Grief-Related Page

Life reminds me of a fountain. People walk by a fountain and can't resist tossing in a coin. They make a silent wish and go on their way, promptly forgetting it in their rush to....somewhere. We each have a private fountain where life and fate will toss its coins and cause personal ripples. Grief and loss are like that....coins tossed into our waters. Their ripples can reach the outer edges of the fountain wall or fade gently into calm waters halfway through. Some of us have fewer coins than others; that doesn't mean we grieve less intensely, just differently. We reach out to kindred spirits for comforting, knowing that we will never hear the words "It was just a cat, get over it!" from those we seek. Our cats touch our souls; they become an integral part of who and what we are.

As separate and apart as we are, there is a silken thread that holds us together; the love of a cat. We know there are like souls, hurting from similar losses and who will understand when we try to explain feelings we would not otherwise speak; the touch of a whisker against our cheek, unseen as the summer breeze but still felt; the comforting bulk against the crook of our legs in the lonely hours before daylight - not visible, but there.

We watch the coins being tossed into our fountains one by one and rather than seeing darkness, we see light. The hand that drops those coins also cherishes and loves without reservation or strings attached. We know there is a place where our loved ones go to become whole and where "all things are made new again", as promised us from ancient times. We also know there will come a day when we will join those we love once again, never to be separated.

I count the coins in my fountain and feel tears... but I also feel privileged to have had each one of those coins touch and change my life; to give it depth and fill it with love.

Linda

Dear Diane,

I know what you're going through with Sandy. Caesar was my very own first cat that I'd had as a grownup... he saw me through two separations and an unfriendly divorce, along with a job change and several moves. He was my companion, my confidante and my very most favorite cat on earth, until his little sister came along, and then he was "one" of my favorite cats. He took this reduction in stature gracefully... Maine Coons will do that. When he died, I thought my world would never see sunshine again... I was devastated. About a week after we'd lost him, his sister Phaedra walked through the house, calling for him, and looking everywhere. His favorite place was smack in the middle of my bed. She hopped onto the bed, went to his spot and sniffed, and then looked up at me and started this soft wailing meroooo sound. She kept patting me on the arm, as if to say, "get up and look for him, I know he's here somewhere." I took her face in my hands, looked her in the eyes, and said "He's not here anymore baby, he's left us. I'm sorry, I can't bring him back... if I could give him back to you I would". I started crying, she climbed into my lap making that crying sound, and all I could do was sit there and rock back and forth, holding her. I felt so lost and alone. Poor Charlie, all he could do was hold me and let me cry. When he buried Caesar, I could see tears... Charlie's one of those long, tall men, quiet spoken, laid back. He doesn't show his emotions easily, but Caesar's loss and my grief (and Phaedra's) was a little too much for him. He was in tears. Caesar was so very, very special for me. He was my "gentle giant". Phaedra adjusted to his loss better than I did. In that innate wise way of cats, she grieved, realized that he wasn't coming back, accepted it and turned to the living and the sunlight. She became Charlie's cat... I had to remind her from time to time that I was the one who originally rescued her, not this big galoot in cowboy boots. When we lost her at 22, Charlie was heartbroken... she used to make a big deal of patting him on his arm so he'd roll over and let her snuggle against his chest. We'd hear this big sighing purr.

It's so hard to lose someone that loves you unconditionally, asks very few questions, and doesn't let you know that, yes, they have made some judgments about you but are too polite to say so. They know that humans are fragile creatures and easily hurt, so they're gentle with us and keep their opinions and skepticism to themselves.

All you can do for Sandy is hold him, love him, and cry with him. As Fluffy's scent diminishes, Sandy will adapt and turn to the living and the sunlight, as did Phaedra... that's the way of the cat. For you and I, their brightness will never fade, and their light never diminish, it will stay clear in our hearts because the pain never quite goes away... it will dull, but will be there and come again every time we see a photograph, or find a toy, or one of the other cats will do something that reminds of our furangels... and the tears will blur our vision and we'll remember. We can hope that the memories will get gentler as time goes on... as long as we remember their names, and who they were... they'll always be a part of us, never forgotten. Caesar has been gone for 20 years, and I can remember every stripe, every odd movement, every quirk of his nature... and the fact that he dearly loved chocolate ice cream and fried chicken. **Sigh**

Love,

I got Tardy when he was 6 weeks old, and I lost him when he was 19 1/2 years. He was an only cat, and he had been with me through a bad marriage, several moves, several jobs, several boyfriends and finally 10 years with my new husband. He taught Alan, this man who had never had a pet, how to love cats. He was my baby, dependent and trusting. He understood my moods. We could read each other's thoughts. Even Alan used to comment on it. I didn't have any human children, but Tardy was as close to me as if he were one.

