Last week, I drove my 17-year-old cat to the vet, who happens to be an old friend from college. I really trust him.
My cat has been declining and it was time to get him checked. I really live this furry old guy. We've been through a lot together: a miscarriage, the deaths of both my in-laws, the births of my daughters, the loss of our first cat, stressful situations in which he taught me to relax just by sitting beside me and letting me stroke him, eliciting his lovable purr. I also know he's a healer and has offered himself to help me. I imagine if he were human he'd wear a bow tie and wire-rimmed glasses.
I first noticed him in our yard with a look-alike. They'd romp and play ... at a distance. As winter set in, they sat rump to rump like bookends on the wicker love seat on my front porch. Then one day, he looked at me through the glass door as pathetically as you can imagine. I fed him and the rest is history. I never did find out what happened to his sibling.
He never has liked the trip to the vet and it's always such a fight to get him in the cat carrier and I figured neither one of us had the strength to engage in that battle this time. So I bought a harness and leash, gently set him in a small laundry basket with towels, placed him on the front seat and attached the leash to the door. He snarled his low, angry growl the entire time, pacing and jumping from front to back, hiding in the wells of the inside of the car. A time or two, he placed his head on my lap. It was not an easy drive, particularly since the vet is downtown Cincinnati and it was raining. I paid special attention to the Columbia-Tusculum curve on Route 50, not wishing to wipe out. Fortunately, he never urinated as I had expected.
He was a mess waiting to be examined and through the check-up: heart pounding, spit frothing at the base of his lips. So was I, praying this trip would not end like the last, when I had to leave our female cat overnight for tests and she expired there. I was under strict orders from my girls to bring him home "no matter what."
Well, my crusty friend rolls in, greets me as a long-lost friend, but also wheels directly to my cat. Because he lives and works from a chair, my friend seems to be able to psychologically "lower" (I don't mean that as a slight; animals often get a lot more than we do) himself to the level of the animals for whom he cares. He talks to them the whole time, as well as answering any questions I may have. Animal or human, no difference.
He starts by opening the cat's mouth and announcing it's pretty nasty in there. I chime in that between kids and parents who have been somewhat ailing, I don't have time to brush the cat's teeth. He chuckles and moves on. After the exam and my meticulous litany of symptoms, he announces a diagnosis. "I'll check with a blood test, but I think he has hyper-throidism, which is easy to treat and, really, he's in amazing shape for a cat this old."
Just what I wanted to hear! I tell him this cat gets a lot of loving attention and in some way, he acknowledges that may be why this cat is in such good shape.
While we await the blood-test results, he offers to show off his new clinic. "It's 11:30 ... not too early for a brewski, we can have one while we wait." It's an offer I can't refuse and reminds me of the time in my life when I really knew this guy ... back in college. "Just one, I have to drive the cat back home." So we re-bond over a beer in the surgery room and I tease my friend that he reminds me of House, the snarky, not-so-nice genius doc on the tv series. "I'm not that mean," he insists with the intonation of it being a question. "No, you're not" I agree.
When he reads the test results, he shouts "Bingo, hyperthyroid and NOTHING else." I am so relieved and in my giddyness snap back: "See, you are like House, making the right guess!
The only ramification is the cat and I must figure out how to get the daily pill down without a tussle. NO big deal, really. And the ride home from the vet was much smoother. Perhaps the car seemed like a picnic compared to the clinic and the cat perched himself on the back seat and remained there the entire trip home.
He and I bonded more deeply over this trip. And I am breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude that this friend, this companion, will be in our lives awhile longer. And also for the reconnection with my crusty college buddy.
• What relationships do I have with animals?
• How has that made a difference in my life?
• What type of reciprocity is there?
• When was the last time I connected with an old friend?
• Do I express gratitude for the friends -- of all kinds -- in my life?
the
furry guy and I
go way back
before kids
before
the third cat
beyond the first cat
we've weathered
a lot together
he's been
a most
caring
companion
when I asked
my shamanic
counselor why
this cat would
take my pain
for me,
he simply says:
"Because he loves you."
And, I him.
Long live
Him Kitty!
* We did not intend to keep our first stray cat, so we gave her a generic, don't-het-attached name: Girl Kitty. She and the name stuck and when the male joined us, my young niece dubbed him "Him Kitty."
Showing posts with label cat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cat. Show all posts
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Embracing the unknown
What's it like to face mortality? I mean the nitty gritty. What does it feel like? How do you get yourself to a place of acceptance, maybe beyond?
