I have so many things I want and need to say. But first, this will be my last post for a while. And when I do come back, the page will look new, the picture will be new, and I hope, it will feel like a new blog. We are leaving here in a week. When the house sold and we came back from the mountains, the whole world was a different place than it is now. I was a little sad to be going. It felt like the right thing to do but I had reservations. I would miss the house with all its endless storage space. Even with the new walk-in closet the handyman built for us in the mountain house, I didn't, and still don't, know where we will put everything we're taking.
The first week back was taken up with getting moving estimates, collecting boxes, taking care of all the leftover things from us being gone for so long. I measured walls before we left the mountains, and I busied myself with graph paper and furniture cut-outs. We walked through the house deciding what would go in a sale, and what would be taken along. We rented a storage room. We wrote garage sale ads for the newspapers. That seems so long ago.
My SO's best friend died the second Saturday we were here. He had been sick and declining for two years. We felt bad for his widow. We wanted to help her anyway we could. We spent time at her house, helped her move in her new dining room furniture, bought from us. I gave her my crystal. No place for it in the mountains. It was a sad time, but it was manageable.
Sunday the real estate agent and her husband came to take away things that they had bought. We showed them more things, and they bought more. During this time we learned that my SO's son and daughter-in-law were going to be divorced. It was worrisome but we had seen it coming for a very long time, years in fact. Their marriage had grown more and more combative, more difficult. Like so many other couples married more than ten years, they were growing in opposite directions. The real estate agent has a daughter going through something similar. We commiserated with each other for a little while.
Then the cat took a turn for the worse. We made the hard decision to have him put to sleep. We agreed that we had been living on borrowed time for four months. He'd had a good summer. We had enjoyed that time with him. It had felt like time stolen from the grip of lymphoma. I cried. I have been crying for months. I could see the effects from so much crying on my face in new lines around my eyes, a new sag to my jaw. I adored my cat. He had been a good and loyal companion to me for fourteen long years. We had been through an awful lot together. It was so hard to let him go. But I finally realized that he was suffering, and my herculean efforts to keep him alive, the money I had spent on injections and medications, were more for myself than for the cat's sake.
We drove to the vet's office on Monday morning. She was sorry to see us but she had been his doctor for some time and knew this day would come. I cried a little. I handled myself better than I had thought I would. My SO was a rock, soothing, compassionate. The cat was given a sedative. He got very sleepy. I said leaned down to say goodbye to him, and saw his eyes lock onto mine. The overdose was given. He breathed one last time. I listen as his heart stopped. It was peaceful, merciful. I thought what a shame it is that we can't by law be as merciful to our fellow humans who are dying of a dread disease. We left the vet's office after giving them instructions on cremation and the return of ashes. I was tearful but felt so positive about how it had gone. So much less traumatic than I had been imagining. I had made it through. Relief was the primary feeling.
And then -- disaster arrived.
Before we left the house, my SO had called his son to talk a little, lend support, to see if his son was doing OK. The call went to voicemail. He told me his son had turned off his cell phone. He thought about calling again on our way back from the vet's office, but didn't want to be pushy, to nose too much into their business. We have both been through divorces, and understand how hard those first days and months can be.
About 2:00, the daughter-in-law called. She was crying. I thought she wanted to give me condolences about the cat. She's an animal lover in the first degree. But no, she was wondering if we had heard from her husband. She was worried. Both his cell phones were turned off, the personal one and the work one, and she had not heard from him since morning when he had called to say some things that made her worry even more. I told her we would call when he called. I urged her to go home for the day, she was no good at work, I said, in the emotional state she was in. I hung up and my SO and I talked about the call. He said that his son was probably finding a new place to live, or home packing to go. We went on with grieving for the cat.
