I don’t edit myself much, nor very well – but a post-script to all of this that I’m placing as a pre-script instead : We Live in an age where I not only “should” acknowledge trauma but also allow myself to understand that it effects me. However, I was raised in an age that acknowledged trauma as something to overcome and be energized by, but never to bend to. And I’m old enough to feel like I should be “over it” and yet ALSO old enough to know better. It means I try to be good about not letting it influence how I ACT, but I KNOW it influences how I THINK. The in-between space is how I TALK (type) and that seems to be a tangled Wild West of influences. But you, dear reader, already knew that. My poor friend Robin just got smacked in the face with this during a phone call as I stammered and wandered failing miserably at completing thoughts. At least in the written word I generally complete my sentences.
Yesterday was a hard day, but it was a good day right up until it wasn’t. Getting up at 6am to feed Prince a sedative in preparation for an ultrasound. He ottered for treats, took the pill easily, was his sweet and affectionate self. We took him to the vet where some continued levels of confusion and chaos gave me real confidence that all of this is some sort of horrible mistake. We got home and I wrote about it frustratedly, documenting my case for how our cat’s not sick, just mis-filed. We picked him up, groggy from the medication. I went and ran my Ellicott City open mic and it was a beautiful night filled with friends and music and really good pizza.
And I came home and Kristen told me the results of the tests, and about how any good day will just be a day of him hiding his illness and this morning he’s slow and sleepy and though he’s always slow and sleepy, today it’s a sign that he’s fragile and I sort of hold my breath as he gets down off the couch, climbs back up. Inordinately glad to see him eat. Scared when he’s too still.
It’s a grey rainy morning, and Prince has climbed up on the couch to sit next to me and watch me type.
As Amy’s cats reached the end of their Lives, there were two huge realizations.
One was that I’d known these cats since they came home with Amy in college. Tiny kittens, Cassie and Orion had been underfoot any time I came back to Baltimore to visit while we toured, and they were mature denizens of our home here in Catonsville when we moved in. I’d legitimately known them half my Life, all of theirs – and it was very, very hard to watch their sudden shift into old, old cats. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and when they had good days I couldn’t NOT see it as reason for optimism, as opposed to all it was, which was – simply a good day. Playing with Orion with a bit of long grass would always perk him up. With Prince it’s screen time, watching the cursor or bird song on the phone.
So we’ll have good days.
And the second huge realization was that this is all tied in with my father.
Holding my dad’s hand through hospice, watching the slow dissolution, collapsing from support to making him comfortable to the unending guilt of wanting it to be over. Not knowing if he’s simply taking a long time to recover from a pill or if he slipped some while under the influence of it. Knowing that any “new normal” will only last for a little while. And that the NEW new normal won’t be better.
Sedation and pain mitigation with someone who can’t communicate. Head twitches. Not knowing what they want. Having to be so focused on water. Having to deliver it in dissatisfying, painful ways and them not understanding WHY you’re hurting them again, and again, and again.
Trust and feeling like you’re betraying it. Having another good day and being disappointed when that’s all it is.
Hoping you’re doing the right thing and eventually being willing to hasten the inevitable, Living with the guilt of whether you did it for him or for yourself.
Living on and subconsciously eternally looking for someone or something to fill that hole, not being able to come to terms with having ripped it.
And of course, then there’s the timing.
I feel terrible that this year, on April 20th I did NOT post anything about my dad. The day just got away from me. It was the day after we’d bought the house and we were dealing with a sick cat.
I THINK… I think I could get superstitious about April.
I’m grateful for any semblance of normalcy because it lets me pretend. Moments of lucidity from my father let me pretend it’d be that way again. Listening to Prince’s breathing shift into his little whistley snores let’s me pretend he’s sleeping comfortably. He chose us. He chose to be here. It’s a cold, rainy day like the one we rescued him from.
He is the sweetest beast and we’ll all just do our best to have some more good days.