I observed my 17-year-old cat bounce back from what seemed like near death earlier this summer. And my parents have both been hospitalized in the past two weeks.
So, I wonder.
My mother, who is in good health, it seems, said she's ready when the time arises. She visited her sister often several years ago as she accepted the end of physicality with such grace and faith. In that conversation with my mother, I identified that the hardest thing for me right now would be leaving my ungrown daughters. They are a strong pull.
I suspect as we age, our perception and perspective of death shifts from What am I leaving? to What I am entering? I'm certain it helps if we have some life experience behind us to make that leap.
In my early 20s, my best friend quickly weakened to cancer, although no one would admit or even talk about it. At his wake, two of us wept at the thought that no one did with him either.
In my 30s, I worked in the funeral industry and became comfortable with what happens after death, how we honor our dead, employ ritual to get us through and encounter grief. I had a miscarriage during that time which personalized the grief and loss and opened a new place in me.
I am ready to look at death in myself and for others very close to me and find a similar new place. Not a locale of fear, but rather one of taking the next step and beginning to let go of our tight grasp on life in favor of something that may be more freeing. Of course, that suggests embracing the unknown. Life is the known and probably the reason for clinging so violently to it. Even if life has been unfair, unkind and painful.
Just what is in that unknown? Is anticipating death any different than exploring our own shadow – the areas the light fails to shine? When I have undertaken that dark jaunt inward, I have found it teeming with life. Life different from the external, but life nonetheless. And, as I uncover what's there, I realize I am also illuminating those places. Could transition from life to death be the same?
What if we were unafraid of death, treating it like a natural phase? Practicing gratitude for the life we have lived, the people we have loved, the lessons we have learned and looking forward to the next adventure. Maybe shifting us out of bodily pain and turmoil into peacefulness.
I don't intend this as a theological discussion, but a practical, natural one.
I do know on several occasions, I have felt the love and presence of family and friends who have left this life ahead of me. Each time I perceived more love than I had prior to the presence. I never experienced fear. What can this suggest? That whatever lies in the afterlife is capable or greater love and travels back to those still here? Where is there any fear in that?
• How has my experience of death shaped my view?
• Can I initiate a conversation about my ideas or fears with someone I trust that could be helpful?
• Have I had an experience that, when explored more fully, opens me to a newer concept of the transition from life?
• To what do I most cling in life?
• What's the message for growth in that?
I am
in dreadful
pain,
yet cling
so very
dearly
to
life,
the
known
unwilling
to
risk
anything
on the
unknown
not
even
explore
what
may
end
the
pain
and
open
me
to
something
more
I observed my 17-year-old cat bounce back from what seemed like near death earlier this summer. And my parents have both been hospitalized in the past two weeks.
So, I wonder.
My mother, who is in good health, it seems, said she's ready when the time arises. She visited her sister often several years ago as she accepted the end of physicality with such grace and faith. In that conversation with my mother, I identified that the hardest thing for me right now would be leaving my ungrown daughters. They are a strong pull.
I suspect as we age, our perception and perspective of death shifts from What am I leaving? to What I am entering? I'm certain it helps if we have some life experience behind us to make that leap.
In my early 20s, my best friend quickly weakened to cancer, although no one would admit or even talk about it. At his wake, two of us wept at the thought that no one did with him either.
In my 30s, I worked in the funeral industry and became comfortable with what happens after death, how we honor our dead, employ ritual to get us through and encounter grief. I had a miscarriage during that time which personalized the grief and loss and opened a new place in me.
I am ready to look at death in myself and for others very close to me and find a similar new place. Not a locale of fear, but rather one of taking the next step and beginning to let go of our tight grasp on life in favor of something that may be more freeing. Of course, that suggests embracing the unknown. Life is the known and probably the reason for clinging so violently to it. Even if life has been unfair, unkind and painful.
Just what is in that unknown? Is anticipating death any different than exploring our own shadow – the areas the light fails to shine? When I have undertaken that dark jaunt inward, I have found it teeming with life. Life different from the external, but life nonetheless. And, as I uncover what's there, I realize I am also illuminating those places. Could transition from life to death be the same?
What if we were unafraid of death, treating it like a natural phase? Practicing gratitude for the life we have lived, the people we have loved, the lessons we have learned and looking forward to the next adventure. Maybe shifting us out of bodily pain and turmoil into peacefulness.