At 5:30, the daughter-in-law called back. She was so hysterical she could barely talk. My SO kept trying to calm her, and then he handed the phone to me. The short version is this: my SO's son had put a gun to his head and killed himself. It is shocking. Just typing he words is shocking. My SO couldn't listen to his daughter-in-law tell him this. His brain wouldn't comprehend it. He handed the phone to me. I too was dumbfounded. I finally know the real meaning of that word. I kept expecting her to say it was a joke, April Fool's. But no, she was outside her house with a chaplain. There was crime tape all around her, police cars, detectives. They wouldn't let her inside the house. She knew almost nothing. We felt completely helpless. It was as if the earth shifted on its axis.
Thirty-six hours later, we know very little more. My SO is devastated. He keeps saying how hard it is to believe that his rock-solid son felt life was so hopeless that he had to end to do this. I imagine it is a lament every survivor of a suicide -- those left behind -- have. There is an unmistakable feeling of "could I have done something to save him?" Or wondering how we could have missed the depth of his depression. We do now know he left a suicide note, but it is in the evidence room at their local police station. The contents can't be revealed until this coming Monday. Even then we don't know if the daughter-in-law will share what was written almost certainly to her. There is so much we don't know or understand, and we probably never will.
I thought I would be grieving for my cat, and I am. I still expect to find him in his usual places, or feel him creep by. I tear up easily, but it is a pure and simple kind of grief, without questions or remorse. This other grief, it is ugly and dark, confusing and tormented. I am beginning to get angry. It has ruined my feelings for this place, tainted the happy memories we have had here. It has made the future uncertain. To lose your only child, I cannot imagine the sorrow. I am sad, but my sadness doesn't even touch the sadness my SO must feel. It worries me, this sort of deep sadness. It has already caused a kind of inertia in both of us. He keeps saying that we have to hold tight to each other, and I know that he's right. I hope we make it through this black wall. The next week will be one of the most difficult in either of our lives. And both of us are eager to be gone from here, to not look back, to somehow start anew. I wish I was only grieving for my cat. But it is much more dire now. This grief feels scary and fraught with danger.
Showing posts with label lymphoma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lymphoma. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Fear of Dying
I have been thinking about fear of death lately. Watching my cat slowly die from lymphoma has convinced me that this fear is not exclusive to only human beings. When the cat's health goes downhill after his treatments, he acts very fearful. He even will rush about a bit, as if he thinks he can outrun the bad feelings he's experiencing. He wants to be held, and does not want to be left alone. It's different from when he just feels puny. It's more like he senses that death is near and he needs to escape it.
My mother died in 1995 of lung cancer. It was the quick-acting kind of cancer. Even after some pretty aggressive chemo-therapy and radiation treatments, she still only lived 7 months from her diagnosis. About 5 weeks before she died, I moved in with her and Daddy. He needed help. She was on hospice, by they only come twice a week, at least that was the case back in 1995. Those first weeks after I was there, before she became semi-comatose, she seemed afraid to sleep. She sat up through the early morning hours, staring at the television. She watched endless movies that she had taped on her VCR. After it became too difficult for her to get up and put in a new tape, she watched straight television, whatever channel her finger happened to scroll to. Late night commercials then could get a little bit lurid, sexy, half-dressed babes extolling the watcher to call them for phone sex, or psychics with fake Jamaican accents, wanting to run up you credit card. Mother stared at all of this stuff, unceasingly, falling asleep by default sometimes, sitting up in her hospital bed. She seemed to feel more secure in her aliveness with the noise of the television blaring.
It's something that we all take for granted somehow, that we are alive, that we will have tomorrow, that our hearts will beat and our lungs will expand and contract silently. As we get older we start thinking in a fleeting way about the fact that most of our life is probably behind us. And then we KNOW the longer half IS behind us. And once we get to my dad's age, or beyond, it must be something we think about in a clandestine way every single day.
I went house-hunting with my aunt this week. She's in her early 70s but is vibrant and in excellent health. She walks regularly, fishes, and until just a couple of years ago, still went mountain climbing. And yet, she kept eliminating certain houses because the stairs were too steep and in a few years she wouldn't be able to maneuver them, or mentally checking off the places that already had bars in the baths or railings along outdoor paths. She's thinking about her death, but indirectly, the way we all do during our lives.
