Mother's Day Feelings

I think we write stories and share them with our audience to get our feelings out and then the reader/listener can take those feelings in and assimulate them with their own, perhaps connecting in a small or big way with the reader. I think it’s a therapeutic thing, sometiimes impacting us on a subtle level. Certain holidays come into my live as well, and bring with them memories, pain, so although the holiday does not speak to me, in hidden ways it moves into the recesses of my soul and shakes it around.
I was going to write about Mother’s Day and how I always feel the pangs of emotions, usually deeper than normal, for my mother, who passed on 10 years ago. That ten-year anniversary seemed to add to my anguish. At first, I felt a sense of relief, okay it’s time to let go, not hold on to your pain now, move on with your own life. But after this initial cheerleading to my soul, I moved even deeper into agony and loss and surrended to it, wallowing in its familiarity. I always dread this holiday, for what it does to me and how it renders me helpless and immobile. Yet, I cheerily say “Happy Mothers Day” to my friends, because it seems the thing to do. And after all, I’ve always admired mothers and my friends are some of the best mothers I know, besides of course, being great comrades as well. As an aside, I am not a mother myself, but I love to watch their joy when they talk about their children, their eyes light up and their energy is magical.
So, it’s a few days later and now a friend of mine is grappling with the perhaps inevitable death of her kitty, Violet. I’m sure my friend feels those motherly, nurturing instincts coming up in regard to her cat. I mean, attachments to pets can have deeper bonds then those of our own flesh and blood. So instead of feeling relief that Mother’s Day is over and with it my painful brooding, now more raw emotions well up inside of me, memories of my own cat come to the surface and I am once more overcome, rendered into grief. Well, let me call these latest emotions having already been stirred up a few weeks ago and now being fueled by a second cat incident. A writer friend of mine was talking about her cat Marty and how ill he had become. He did not want do his regular routine things, wanted to hide, would eat only if his bowl was set before him. My heart sank. Suddenly I was taken back eight years ago to a similar event with my cat named Princess or Miracle or just Kitty, whichever I felt like calling her at that time. I was awash with personal feelings and memories and almost lost focus with my friend telling her story. I didn’t know whether to reveal my own story, with its own terrifying anguishing incidents or just tell her reassuringly that Miracle had lived a year beyond the vet’s own medical diagnosis. I revealed to my friend bits and pieces of my cat’s illness, but sugarcoated it a bit. Now, I feel I need to get my own story out about Miracle because feelings have been bottled up. And this is what I mean about people coming into our life telling their stories and helping us process through our own denial. At least, this seems to be an effective tool for me.
You see, Miracle was much more than a companion to me for a number of years. She was a petite beauty, inky black in color, with a white bib of fur adorning her upper chest, and had piercing gold/green eyes that seemed to look through you into your very soul. You know they talk about old souls, I felt she was an old soul, having lived for many centuries, many lifetimes. She reminded me of one of those egyptian cat statues you see in artbooks . And when she sat there, immobile, staring at me, unblinking, I could visualize her as having been one of those sculptures. I hadn’t raised her from kitten status, no, she had been given to me, unfortunately under rather sad circumstances. She was found hiding in the hall closet the day we went to pay my mom a visit. How was Miracle to understand that her Mistress, my mom, was laying dead on the floor and was not responding to cat instincts to get up, to feed her. So, I lost my mom that day but gained a cat very quickly. And I always felt, due to these circumstances, that my mom’s soul had been transferred into Miracle and so this cat became so much more special to me.
I’d cry into her fur for many days afterward, petting her, asking her why Mom had died so suddenly and why I couldn’t have said goodby and I love you first. I suppose only Miracle
really understood what happened that day. And so be it. But she became a reassurance to me that Mom was still there in spirit, and helped to somewhat alleviate the loneliness I felt for so long afterwards. Sometimes I’d be lying on the bed and Miracle would lay her body on me. Even if I was laying on my side, she’d sprawl on me, and her warmth felt so healing to me. I’d talk to her sometimes when I sat in the chair and she’d stare at me, listening, taking it all in, not disputing me, with no judgment. I suppose I could have gone to therapy during this time to talk about my grief, and actually I did, but that was only an hour once a week. Miracle was there to hear me for the rest of the time and I owe her for her unconditional, unwavering love.
The grief for mom lessened but the belief that her soul resided in the cat was always a source of comfort to me. TIme went by and Miracle became mellower and mellower, even venturing outside for treks around the yard, an unheard act in the days when she lived with Mom and Dad. I think she realized we were letting her be more independent and she seemed to revel in this undiscovered territory of herself, wandering to the back of the yard and then into the neighbor’s yard. She seemed happier now, not as reserved and haughty as her Princess name had labeled her. I was reading about Hospice dogs who mourn the death of those patients in Hospice, laying on their empty beds when they are gone. Miracle didn’t have a chance to do that, I don’t think so anyway and I often wondered how much she did miss my Mom. She seemed to accept me as her new mom, though, and I showered her with love, hoping she'd do well in her new home.
She adjusted remarkably. Her appetite never wavered and she gained weight and her coat shone. I think her walking in the yard kept her trim too. In fact, the vet was always amazed, saying she had the physical attributes of a cat who was 8 years old, not 16. I was proud that we were raising her in such a good way. And glad we never had to tell her she was adopted.