I don't intend this as a theological discussion, but a practical, natural one.
I do know on several occasions, I have felt the love and presence of family and friends who have left this life ahead of me. Each time I perceived more love than I had prior to the presence. I never experienced fear. What can this suggest? That whatever lies in the afterlife is capable or greater love and travels back to those still here? Where is there any fear in that?
• How has my experience of death shaped my view?
• Can I initiate a conversation about my ideas or fears with someone I trust that could be helpful?
• Have I had an experience that, when explored more fully, opens me to a newer concept of the transition from life?
• To what do I most cling in life?
• What's the message for growth in that?
I am
in dreadful
pain,
yet cling
so very
dearly
to
life,
the
known
unwilling
to
risk
anything
on the
unknown
not
even
explore
what
may
end
the
pain
and
open
me
to
something
more
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Nothing beyond the back porch
Yesterday was one of those oddly rare days when everything comes to a standstill. You drop what you're doing and just wait. We waited while our cat waited to die.
As each team of parent and child was about to leave for various destinations, one observant daughter remarked that the cat was still on the porch and looking a bit lethargic. I had heard him trying to hurl a hairball – that unearthly yowl – earlier. Now, he was hunkered down in a corner. I sat beside him and started to pick him up when I noticed the urine. So I let him be and we started to watch, putting aside whatever it was we had intended to do.
His condition worsened and the wrangling began. He's almost 17 and, while struggling, did not seem to be suffering. We all still tasted the bitterness of our last elderly cat dying alone in a cage at the vet, the place she reviled. I knew picking him up, placing him in a box or carrier and transporting him to a clinic was not in his best interest. I didn't think he'd survive the journey, but was uncomfortable making the decision alone. We called everyone together and all agreed he was likely dying, but not in pain. He seemed in transition. And we wanted him home and surrounded by our loving, vigilant care. The same he had given as the newborns whimpered, when he'd circle my legs and cry to get my attention to attend to the baby. Or when I was sick and he'd plop on my bed. Or just a few weeks ago when he seemed to suck the pain from my old hip injury.
Prayerful discernment was NOT at all clear to take him anywhere. We quietly said our goodbyes; some more publicly than others.
All afternoon and evening, we muted our noisiness and centered our lives near him, continually checking, speaking softly and, occasionally, stroking his head. He seemed somewhere else.
It was sad, confusing for the girls, trying and exhausting, but there was also something else happening. There was a certain closeness in our togetherness, bound by our ailing feline friend. As if nothing of the outside world existed beyond our back porch. We puttered, read, ate, and even drug the computer out to watch a movie. I sensed he was comforted by our presence from his remote corner.
We barricaded the porch doors, confined his entrance to the kitchen, supplied food, water and bedding and left the back door open. My husband even slept on the living room couch to keep guard – whether of the cat or raccoons, I am not certain.
Then we all attempted to settle into sleep. The girls huddled in one room together and I dozed, waking once-in-a-while wondering if the cat's illness had been a dream, then drowsily remembering it was real.
I met the girls in the bathroom about 7:30 and we ventured down the stairs together, not wanting to be alone in any discovery. We were greeted by my smiling husband, who announced the cat had just eaten and purred as he does every morning.
We were joyously astounded. Secretly, I suspect none of us imagined he'd survive the night.
He's been incredibly hungry and wanting to be touched. We have lovingly complied, yet are still watching, giving him space and time to recuperate, heal or go wherever he is called.
It was an unusual second day of summer, but a wonderful gift in being called together to patiently wait. I can't help but see the spiritual overtones. I know summer always revs up, catching me off guard and unhappy as the speedometer ratchets up each week. Perhaps, in addition to spending time with our furry one, we were led to slow down and just be. Not rush.
Once again, this wonderful, elderly cat we affectionately call Him Kitty has facilitated a loving offering.
• What's it like to accompany sickness, grief or even death?
• How is that if experienced in community or with others?
• In dropping all else, have I been aware of some joy, comfort, gift or insight?
• How has that changed me?
• What has that kind of experience taught me about awareness?