There's probably no cure for the death fear. I've felt it most of my life, tried to imagine the world without me in it. Since I'm a pragmatist, not given to faith in an afterlife, it sometimes frightens me to my core to think about dying. Will I know, consciously, when the end is at hand. I hope for it to be fast and sudden, without unyielding pain. There's a very good book about the end of life. I recommend it to everyone who wants to know the science of dying. The title is How We Die: Reflections on Life's Final Chapter
by Sherwin Nuland.
Onward ....
My mother died in 1995 of lung cancer. It was the quick-acting kind of cancer. Even after some pretty aggressive chemo-therapy and radiation treatments, she still only lived 7 months from her diagnosis. About 5 weeks before she died, I moved in with her and Daddy. He needed help. She was on hospice, by they only come twice a week, at least that was the case back in 1995. Those first weeks after I was there, before she became semi-comatose, she seemed afraid to sleep. She sat up through the early morning hours, staring at the television. She watched endless movies that she had taped on her VCR. After it became too difficult for her to get up and put in a new tape, she watched straight television, whatever channel her finger happened to scroll to. Late night commercials then could get a little bit lurid, sexy, half-dressed babes extolling the watcher to call them for phone sex, or psychics with fake Jamaican accents, wanting to run up you credit card. Mother stared at all of this stuff, unceasingly, falling asleep by default sometimes, sitting up in her hospital bed. She seemed to feel more secure in her aliveness with the noise of the television blaring.
It's something that we all take for granted somehow, that we are alive, that we will have tomorrow, that our hearts will beat and our lungs will expand and contract silently. As we get older we start thinking in a fleeting way about the fact that most of our life is probably behind us. And then we KNOW the longer half IS behind us. And once we get to my dad's age, or beyond, it must be something we think about in a clandestine way every single day.
I went house-hunting with my aunt this week. She's in her early 70s but is vibrant and in excellent health. She walks regularly, fishes, and until just a couple of years ago, still went mountain climbing. And yet, she kept eliminating certain houses because the stairs were too steep and in a few years she wouldn't be able to maneuver them, or mentally checking off the places that already had bars in the baths or railings along outdoor paths. She's thinking about her death, but indirectly, the way we all do during our lives.
There's probably no cure for the death fear. I've felt it most of my life, tried to imagine the world without me in it. Since I'm a pragmatist, not given to faith in an afterlife, it sometimes frightens me to my core to think about dying. Will I know, consciously, when the end is at hand. I hope for it to be fast and sudden, without unyielding pain. There's a very good book about the end of life. I recommend it to everyone who wants to know the science of dying. The title is How We Die: Reflections on Life's Final Chapter
by Sherwin Nuland.Onward ....
Sunday, May 22, 2011
A Grave Diagnosis
Lymphoma. It is terminal.
LABOR DAY, 1997. My oldest son is home from Houston for the long weekend. His dad is on the sofa in the den sleeping off a few beers he had drank while we barbecued. It's almost dark. There had been a storm a week or so before, knocked quite a few limbs from the nine pecan trees in the yard. There was a pile of limbs where the greenhouse would one day stand. A soft mewl comes from the wood pile. My son and I both hear it. We go over to inspect. There's a big-eyed kitten on the far side of the pile. He's looking at me and mewling softly but insistently. I want to go for him but each time I try, he appears ready to bolt. I'm afraid that he's hurt. I get down on my hands and knees, calling, "C'mere. Please, c'mere" over and over. He continues to mewl. He looks tiny. He inches forward, slowly. Oh so slowly. It takes 45 minutes for him to inch within my reach but finally he does.
He is gray tabby, but only about half. The under half is pure white. His face is blazed symmetrically with white. Tabby-like, his eyes are golden, outlined with black and black streaks run from the corners of his eyes back along his cheeks. Gray ears, a long straight tail. He weighs maybe 2 pounds. I hold him close to my heart. His heart is pounding wildly in my palm. He doesn't seem to be hurt. I think he's probably just hungry. All I have is a can of white meat chicken, for humans not kittens. His fur is downy soft, silky. It will remain that way all of his life.
