My girl is having trouble. Her back legs have been giving out on her; her bladder has been betraying her dignity. I watch her struggle in that stubborn way of hers and I know that grief is coming. It is inevitable.
The question that is plaguing me the most is, just how far away is that grief?
I am night blind. I never cross a street at dawn or dusk unless I’m at a streetlight, because I just can’t tell how far away the approaching headlights are. They could be miles away; they could be a moment from erasing me.
This is what it feels like. This grief that’s rushing towards me could be days away, or minutes. I’m hoping for years, of course, but I understand that’s not as likely. She’s 22, after all, and nobody lives forever.
An unfortunate feature of my illness is that I find it very difficult to live in the present moment. I am always stuck in an episode from my past, or worrying about events that may or may not come to pass. I know that these little obsessions are robbing me of the joy that I could be experiencing in each passing moment, right now. I am not being mindful of what is going on around me, because I am still angry about what has been taken from me, and what I may yet lose.
I will lose her. I know I will. Soon enough she will go behind the curtain one last time and not come back. And I will be listening in the quiet house for the sound of her nails clicking against the floors, the scrape of her dish as she searches for the last few morsels, her quiet purring, her loud, indignant meowing.
But not yet. As I write this, she is sleeping in her basket. She is still breathing. She is here. I must not let these moments pass by unnoticed.
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I’m so sad and sorry. You’ve written most earnestly and openly in this post about what the knowledge of oncoming grief is like. There’s no way to be prepared, even with that knowledge. Praying you will have more time to say Goodbye, and that your sweetest of friends is comforted by your presence. May she have no pain and no fear. Sending you much love, dear cousin.
Dear Linda.. I know you want to avoid what is inevitable; think about all the years you have had Jazz. Think of some of her little tricks. Think of events that made you smile. These will be beautiful memories. That photo, by the way, is extraordinary. You may want to print it.. not too large, and frame it. Then you can smile every time you see it! Sending love and prayers! Uncle Roger.
I thought the same thing about that photo! It’s a loving, gentle portrait.