Rushing
out the
door
almost
forgetting
you
my furry
friend
who asks
for so
little,
yet
offers
so much
you're
not
yourself
today
you
need
tending,
though
you
would
not ask
so, we
stay
and tend
lovingly,
for we
recognize
just
how
much
you've
brought us
even
now,
on
this day
of waiting
and
wondering
As each team of parent and child was about to leave for various destinations, one observant daughter remarked that the cat was still on the porch and looking a bit lethargic. I had heard him trying to hurl a hairball – that unearthly yowl – earlier. Now, he was hunkered down in a corner. I sat beside him and started to pick him up when I noticed the urine. So I let him be and we started to watch, putting aside whatever it was we had intended to do.
His condition worsened and the wrangling began. He's almost 17 and, while struggling, did not seem to be suffering. We all still tasted the bitterness of our last elderly cat dying alone in a cage at the vet, the place she reviled. I knew picking him up, placing him in a box or carrier and transporting him to a clinic was not in his best interest. I didn't think he'd survive the journey, but was uncomfortable making the decision alone. We called everyone together and all agreed he was likely dying, but not in pain. He seemed in transition. And we wanted him home and surrounded by our loving, vigilant care. The same he had given as the newborns whimpered, when he'd circle my legs and cry to get my attention to attend to the baby. Or when I was sick and he'd plop on my bed. Or just a few weeks ago when he seemed to suck the pain from my old hip injury.
Prayerful discernment was NOT at all clear to take him anywhere. We quietly said our goodbyes; some more publicly than others.
All afternoon and evening, we muted our noisiness and centered our lives near him, continually checking, speaking softly and, occasionally, stroking his head. He seemed somewhere else.
It was sad, confusing for the girls, trying and exhausting, but there was also something else happening. There was a certain closeness in our togetherness, bound by our ailing feline friend. As if nothing of the outside world existed beyond our back porch. We puttered, read, ate, and even drug the computer out to watch a movie. I sensed he was comforted by our presence from his remote corner.
We barricaded the porch doors, confined his entrance to the kitchen, supplied food, water and bedding and left the back door open. My husband even slept on the living room couch to keep guard – whether of the cat or raccoons, I am not certain.
Then we all attempted to settle into sleep. The girls huddled in one room together and I dozed, waking once-in-a-while wondering if the cat's illness had been a dream, then drowsily remembering it was real.
I met the girls in the bathroom about 7:30 and we ventured down the stairs together, not wanting to be alone in any discovery. We were greeted by my smiling husband, who announced the cat had just eaten and purred as he does every morning.
We were joyously astounded. Secretly, I suspect none of us imagined he'd survive the night.
He's been incredibly hungry and wanting to be touched. We have lovingly complied, yet are still watching, giving him space and time to recuperate, heal or go wherever he is called.
It was an unusual second day of summer, but a wonderful gift in being called together to patiently wait. I can't help but see the spiritual overtones. I know summer always revs up, catching me off guard and unhappy as the speedometer ratchets up each week. Perhaps, in addition to spending time with our furry one, we were led to slow down and just be. Not rush.
Once again, this wonderful, elderly cat we affectionately call Him Kitty has facilitated a loving offering.
• What's it like to accompany sickness, grief or even death?
• How is that if experienced in community or with others?
• In dropping all else, have I been aware of some joy, comfort, gift or insight?
• How has that changed me?
• What has that kind of experience taught me about awareness?
Rushing
out the
door
almost
forgetting
you
my furry
friend
who asks
for so
little,
yet
offers
so much
you're
not
yourself
today
you
need
tending,
though
you
would
not ask
so, we
stay
and tend
lovingly,
for we
recognize
just
how
much
you've
brought us
even
now,
on
this day
of waiting
and
wondering
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The furry portal
As my oldest cat, almost 16, is slowing down in life, I am beginning to see him as a portal. To a new energy source and something so BIG.
I think I knew this subconsciously, but now am beginning to know it more tangibly.
Two days ago, I felt the urge to hold him. I found him in a favorite, tucked-away corner and bent down to retrieve him. Cradled in my arms as I started to stand erect, I felt a twinge move fiercely across my lower back/sacral area. The source of so much in my life, including pain. I have learned how to navigate strained and pulled muscles rather well, but sensed this was something else. Instinct forced me to instantaneously sit and I realized the wave had taken something away, replaced it with something else and loosened that part of my body. All in one brief swoop – while I held my cat.
I hugged him tighter, massaged his hips to see if he took the pain and looked into his eyes. He, definitely, knew something. An ability – until then – hidden from me. An older cat, who died a year-and-a-half ago, possessed it, too. They spent a lot of time in each other's company, pretending not to notice one another. They were not close, nor did they fight. Perhaps she transferred something to him before she went to the purple place,* he acquired it recently or always had it. I'll never know.
