his last moments in the emergency center. One vision, in particular, threatened to taint the memories and lasting images of my boy. My mother, who came to support me as I supported Dante, can probably tell you that while I did not hesitate walking back to the treatment center, I stopped in my tracks when I saw him at the other end of the room. Seeing him helpless, scared, and fighting to breathe in a state of body shock was the single worst moment of my life. It is also the moment that every pet owner fears and prays will never come.
It’s funny that no one tells you that there really is no decision to make at that moment. Within seconds, he was taken out of the oxygen tank and placed before me. Leaning down, I began talking to him and while those words are personal and private, I felt a sense of relief and overwhelming love when his ears pointed and tracked over to my voice and for a fleeting moment, his eyes cleared and he locked his gaze on mine before he was gone. In many ways, I feel lucky; lucky that I was at home and not at work; lucky that I did not miss his final moments; lucky that I knew his every expression and behavior so well that I was able to recognize what was happening; but most of all, so very lucky that I was able to help my darling, dear friend to pass on peacefully in his greatest moment of need.
What followed was a mind-numbing blur of misplaced sadness, awkward stream-of-consciousness conversation, pints of Guinness and random acts of cleaning and organization. It was like watching and hearing yourself as a bystander, suddenly seeing yourself standing in the middle of the room without the faintest clue as to what you should be doing. I took a two mile walk downtown that I have no recollection of. I vacuumed the floors and then wished I didn’t have a bagless machine so I didn’t have to watch myself throw cat fur in the trash. While separating laundry, I found a single, perfect whisker in the bottom of the basket underneath a pile of laundry littered with tiny black and gray furs. I glanced at the bathroom vanity and saw a set of paw prints that he left behind the last time he got a drink from the sink. I vacillate about every five minutes between boxing up all his things so the visual reminders of his absence aren’t staring me in the face, and then cringe when I look at the spot where his food and water bowls lived for years. I simply can’t win on this battlefield of emotion that has taken over my apartment.
“What am I supposed to do now?” is a common question that I say to myself – both out loud to no one in particular and inside my head. In the midst of my aforementioned emotional breakdown at the end of Day One, I found my kitten providing me with the guidance I needed. By some miracle, I supplanted the nightmares and imagery of the prior sleepless night with a sweet, uncomplicated moment I shared with him prior to my mom arriving to drive us down to the vet center the morning before. He was clearly uncomfortable, trying to find a restful position and he edged near to me while I sat down on the floor to calm both him, and myself, down. I reached out to ruffle his fur and give him a scratch below his chin. I told him he didn’t have to be strong for me anymore, and that I loved him. He placed his head in my hand and looked up at me, his gaze fixed squarely upon mine and I understood, without words, that we both knew this was our final moment together at home. I leaned down to kiss him on the head and he turned his face and licked my cheek. He began to purr, and nuzzled my hair. He moved his paw on top of my hand, and gave me such comfort in a moment when he had to be in excruciating pain. He loved me very much, that has always been clear; but that single act of selfless, unconditional devotion and intimate connection will live with me forever.
Let me tell you more about my Dante. He was the most horrible, rambunctious, holy-terror of a scrawny little kitten when he arrived in my life at just six weeks of age. He was as destructive as any teething puppy you will ever meet and constantly attacked my legs and hair while I tried to sleep at night. As you can imagine, it was love at first sight.
He had a wide array of meows – one when he was hungry, one when he was irritated with me, one when he was tired, one when he was playing, one when he was running laps through the house and one, well, you get the idea. His eyes twinkled and his face brightened up when he was excited or hatching some kind of plan, and his ears flattened and he made little snorting noises with his nose when he was frustrated or angry. He never failed to make me laugh with his complete lack of grace – he frequently ran into things, fell off of whatever piece of furniture he was exploring or bumped his head on the coffee table. In other words, he takes after his mother.
He was my furry alarm clock, consistently waking me up 10 minutes before the alarm actually went off (even when Daylight Savings took effect, furthering my argument that he could, in fact, tell time). He could always find a creative way to sit on me, even when no lap space was provided and he loved the green blanket from my childhood that we used to sit with on the couch. He was very “helpful” in ways uniquely his own – it would take hours to change the sheets on the bed because as soon as the comforter was off, he was sprawled out on the fitted sheet, running from corner to corner to prevent me from removing it in some sort of weird game he made up when he was much younger. He loved to hop up on the bathroom vanity and watch me while I got ready to go to work in the morning, or go out at night. He would take a drink from that sink, fling water all over the counter and then walk through it to make paw prints all over the bathroom.
On more than one occasion, I arrived home to find strange piles and/or patterns of cat toys strewn about the floor (once, he piled all of his toys on top of each other and after I got home, waited until I sat down and then picked each one up in his mouth and carefully placed them around the living room). I often wondered if he was signaling the mothership, but ultimately felt like he was just trying to keep me on my toes. Just last week, after I finally managed to get the new fitted sheet on the bed, I left the room while he was sitting on the bed and came back about 10 seconds later to find him sitting in the same position, but two of his toys sitting on either side of him, his beloved Mr. Lion and an old vacuum ring he had long since claimed as his own. He was a unique little soul, possessing a big personality and a knack for making me laugh.