Kitten fur, even at age 14. He is my lovey-dovey. My cootie pie. My braveheart. My soulmate. He is my sweet boy, my lap cat, my loyal friend. We are spending our last days together. There will be a big empty hole in my life when he leaves me. The hole has already begun, but right now it's just mostly a hollow lump in my throat that I can't swallow.
His doctor is gone. She left just after she took the biopsies on his kidney and stomach. Another doctor called with the results. "This is a grave diagnosis," he said. The regular vet will be back Tuesday. I will phone her and discuss all of this further. For now, I just want to keep my kitty comfortable.
His belly is shaven, looks so vulnerable and tender now. His eyes are starting to droop. He responded well to the prednisone shot she gave him, caught a lizard the next day, something he hadn't done in at least five years. But that rebound is over, and he is thinner yet. I'm not sure I can take this, but it has to be endured, watching my kitty waste away. I am spending my days holding him, letting him rest in my arms, where he wants to be right now, trying to reassure him, trying not to just sit and cry. Hard but he has earned this time, this love, this vigilance. I can't shut the door on him at night so I'm already exhausted. We both are.
I won't have another cat. Not for a long long while. I've had two before this one but neither of those, not even combined times ten, can compare to the love I feel for this one. If anyone is reading this, please bear with me and my melodrama. A tragedy is happening right now. I feel compelled to write about it. I'm sorry.
Onward ....
LABOR DAY, 1997. My oldest son is home from Houston for the long weekend. His dad is on the sofa in the den sleeping off a few beers he had drank while we barbecued. It's almost dark. There had been a storm a week or so before, knocked quite a few limbs from the nine pecan trees in the yard. There was a pile of limbs where the greenhouse would one day stand. A soft mewl comes from the wood pile. My son and I both hear it. We go over to inspect. There's a big-eyed kitten on the far side of the pile. He's looking at me and mewling softly but insistently. I want to go for him but each time I try, he appears ready to bolt. I'm afraid that he's hurt. I get down on my hands and knees, calling, "C'mere. Please, c'mere" over and over. He continues to mewl. He looks tiny. He inches forward, slowly. Oh so slowly. It takes 45 minutes for him to inch within my reach but finally he does.
He is gray tabby, but only about half. The under half is pure white. His face is blazed symmetrically with white. Tabby-like, his eyes are golden, outlined with black and black streaks run from the corners of his eyes back along his cheeks. Gray ears, a long straight tail. He weighs maybe 2 pounds. I hold him close to my heart. His heart is pounding wildly in my palm. He doesn't seem to be hurt. I think he's probably just hungry. All I have is a can of white meat chicken, for humans not kittens. His fur is downy soft, silky. It will remain that way all of his life.
Kitten fur, even at age 14. He is my lovey-dovey. My cootie pie. My braveheart. My soulmate. He is my sweet boy, my lap cat, my loyal friend. We are spending our last days together. There will be a big empty hole in my life when he leaves me. The hole has already begun, but right now it's just mostly a hollow lump in my throat that I can't swallow.
His doctor is gone. She left just after she took the biopsies on his kidney and stomach. Another doctor called with the results. "This is a grave diagnosis," he said. The regular vet will be back Tuesday. I will phone her and discuss all of this further. For now, I just want to keep my kitty comfortable.
His belly is shaven, looks so vulnerable and tender now. His eyes are starting to droop. He responded well to the prednisone shot she gave him, caught a lizard the next day, something he hadn't done in at least five years. But that rebound is over, and he is thinner yet. I'm not sure I can take this, but it has to be endured, watching my kitty waste away. I am spending my days holding him, letting him rest in my arms, where he wants to be right now, trying to reassure him, trying not to just sit and cry. Hard but he has earned this time, this love, this vigilance. I can't shut the door on him at night so I'm already exhausted. We both are.
I won't have another cat. Not for a long long while. I've had two before this one but neither of those, not even combined times ten, can compare to the love I feel for this one. If anyone is reading this, please bear with me and my melodrama. A tragedy is happening right now. I feel compelled to write about it. I'm sorry.
Onward ....
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