When he was first diagnosed with cancer, I went into denial, but as his strength failed, I tried somehow to come to grips with what my life would be like after he was gone. I found myself living those last few months in slow motion, registering every good day on my brain and thanking God for one more moment of joy and peace with him. Those images of him sitting in the sunlight, or pulling himself up onto a favorite chair are the most vivid.

I worried most about how to let him go. How to let go of my own need to keep him with me. My own fear of losing him. What would my life be without him, sleeping curled up with me at night? God was merciful and took him without my having to make that decision. But He took him from us without closure, under anesthetic while trying to remove the tumor that was hemorrhaging.

Alan & I had talked in those last few months about what to do after he was gone. We had decided to adopt 2 cats instead of just one, because in his later years I had begun to feel like I had really denied Tardy a friend to play cat games and talk cat secrets too.

We lost Tardy on Saturday around noon. We both cried all afternoon and evening. I picked up all his dishes and things and threw them away. My anguish was so deep, a black pit that gaped in my heart. I kept the rug he used to sleep on, and a couple of toys. I put them away in a safe place where they lie still. But I tore through the house throwing everything else out. It just hurt so much to see those painful reminders. I cried myself asleep. The place were he slept was so empty. I cry even now as I write these words. The pain lessens with time, but missing them never ends.

By Sunday, I was exhausted, and the house was so lonely. I really wanted to go to a shelter, but Alan wasn't ready. It took me a couple of hours to get him to admit to me that he thought it was somehow disrespectful not to allow some time to grieve. He also told me that because Tardy had died in surgery he really didn't feel like he was gone. I got him to call our vet and talk to her. He cried on the phone talking it through with her. He finally believed that Tardy was gone. I begged him again to go to the shelter. I couldn't stand this empty house. I was looking for Tardy around every corner, listening for his footsteps and his little chatter. I knew in the deepest part of my heart that Tardy was driving me to do this. That this wasn't disrespectful, but that he wanted us to turn our love back out towards someone who really needed a home and someone to love them.

We finally went. I didn't want to adopt kittens because I knew that they were easy to place. We asked to see the room with all the older cats, the ones that were harder to place. We sat on the floor in that room and we waited. They somehow managed to find us. Zeke came rubbing up against Alan's leg. Tally came trotting out from a kitty condo and plunked himself down in my lap. We picked out 2 and then 3 and then when Alan left to go back home to get the check book I saw Boots. Boots was 7, going on 8, and had been taken to the shelter by a landlord who rescued him from an abusive tenant. He was a Maine Coon, but he only weighed 7 lbs. His chin was covered with acne from stress, his fur was brittle and dull. The shelter told us he would require long term medical care including teeth cleaning every 3 months. He was too expensive and too much trouble for most people who wanted a pet. They considered him to be a "lifer".

I couldn't leave him there, so the day after Tardy died, we went home with 4 cats - Boots, Donovan, Tally and Zeke, who was a rehabilitated feral. The shelter had also warned us that Zeke was also difficult to place, and had been returned to the shelter from 2 prior adoptions because he wouldn't come out from hiding.

We got Gizmo a week later from someone at work. And we got Kenya 6 months later when we went back to the shelter to give them some pictures and a donation. She was the only kitten we adopted. She was 3 months old. Sammy was the last. A stray who showed up one day on our doorstep about a year ago.

So now we have 7 cats. All older adults, except Kenya. And 2 with special needs - Boots and Zeke. We've had the original 5 now for 2 years.

Zeke is now out and about the house, still skittish, but the most grateful, gentle cat you would ever want. Earning his trust has been one of the most rewarding things I've ever experienced. I remember the day I was lying on the floor talking to him as we had done for months, and all of a sudden his face peered out, he hesitated and then he pulled himself out and started rubbing against my leg with the biggest purrs you've ever heard! I cried my eyes out. Now we have a routine. He waits until he hears me light the candles and turn on the TV at night, and then he comes running down the hall and jumps in my lap.

