~ I started this blog this morning after making an appt with the vet to come put Luna to sleep tonight. I wrote throughout the day in order to keep my mind focused and not to let it get overwhelmed and wander into places it shouldn't go. I realize to some of you, this is all a little much. To some of you, Luna was "just" a cat. But to us, she was family. And this experience opened up so many wounds inside of me that I now realize were not healed, but just scabbed over. Nearly 4 years ago, I lost my mom. Today, I lost Luna. And though some people may not understand...the experiences were incredibly similar. There are many lessons to be learned today. I have promised that I won't let grief be silent. I lived this day. I didn't pretend it wasn't happening. I lived it. Every moment.
Today Luna died.
And this is the story of how I lived this day. ~
And now there is a clock ticking in my head. Luna's life is down to 9 hours. I'm nauseated. My hands are shaking. I have a pounding headache and the tears won't stop falling. I'm going to leave this page open today and just blog randomly throughout the day as my own way of saying good-bye to this precious cat of ours.
The vet told me that I needed to be prepared for the chance that she won't be able to get a vein on Luna and will need to put a mask over her face to administer the medication to put her to sleep. I am praying this won't happen.
10:30am - I go into Jonathan's room and sit down as I have for several weeks and administer more bad news. This is the last time when it comes to Luna though. I tell him the vet is coming at 6:30. He shuts down and puts all his effort into not crying. It breaks my heart. And I do cry. I don't hide my own emotions from him. But he's almost 15 and is embarrassed to cry in front of his mom. I expect it will come tonight, but for now I ask him if he wants me to leave to which he replies, "yes" and so I respect him enough to walk away instead of wrapping myself around him like I want to do.
11:00am - I go out to the fridge in the garage and manage to pinch my finger between the freezer and fridge door. I yell, "Damn!" and then absolutely lose it. I sob. It's a recognizable sob that I haven't felt in years. It comes from a place in my heart where grief resides. It is the same sob I cried when the realization hit me, just days before my mom died, that I would never hear her voice again. It is guttural and painful and comes from the cracks inside my heart. Lexa, our youngest cat, comes through the cat door and tries to comfort me. She hates when anyone in the family is emotional. Thus, she has done a lot of comforting me over the years.
11:30am - Christopher has been awake for a bit, but I'm procrastinating on talking to him. Ultimately, he comes downstairs. I am sitting at the kitchen table. I ask him to come sit with me. The tears immediately start welling up in his eyes. He knows what's coming. We talk for quite a while. We both cry. He is wise beyond his years. And so incredibly compassionate.
12:00pm - I find myself in a weird surreal place where I am on Amazon searching for cat urns. Amazon really does sell everything.
12:30pm - I finally muster up enough strength to take a shower. It seems like too much energy as the anticipatory grief is sucking every last ounce of energy stores out of me.
1:15pm - I slowly pick up Luna from the floor and move her to Christopher's bed. She immediately snuggles in. She doesn't have the ability to jump up there anymore (she was always such an amazing jumper). She came down last night to try and use the litter box we moved upstairs for her, but instead she went on the floor. I know that has to be devastating for her because she has always been an incredibly clean cat. As I move her, she smells my fingers. I had just made a turkey sandwich for Christopher. I run downstairs and grab some turkey and bring some to her. She eats a bite or two. It feels like her last meal. Christopher and I look at each other and start to cry again.
2:00pm - I head to the grocery store. Feeling odd to be running errands during Luna's last hours. But we need comfort food...and wine...I need wine. I hadn't had an alcoholic drink in about 10 years before my mom got sick. Then wine and I became reacquainted It's a crutch, I know. But it's one I appreciate now and then with the stress in my life.
2:30pm - While in the grocery store, I begin to cry in the cat food aisle when I realize I won't be buying Luna's favorite snacks ever again. I loved our morning ritual when she would run downstairs and I would say, "Where are the snacks, Luna?" and she would lead me directly to the pantry. I know it's these little things that will hit me a lot over the coming days and weeks.
3:00pm - I arrive home and I sit in my car in the driveway. And I cry. I look up at my windows and know I'll never see Luna waiting for us again.
3:30pm - Christopher comes downstairs to talk to me. As he is walking away to head back upstairs, I say, "Hey...come give me a hug". I knew it's what he needed and he nearly runs into my arms and he sobs. The same sob I cried in the garage this morning. But it's his first time. It's even more painful to hear it come out of him than it is to experience it myself.
4:15pm - 2 hours and 15 minutes. That's what's left of Luna's life. I'm sick with anticipation. I want to call the vet and say, "Don't come. Please, please don't come." But I know I can't. I pet Luna and tell her how much I love her for the hundredth time in the past few days.