Most of all, I will remember the quiet, sweet moments that made my heart skip a beat. My favorite sound in the world was his soft, simultaneous meow-yawn. The way he would grip both sides of my leg with his paws when he would doze off, and the moment right after he woke up from a dream, when he would immediately move up to rest his head on my chest and I could pull him close and coax him back to sleep. But the best moment of my day was always right when I sunk into bed to go to sleep – he would jump up and nestle into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder, pulling himself as close as possible into my body and rub his head on my chin. It’s as perfect a moment as could ever exist – a completely trusting, intimate exchange of affection.
I do not regret a single moment of my long and happy coexistence with my boy. There was never a doubt in my mind that we were meant to be with each other, and I am truly thankful that we found each other so early in his life. I consider it a privilege to have experienced such a pure and unconditional relationship with Dante. I shared every aspect of my life with him – he was the keeper of my secrets, my constant comfort, my most trusted companion, and my best friend.
This is Day Two, and I am not ok. I miss him so much I still don't know how to react. Walking in the door tonight and not seeing his adorable face meowing up at me wasn't any less painful than last night. Someday I will be ok, but I'm still not sure how to reconcile this loss. It's impossible to verbalize or describe the way I truly feel. While I will continue to cry for him, I choose to remember him as the squirrelly, wide-eyed, loving, hilariously mischievous and sweet boy who shared my life for 14 years. I will always love you, Dante.
The simple act of having to tell coworkers, supervisors, friends and family – who have all been incredibly supportive – is one of the hardest things to do. Saying the words out loud is a necessary step in the grieving process, to be sure. But saying the words out loud and feeling the full weight of them is a small, but devastating act of bravery. Coming to work was a bit of a relief, however, because being alone in the apartment is a special, isolated form of emotional torture.
You cannot, however, delay the inevitable no matter how many times it takes you to turn the doorknob and hold your breath as you walk in. For the first time in 14 years, I did not have a furry, meowing, excited friend waiting inside the door for me. Instead, I was met with complete silence and hit with the dizzying realization that my Dante was truly gone. I can assure you, I have never wished more to feel the discomfort of stepping on a petrified piece of cat food or trip over one of his many beloved prized possessions.
The complex maelstrom of emotion that gripped me shook me to my core. The “why” and “how” combined with completely rational and irrational reactions throughout the evening resulted in a completely unhinged and uncontrollable session of sobbing, screaming and a desperate attempt to make sense of a situation that defies definition. Then something happened.
I realized how upset Dante would be if he saw me like this. It always amazed me how visibly and audibly unsettled he would become when I would cry. Of course, I will never apologize for tearing up when I think of him. And hell, I’m likely to get weepy when I see a cat litter commercial or pass the pet food aisle at the grocery store. The point is this: somehow in the midst of my despair, I found him again.
Upon hearing the news of Dante’s passing, my sister-in-law hit my feelings squarely on the head when she wrote, “your heart and your home must feel so empty”. My apartment doesn’t feel like my home right now – sure, the cat toys have been boxed up, food and water bowls dismantled and stored, litter box removed and carpets vacuumed; but it’s that intangible feeling of reciprocated warmth and unconditional love that’s missing. My heart is broken. There isn’t a single thing in my apartment that I can look at without having a constant reminder that he’s not here. But now I wonder, is that a BAD thing?
The night of his passing, I was plagued with nightmares, restlessness and waking images of his last moments in the emergency center. One vision, in particular, threatened to taint the memories and lasting images of my boy. My mother, who came to support me as I supported Dante, can probably tell you that while I did not hesitate walking back to the treatment center, I stopped in my tracks when I saw him at the other end of the room. Seeing him helpless, scared, and fighting to breathe in a state of body shock was the single worst moment of my life. It is also the moment that every pet owner fears and prays will never come.
It’s funny that no one tells you that there really is no decision to make at that moment. Within seconds, he was taken out of the oxygen tank and placed before me. Leaning down, I began talking to him and while those words are personal and private, I felt a sense of relief and overwhelming love when his ears pointed and tracked over to my voice and for a fleeting moment, his eyes cleared and he locked his gaze on mine before he was gone. In many ways, I feel lucky; lucky that I was at home and not at work; lucky that I did not miss his final moments; lucky that I knew his every expression and behavior so well that I was able to recognize what was happening; but most of all, so very lucky that I was able to help my darling, dear friend to pass on peacefully in his greatest moment of need.
What followed was a mind-numbing blur of misplaced sadness, awkward stream-of-consciousness conversation, pints of Guinness and random acts of cleaning and organization. It was like watching and hearing yourself as a bystander, suddenly seeing yourself standing in the middle of the room without the faintest clue as to what you should be doing. I took a two mile walk downtown that I have no recollection of. I vacuumed the floors and then wished I didn’t have a bagless machine so I didn’t have to watch myself throw cat fur in the trash. While separating laundry, I found a single, perfect whisker in the bottom of the basket underneath a pile of laundry littered with tiny black and gray furs. I glanced at the bathroom vanity and saw a set of paw prints that he left behind the last time he got a drink from the sink. I vacillate about every five minutes between boxing up all his things so the visual reminders of his absence aren’t staring me in the face, and then cringe when I look at the spot where his food and water bowls lived for years. I simply can’t win on this battlefield of emotion that has taken over my apartment.
