Goodbye, Nushie Girl

On Monday, we rushed back from vacation to find that our 19-year-old kitty, Nushie, had obviously had a stroke. She seemed a bit wobbly and confused, but mostly content to have me back home and snuggling with her. So I decided against a midnight run to the strange, noisy ER. I knew there was not much there they would offer, besides supportive care, and I could do that at home without the stress of the trip. So we opted to wait until we could have our own vet look at her in the morning. But as daylight approached, she deteriorated. That morning - yesterday - it became obvious that we had to let her go. It all unfolded very quickly. She had been in my life longer than my husband. She and I had been through a lot together. And although she was relatively healthy for an old cat, she was obviously not completely comfortable, always seemingly teetering on the brink of a medical crisis. So last night, I was reflecting on my feelings, and trying to decide how much of what I was feeling was sadness, and how much was relief. I am sad, but that isn’t the whole of it. The following is what I was thinking last night, as I was picking up the pieces:

I’m putting things away tonight, putting them where they belong. Your microwave rice pad goes in your box in the laundry room. Your sheepskin goes on top of the dryer. Your special renal food goes in the cupboard. It’s not that I’m in denial. It’s just that tonight I am too tired to make new places for these things. So they go back where they have always been. I ask myself: If you are no longer here, do they belong anywhere? But Petey is looking for you, so I can say that I am leaving those things in place for him. He can smell where you were, and tonight he is doing some time in each of those places where he finds an echo of your presence.

And yet, some things I am allowing to change. I am no longer on the lookout for the other cats’ unfinished food, so you won’t be tempted to cheat on your renal diet. I no longer have to split your pills in half. I no longer need to leave bowls in eight or nine places, to make sure you drink enough water. And yet, I haven’t quite realized that you’re gone. So it’s as though this morning, we did nothing more than cure you of your ailments. The only thing that seems to have changed so far is that I can relax, and not constantly guard you anymore.

In the bathroom this evening, out of habit, I reached over to splash some water into the tub, because that was one of the places I knew you would always go for a drink. I stopped myself, thinking how silly that was.

And then I reach over and did it anyway, and decided that it was okay.

I no longer need to attend to those things - the pills, the food, the hovering - that defined you as old and infirm. But for a while, I will probably continue to splash some water in the tub, and heat up your rice pad, and put the sheepskin on the dryer. For a while, I will allow myself to indulge in doing those things that made you happy. And in that way, more than saying goodbye, I can celebrate with you your new wellness, and your new peace.