A melancholy Christmas

This one is a real downer. Be warned.

Our cat died. Though officially she was my parents’, but she was mine too. She had a tumor, on top of all the other ailments she had. She was an old cat, about 18 years old, a venerable and demanding little lady. So it was not a complete surprise but I suppose we all still thought we would have more warning.

We had hoped it was just an infection, like the vet suggested when we first took her to them on Tuesday, I think. I can’t remember. But she refused to eat. We had to force feed her to get anything in. At least she drank willingly.

We originally took her to the vet because we noticed she had bled and her bum was red with blood. When today we saw she had bled again and the inflammation had not lessened, despite the antibiotics and soothing gel, I knew that was it. We got her a new appointment for this afternoon and for the few hours of wait, I checked on her, petted her, spent time with her.  Hugged her a couple of times too. Talked to her a bit. Tried to show her I love her.

When dad was ready to go to the vet, I stayed behind and knew I would not see her again. When hours later we heard it was bad and we would likely have to choose between treatment with uncertain and likely painful results (which would have likely added only a few months to her life) or euthanasia, I said euthanasia. It hurt but I don’t think any of us could have handled to see her ill and in pain for months and then see her die.

Still, a small part of me feels guilty and clings to the idea that she could have been saved. Maybe that’s true. But it can’t be helped now. It’s already over.

When the final call came, I was out of the house and mum said we would have to leave immediately if we wanted to say goodbye. I told them to go without me. I had already said my goodbyes. I also wanted to remember her like she had been: curious, social and loud. I also needed to be alone for a while. I figure that’s my way to start grieving.

I don’t know if I regret not seeing her one more time. It would not have helped me, that I know. But I can’t shake the feeling that it might have helped her. To see all three us one last time before it was time to go. But that also can’t be helped anymore. I can only hope that she remembered in her tiny cat heart that I love her.

I went to a nearby cemetery to cry. I needed to be outside, in the darkness. Then I went home, cleaned the litter box and the bowls, and made some hot blackcurrant juice. When mum and dad came home, we hugged and talked a bit and drank the juice. Did stuff, tried to be somewhat normal. I baked, because that is my job: to make the Christmas meal dessert.

We all knew this would happen. We had all been preparing for it for a long time now. Everytime I came over to my parents and then left, I hugged our cat knowing it could be the last time I saw her. I don’t know if I feel lucky or unlucky to have been here when the moment finally arrived. I lean towards lucky because I got to spend time with her for a while longer and I can share my grief with my parents.

The unlucky thing is obvious. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, when Finns celebrate the holiday. Eat the foods, give and open presents and so on. Out first one without her is bloody day after her passing. Merry fucking Christmas.

But, in spite of a really bad timing, we’ll try to muster at least a little happiness, if only for the seasonal reason. At least our dear screeching machine will never hurt again. Life will go on. And I’m sorry to have been such downer if you read this. I do hope your Christmas this year is way better than mine will be.

Thanks for reading.

John

PS. I just noticed that the 23rd had turned to the 24th when I was writing this. So to be clear, this happened on the 23rd of December.

PPS: I’m sitting in my parents’ living room, listening to all the little noises with heightened attention. One of the noises sounds exactly like our cat lapping water. Another sounds like her getting down the stairs. This is going to be a long holiday, I can tell.