Boots weighs almost 13 pounds now, his coat is beautiful and glossy, the acne is gone and his teeth are doing much better. He's on daily medication, and quarterly teeth cleaning, but he has become a totally different cat. The shelter has his "before and after" pictures up on their bulletin board. They are as proud of him as we are.

I don't know if I would call this story amazing or just plain dumb. Looking back on it, getting the 5 cats within a week, and 7 within the year was nuts. But I will tell you that these little souls have closed the hole that Tardy left. They will never replace him. They will never be like him, with his same habits and special quirks. But they all have their own little habits, and I'm getting to be as familiar with their individual language as I was with Tardy's. I know without a doubt in my mind that Tardy picked out every single one of them himself. I know he sent Sammy to our house. And know he is still here with me checking up on "his" adoptions.

It has helped the pain of missing Tardy to turn my love outward to these special cats. Its sad, but true, that most cats are difficult to adopt out once they get to be past the 6 month stage. But my experience with adopting older cats has been that they are by far the most rewarding to take in. It is so incredibly fulfilling to take the ones no one else wants and to see them flourish with a little bit of love. They are so grateful. These are the ones who truly understand how special it is to have someone love them.

I know how deep your grief is. You alone are the only one who can determine when, and if, you are ready to try again. Especially when you have lost one so young. You may feel it is disrespectful to rush right out and get another cat. I'm sure many were shocked to hear we got 4 the day after losing Tardy. But each person is different, and each must listen to what their own heart tells them. I can only tell you that my conclusion regarding my own experience has been that there are those of us who have to give our love away. And there are souls out there who desperately need it. Especially older ones who have been abused, abandoned, neglected. Who have never known what its like to sit in a humans lap and be brushed and fussed over, who don't understand how to play with toys, who don't know how intoxicating catnip is. They don't understand what its like to have food always there, so they never go they're hungry, or a warm dry place to sleep every night. They don't have someone to worry about their health and protect them from things that are hurtful. When you are ready to give away your love, please consider the ones like these who need the love of someone very special. Someone just like you.

Love,

Tally

People who are not "cat people" don't understand the big hole our cats leave in our lives when they go. They don't understand how comforting and relaxing it is to stroke soft fur until the stress goes away, or that perfectly normal people carry on very intelligent conversations with their cats because they don't argue or ridicule us. They don't understand the depth of the loss because they don't understand the attachment. When all is said and done, and the initial shock lessens, and you can't keep your mind still, you're left with memories, and they make you cry. You can't imagine not hearing the purr, feeling the paw patting your cheek, the comfort of that warm lump on your chest, next to your legs, along your side or stealing your pillow, or feel the soft brush against your legs, demanding that you pay attention and stop what you're doing to pet him. Suddenly, the silence echos, because the joy and anticipation of welcome isn't there.

Eventually, the pain will ease. I don't think it ever really goes away, but I do think it lessens to the point where you can feel other emotions. When the memories start to come again, you'll be able to smile a little, but not right now, because it hurts too much. When we are graced with the presence of a cat, they touch us and change us in small ways, so we don't know or feel it, and we're better humans for it. They will always be with you as long as you remember them. And please remember this... it's okay to cry for them. I've cried and grieved over every one I've lost. Each was unique in their own way, each was a gift that I treasured, and I remember every one of them, from the color of their fur, to the shape of their face, to the tone of their meow. They're not here physically, but they stay with me always.

Linda

Time is given to each of us as a rough jewel to be polished, cherished and put away in the jewel cases of our memory. As children, it stretches before us like a vast country to be explored, enjoyed, and marveled at. When we're small, time has little meaning and seems endless. "Once upon a time" takes us on a magic carpet ride into fantasy where "time" stands still. When we're teenagers, time creeps along, slow and steady, making us impatient for it to pass. We can't wait to "grow up". As adults, we run out of time. "I don't have time to..." becomes our daily litany.