And, it really doesn't matter. He does, however, since that experience, hang closer to me than I remember.
I've been paying attention to that area of my body, wanting to believe something real took place, not pushing it and trying to trust. This morning I headed to yoga and figured this would be the time to see what's been happening internally over the past several days.
I felt strong and flexible – even in my lower back. That right side was able to relax in child's pose as it hasn't ever. I didn't engage in yoga until I was searching for pain relief, about 10 years ago,
I am feeling bursts of energy more and more, traveling through that previously locked and dark place. I have been considering what was (b)locked there, not a new notion. Doubt, fear, anxiety and some self hatred. Triggered first by a miscarriage (and I think my body still clings to try to bring that baby back) and then a car accident.
A year ago or so, I started saying affirmations to my body as a cleansing act of self forgiveness. Maybe a shift started then. Perhaps, I'll back slide. I don't know. Yet, I feel in a new place, one of confidence in myself, the work to which I am called and where I stand in the world. That's been the past few weeks.
Maybe my cat has sensed that and the Universe/Spirit/God has responded. I am grateful.
* The purple place is my girls' and my term for the afterlife, inspired by a beautiful painting
• Have I ever had an unexplained or unusual experience with an animal?
• What do animals mean to me spiritually?
• What in my life has been a portal to something bigger?
• Have I been able to trust that?
• Have I ever shared that experience?
for a
dozen
years,
I have
pushed
to force
my body
back
into
position
the more
relaxed
place
it used
to be
forced
I forced
somewhere
along
the way,
I simply
gave up
accepted
my body
where it
was
even
forgave it
recently,
out of
the blue
my
thinning,
elderly
cat
breathed
new energy
into
that old
wound
I think I knew this subconsciously, but now am beginning to know it more tangibly.
Two days ago, I felt the urge to hold him. I found him in a favorite, tucked-away corner and bent down to retrieve him. Cradled in my arms as I started to stand erect, I felt a twinge move fiercely across my lower back/sacral area. The source of so much in my life, including pain. I have learned how to navigate strained and pulled muscles rather well, but sensed this was something else. Instinct forced me to instantaneously sit and I realized the wave had taken something away, replaced it with something else and loosened that part of my body. All in one brief swoop – while I held my cat.
I hugged him tighter, massaged his hips to see if he took the pain and looked into his eyes. He, definitely, knew something. An ability – until then – hidden from me. An older cat, who died a year-and-a-half ago, possessed it, too. They spent a lot of time in each other's company, pretending not to notice one another. They were not close, nor did they fight. Perhaps she transferred something to him before she went to the purple place,* he acquired it recently or always had it. I'll never know.
And, it really doesn't matter. He does, however, since that experience, hang closer to me than I remember.
I've been paying attention to that area of my body, wanting to believe something real took place, not pushing it and trying to trust. This morning I headed to yoga and figured this would be the time to see what's been happening internally over the past several days.
I felt strong and flexible – even in my lower back. That right side was able to relax in child's pose as it hasn't ever. I didn't engage in yoga until I was searching for pain relief, about 10 years ago,
I am feeling bursts of energy more and more, traveling through that previously locked and dark place. I have been considering what was (b)locked there, not a new notion. Doubt, fear, anxiety and some self hatred. Triggered first by a miscarriage (and I think my body still clings to try to bring that baby back) and then a car accident.
A year ago or so, I started saying affirmations to my body as a cleansing act of self forgiveness. Maybe a shift started then. Perhaps, I'll back slide. I don't know. Yet, I feel in a new place, one of confidence in myself, the work to which I am called and where I stand in the world. That's been the past few weeks.
Maybe my cat has sensed that and the Universe/Spirit/God has responded. I am grateful.
* The purple place is my girls' and my term for the afterlife, inspired by a beautiful painting
• Have I ever had an unexplained or unusual experience with an animal?
• What do animals mean to me spiritually?
• What in my life has been a portal to something bigger?
• Have I been able to trust that?
• Have I ever shared that experience?
for a
dozen
years,
I have
pushed
to force
my body
back
into
position
the more
relaxed
place
it used
to be
forced
I forced
somewhere
along
the way,
I simply
gave up
accepted
my body
where it
was
even
forgave it
recently,
out of
the blue
my
thinning,
elderly
cat
breathed
new energy
into
that old
wound
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