“What am I supposed to do now?” is a common question that I say to myself – both out loud to no one in particular and inside my head. In the midst of my aforementioned emotional breakdown at the end of Day One, I found my kitten providing me with the guidance I needed. By some miracle, I supplanted the nightmares and imagery of the prior sleepless night with a sweet, uncomplicated moment I shared with him prior to my mom arriving to drive us down to the vet center the morning before. He was clearly uncomfortable, trying to find a restful position and he edged near to me while I sat down on the floor to calm both him, and myself, down. I reached out to ruffle his fur and give him a scratch below his chin. I told him he didn’t have to be strong for me anymore, and that I loved him. He placed his head in my hand and looked up at me, his gaze fixed squarely upon mine and I understood, without words, that we both knew this was our final moment together at home. I leaned down to kiss him on the head and he turned his face and licked my cheek. He began to purr, and nuzzled my hair. He moved his paw on top of my hand, and gave me such comfort in a moment when he had to be in excruciating pain. He loved me very much, that has always been clear; but that single act of selfless, unconditional devotion and intimate connection will live with me forever.
Let me tell you more about my Dante. He was the most horrible, rambunctious, holy-terror of a scrawny little kitten when he arrived in my life at just six weeks of age. He was as destructive as any teething puppy you will ever meet and constantly attacked my legs and hair while I tried to sleep at night. As you can imagine, it was love at first sight.
He had a wide array of meows – one when he was hungry, one when he was irritated with me, one when he was tired, one when he was playing, one when he was running laps through the house and one, well, you get the idea. His eyes twinkled and his face brightened up when he was excited or hatching some kind of plan, and his ears flattened and he made little snorting noises with his nose when he was frustrated or angry. He never failed to make me laugh with his complete lack of grace – he frequently ran into things, fell off of whatever piece of furniture he was exploring or bumped his head on the coffee table. In other words, he takes after his mother.
He was my furry alarm clock, consistently waking me up 10 minutes before the alarm actually went off (even when Daylight Savings took effect, furthering my argument that he could, in fact, tell time). He could always find a creative way to sit on me, even when no lap space was provided and he loved the green blanket from my childhood that we used to sit with on the couch. He was very “helpful” in ways uniquely his own – it would take hours to change the sheets on the bed because as soon as the comforter was off, he was sprawled out on the fitted sheet, running from corner to corner to prevent me from removing it in some sort of weird game he made up when he was much younger. He loved to hop up on the bathroom vanity and watch me while I got ready to go to work in the morning, or go out at night. He would take a drink from that sink, fling water all over the counter and then walk through it to make paw prints all over the bathroom.
On more than one occasion, I arrived home to find strange piles and/or patterns of cat toys strewn about the floor (once, he piled all of his toys on top of each other and after I got home, waited until I sat down and then picked each one up in his mouth and carefully placed them around the living room). I often wondered if he was signaling the mothership, but ultimately felt like he was just trying to keep me on my toes. Just last week, after I finally managed to get the new fitted sheet on the bed, I left the room while he was sitting on the bed and came back about 10 seconds later to find him sitting in the same position, but two of his toys sitting on either side of him, his beloved Mr. Lion and an old vacuum ring he had long since claimed as his own. He was a unique little soul, possessing a big personality and a knack for making me laugh.
Most of all, I will remember the quiet, sweet moments that made my heart skip a beat. My favorite sound in the world was his soft, simultaneous meow-yawn. The way he would grip both sides of my leg with his paws when he would doze off, and the moment right after he woke up from a dream, when he would immediately move up to rest his head on my chest and I could pull him close and coax him back to sleep. But the best moment of my day was always right when I sunk into bed to go to sleep – he would jump up and nestle into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder, pulling himself as close as possible into my body and rub his head on my chin. It’s as perfect a moment as could ever exist – a completely trusting, intimate exchange of affection.
I do not regret a single moment of my long and happy coexistence with my boy. There was never a doubt in my mind that we were meant to be with each other, and I am truly thankful that we found each other so early in his life. I consider it a privilege to have experienced such a pure and unconditional relationship with Dante. I shared every aspect of my life with him – he was the keeper of my secrets, my constant comfort, my most trusted companion, and my best friend.
This is Day Two, and I am not ok. I miss him so much I still don't know how to react. Walking in the door tonight and not seeing his adorable face meowing up at me wasn't any less painful than last night. Someday I will be ok, but I'm still not sure how to reconcile this loss. It's impossible to verbalize or describe the way I truly feel. While I will continue to cry for him, I choose to remember him as the squirrelly, wide-eyed, loving, hilariously mischievous and sweet boy who shared my life for 14 years. I will always love you, Dante.
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