Then one day, a small bundle of fur moves into our busy lives. It demands that one precious thing we have so little of... time. It demands "time" to be fed and petted and played with. We glance at our watches or the clock on the wall impatiently, saying "I don't have time for this, or I'll do this later, when I have time". But the small furry bundle doesn't care about *your* time clock, only it's own. So it impedes your rush to the future in small ways, snuggling under your chin and refusing to budge, clinging to a trousered leg and squealing for attention, dumping it's water bowl, or walking through it's canned food, leaving messy little footprints everywhere. You clean up the mess, muttering under your breath about the "time" it takes to do it, and asking yourself why you got a kitten in the first place. The kitten leans against your arm, purring, and looking at you with the expectant eyes of an innocent child, waiting to be held. Well, you can't help it, you just have to stop for "one minute" to snuggle the kitten, who purrs contentedly, having gotten her way after all. You realize that time is a precious jewel, to be savored and shared and that, having agreed to accept the responsibility of this tiny life, it needs "time" from you to grow and be loved.

Time takes on a different meaning as you and your loved companion grow together. Now the mistress of her domain, she lets you know in no uncertain terms, that this is *her* house and you just have to deal with it. Never mind the snaggled curtains, the crashes and thumps in the night, the pillow hogging, or the early morning wake up calls for breakfast "NOW, please", or the fact that she uses whatever part of your anatomy that's handy as a scratching post. As before, you mutter under your breath about "getting yourself into this mess, and why did I adopt a cat in the first place". Your morning ritual. She ignores it, having heard it for so many years. The moments spent petting and snuggling stretch on, enjoyed by both of you. When you look at your watch or the clock on the wall, it's not with impatience, but with surprise that time has flown so quickly and you'd lost track of it. The comfortable companionship fits like a well worn, soft slipper.

One day, you see her move to a sun spot and settle down, and you realize that she's not walking as fast as she used to, ("Well, neither am I" you say to yourself) and her appetite isn't as hearty as it once was. You watch her stretched out in the sunspot, sound asleep, and you remember when she first barged into your busy, crowded life as a kitten: a four-footed bundle of energy, and how impatient you were; and the adolescent years, when nothing was safe or sacred from her curiosity and playfulness. As you sit there looking back, you gently and fondly take each jeweled moment out and hold it to the sunlight, marveling at it's beauty, and how both of you grew to love and respect each other, and to reach that wonderful understanding that can exist between cat and human.

The day comes when "time" has finally run out. You hold the purring bundle of fur in your arms, asking for a miracle, for "just a little more time, please God", and know in your heart that the most precious commodity that you have, "time" is no longer there. The vet's face tells you that it can't be. It's "time" to say goodbye. You hold your beloved cat one last time, kiss her gently on her head and whisper goodbye. You hear a sound you know so well; her special purr, reserved just for you. Gently, she leaves you for a place where time once again has no limit, it stretches to infinity, with a silent promise to wait for you to join her. On your way home, the jewel box of memories opens, and those precious, special moments come tumbling out, unbidden. Reluctantly you look at them; remembering the kitten that nearly drove you crazy; the time you just finished folding up the clean clothes and was silly enough to walk out of the room for "just a few minutes" to come back and find her asleep on the clean clothes; the long talks the two of you used to have (with you doing most of the talking) while she listened to every word and you just knew she was agreeing with everything you said. You remember the long naps she used to take in the sun, or across your legs, and how they used to fall asleep because you didn't want to disturb her, and you cry, knowing that when you walk in the door, she won't be there to greet you with that imperious meow. The light and life has gone from your house. You swear right then and there to never, ever get another cat, because you can't stand the pain of loss. "Time" passes, and a friend walks up to you and says "I have a friend who has a cat that needs a home. I hate to ask you because I know you don't want another one, but she's pretty desperate" Could you at least think about it?" You hesitate... but then, the box opens again, and the jewels spill out; the laughter at kitten antics, the warmth of a napping cat against your side, the comforting purr, and yes, the sadness. "Why not? you say to yourself, "I've got time." Having decided to risk another cat, you realize there are things you need to buy... no, you tucked away all of "her" things... just in case. Well, they were good enough for "her", they'll be good enough for the new cat. You look forward to your house being filled with the noise and energy of a cat, knowing that it will come alive once again. As you open the door to greet the new arrival, you could swear you hear a faint, familiar purr and you smile, knowing it's okay.

For all of you who "take the time" to love, nurture and care for that most wonderful of creatures... the cat.

Linda