Not the Post I Wanted to Write
Here’s the thing about life.
Just because you’re dealing with something tough, doesn’t mean that nothing else bad will happen. Just because the world is going through a crisis, doesn’t mean that another one can’t dump right on top of it and demand what’s left of your attention.
And just because it’s your son’s third birthday, doesn’t mean that your cat won’t die.
It’s unfathomable that she’s not here. She’s always been here, it seems. Tom and I keep seeing her come around a corner and do a double take because she’s not actually there. I catch myself glancing at the foot of the bed every time I enter our room, automatically looking for her. As soon as I wake up in the mornings I know something’s wrong, because I can’t feel her weight on top of me. That’s how I knew she was gone, that morning. Before I was even really awake, I knew. Because there has never been a night where she hasn’t been sleeping on top of me. Usually annoyingly so. In my face, poking me until I wake up, meowing loudly. I jumped right in that shower that morning without looking around the room. I knew she was somewhere, but I wasn’t ready to find her.
Twelve years, she’d been with me. From Hemenway street in Boston, to Ward and Gates streets in Southie. Across the river to Cambridge, and then to Melrose before finally moving to her final home here. It feels wrong that she’s outside, since she was an indoor cat her whole life. Everything feels wrong, of course. There is no simple or right answer for where your cat ends up when she dies. So as wrong as it seems, she’s buried on the hill at the edge of our property, in a field of flowers.
We knew it was coming. The cancer was diagnosed months ago, we knew she didn’t have a lot of time. That was one gift the quarantine gave us - time at home with her. Time to get in extra pets, cuddles and purrs. She spent her last days curled up next to me as I worked, running around with the kids and getting as many treats as she wanted.
And then she stopped finishing the treats. She wasn’t running as fast, and couldn’t jump on the counter to reach her water dish anymore. Her fur wasn’t as shiny and she was suddenly a lot skinnier. Too skinny. I knew it was soon but I was still caught off guard at how soon. It wasn’t until we were putting the kids to bed and she was howling that I realized how close it was. Realized that it might happen on E’s birthday. It’s all so wrong, and of course he doesn’t understand. At least I understand what’s happening. I know exactly why my heart is being ripped apart.
She was the biggest collision of my current and former lives. I got Maia at a point where I was single, and had just graduated college. My life looked very different back then. For years, she was my only roommate. And today I’m married to someone who loved her just as much as I do, and we have two tiny humans who adored their kitten. Losing Maia is hard, having them lose her is harder. I never considered that, when I got her. I never considered other people might miss her as much as me.
There’s so much I could say. The hole she’s left in our lives, the multiple conversations we’ve tried to have with E to try and help him understand (he doesn’t), how this feels like everything is just piling on… but again, nothing feels right.
So I’ll just say that we miss her. So much.