But all good things come to an end. One day she wouldn’t eat, and other behaviors that seemed a bit bizarre soon surfaced thereafter. She was peeing everywhere but in her litter box, she’d hide in various nooks and crannies and we’d desperately spend hours looking for her. Finally we would find her, pull her out and she’d be breathing raggedly. We hoped she’d snap out of this behavior but as it went on for days, we finally took her to the vet. After various tests, he said she had kidney problems and we’d have to attend to her needs to get her back on track. Armed with syringes, a bag of fluids, special cat food and several bottles of medication, we brought Miracle home, determined to get her back on her feet. Easier said than done. During those times when we grappled with Miracle’s ill health, I’d think about those people who do not want to live anymore, who do not want extra measures to keep them alive, who know their time on earth is done. Our cat fought us tooth and nail, nipping us when we’d insert a needle into her furry neck to give her much needed fluids or clamping her mouth shut when we tried to forcefeed her special cat food. Miracle often emerged victorious and we’d sit there emotionally drained wondering if it was really worth it to keep her alive or did she really want to leave this earth. We never gave up though and finally got bits of food into her mouth. As she regained some strength, she was able to soon eat on her own from her bowl and it was a wondrous sight to see. We gave up, though, on giving her fluids because she seemed so miserable and it broke our hearts anyway. We took her to the vet for a checkup and the vet said, “Are you giving her fluids?” Yes, we said and the vet was satisfied. Besides the tests were coming out good, so a little white lie from us and the subsequent happiness of kitty without more needle incidents was uplifting and a relief. She lived a whole year after that, exceeding the vet’s expectations of maybe another month or so. We gave her love, lots of love and I think that helped in her healing. I for sure was not ready to let her go. There had been too much death in my family already, I didn't want more sadness, and Princess seemed a last living link to my parent’s legacy.
In that last week or so before she left us and went to Kitty Heaven, her health really deteriorated. She became disoriented, would lose her balance, would eat the cat litter and lay in puddles of water in the basement. I think one of her final resting places was the bathtub laying by the drain. I don’t know how she got the strength to get into the tub, but sometimes I think that last spark of energy before one passes on can do amazing things.
Speaking of one last mighty moment, she walked up a long flight of stairs to our bedroom, which she hadn’t done in ages and hopped up on our bed. She walked around by our heads as if saying good-bye to us, licking our faces, giving us wet kisses, thanking us and in her own cat behavior saying it was time for her to go. That seemed to be a sign to us, this final farewell, which helped somewhat appease our heavy hearts as we took her back to the vet. We had already known some days back that this inevitable day would come. She just wasn’t the Miracle we knew anymore, who filled our hearts with such joy and we sensed she was pleading with us to let her go, she was so tired. We put her in her cat carrier for one last trip, and this time she didn't fight us, as she had always in the past. She seemed ready. Once at the vets, the doctor asked us if we wanted to be in the room when he put her to sleep. We said no, I did not want to see her lifeless, but wanted to remember as alive, breathing. We did share a few last minutes with her, caressing her fur and telling her we loved her over and over again. She licked us slowly with her still papery tongue, saying goodby in her own loving manner.
Soon, the doc came in and gathered her in his arms. We said goodbye to the love of our life, our only child as I felt she was, and left quickly. I suppose we could have buried her somewhere, maybe in the backyard where the garden used to be, but my grief was so acute and my mind numb that I left it up to the vet to do with her what they would do. We got home, pulled into the driveway and I said “, Wait, let’s go back, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to have her put to sleep". But I knew it was probably over by now, that life-ending process and so I walked into the house. To face the memories of Miracle everywhere. All her little cat toys were laying strewn about, her litter box in the kitchen, her cat bowl with food still in it, now dried and cakey. I immediately began gathering everything up and putting them in a bag. I couldn’t stand to see the memories of her anymore. It just hurt too much.
And little by little, life returned to somewhat normal. We pondered getting another cat, but how could we ever replace someone like Miracle. The vet wrote me a really poignant letter, talking about how much he had grown to love our cat. I was amazed, I had thought doctors were rather compassionate, but this vet really had a heart. I should have known, he'd call her "his majesty" when he'd see her come into his office. I used to laugh at that, grateful of his connection to her. With Miracle’s passing, I seemed to accept the death of my mom as well. Miracle had become, to me, a living reminder of my mom. As I said earlier, I had believed the cat had my mom's soul within her and always felt the two of them were by my side. Letting go of Miracle meant a letting go of my mom. The healing process was now officially beginning.
And now I am back grieving as I listen to stories told by cat owners of ill cats and see photographs of healthy cats well loved by their masters. And Marty, my writer friend has now told me, is doing well, back to his normal activities. In fact, she has renamed him Lazarus. I am happy for her, happy for her good ending. I know my grief has slowly eased up as I finish writing this story. Yes, its therapeutic to hear others talk about similar situations and realize we are not alone in our feelings and emotions. But I am glad I went to a deeper level within myself and wrote about my own personal experience. Thank you to all who write and share of themselves for it helps me to have the courage to explore my own self, to look into the dark recesses for stories that still need to be told. The pain comes out but then a curious sense of lightening up follows, peacefulness, perhaps even joy. I would never have thought that writing about Mother's Day would lead to a story about a wonderful little cat named Miracle. But then, it's all really connected, it's all about love.