4:30pm - Christopher runs downstairs and tells me that Luna just fell off of his bed. I run upstairs, she is lying on the floor. He said she looked like she was trying to jump off and just lost her balance and landed on her back. Christopher and I sit with her on the floor and cry. This is hell. But another reminder that we are doing the right thing. This needs to end for all of us, but especially Luna. I find it mildly ironic that I received an early morning call from my dad's assisted living community this morning informing me that when the nurse arrived to give my dad his 8:00am meds, they found him on the floor next to his bed. He had fallen out of bed overnight and couldn't get up and couldn't reach his pendant to call for help. What a helpless and terrifying night it must have been for him. My heart is aching and in the midst of the pain, I also feel numb.
The rain pours again today. This morning I stood outside in it as the warm, summer rain fell on me. It's been a long while since we've had this kind of weather. It felt soothing and cleansing and appropriate for a day like today. All the windows are open in the house now. I don't care if water comes inside. It's as though the clouds and the heavens are crying for Luna too. But also preparing to meet her and to welcome her. I feel oddly separated from, and connected to, the universe at the same time.
Lessons. So many lessons. I know the universe is calling me to listen. To learn.
I know I'm well into middle-age now. I know the older I get, the more grief will visit me. I recognize grief. It is familiar to me. It is similar to that old friend who only comes around every now and then, but you easily pick up right where you left off. I know grief is my friend. I know the growth that comes with grief. And I know that grief never truly goes away...just evolves and comes back around when it's time to visit again. Yet, that doesn't make it any less painful when it appears.
I know that grief is always a risk in love. But I want my boys to know that the risk of grief is not worth giving up on love. I know that I would never feel this grief without immense love and for that I am grateful. I am grateful to Luna for loving my boys the way she has which is now causing heartbreaking pain as they lose her. But they will never, ever lose they love she gave them. It is a gift they will carry forever.
4:45pm - 1 hour and 45 minutes left. It's too close. Anticipatory grief, who has been living with us for weeks now, is preparing to leave as grief itself arrives.
5:15 - Olly is in the car on the way home. The clock is my head is ticking loudly. My hands are shaking. My breathing is rapid. There is such a heaviness in my heart. This is the closest I've been to a panic attack in 8 years. I've got it under control because I've done a LOT of work on panic. But that isn't stopping the panic from trying to break through all the defense mechanisms I have developed to keep it out. I'll beat this one though. Panic doesn't get to win today. I'll take the grief, but not the panic.
So, I clean. I take out all the garbage. I throw out all of Luna's meds, but not before taking a picture of all of them to remind myself how hard we fought. I busy myself.
And then I swing by the upstairs bathroom. Jonathan is just finishing up a shower. Waiting outside the bathroom door is Luna. For as long as I can remember, she has waited for him after his shower. They had a ritual. He puts the wet towel on the floor and she sits on it and they hang out. She's always liked wet towels. She hasn't been outside the bathroom door for the past 5 weeks. But today, she is there. She can't scratch on the door. She can't call to him. So, I let him know she is there. He opens the door and she goes right in. She is telling him good-bye. There is no question that she is saying her good-byes.
And here come the tears again...
5:40pm - Luna's time is down to minutes instead of hours now. The skies have opened up here. It is dark and wet outside. It is definitely appropriate. The news says there could be a tornado. Of course there could. The world should be upside down today. Tornadoes in places that don't get tornadoes. Luna is leaving. Everything is topsy-turvy.
I find myself walking around the house lighting candles. Apparently you can take the girl out of the church, but you can't take the Catholic out of the girl. It seems instinctive.
Texts are starting to come in from people letting me know we're being thought of. It warms my heart and slows my breathing. The loveliest sentiments are sent to me on my FB page. The world is a good place.
5:45pm - I realize I'm dehydrated. I've had no water all day. I guzzle 24 oz of water and feel remarkably better. I find my Star of Bethlehem flower essence (it "softens the impact of shock, grief or fright") and I take a vial full.
And I breathe. It's down to that. One breath in, one breath out. That's all that's required of me right now.
6pm - 30 minutes until the vet arrives. We all seem to want to be near Luna now. The way she looks at us tells me she understands. My back is aching. I've always carried my stress in my back. Trying to relax and let go.
It's strange knowing the time someone is going to die. I couldn't help but think about people on death row and what the day of their execution must be like for them. It's the only thing I can think of that could be similar to knowing your time of death...as silly as the correlation is. I have to say...if I ever thought I wanted to know when I was going to die...I definitely don't now.
6:45 - The vet is here. Breathe. In. Out. Repeat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She's gone. Luna is gone. My heart is in little tiny pieces.
Olly, Christopher and I were with her through the entire process. There was no mask. She went peacefully. The wonderful vet was so compassionate to Luna and us.
Jonathan bravely chose to do things his way and stayed in his room. At first apologizing until I assured him that he has every right to do this his way. I am incredibly proud of both of my boys for taking care of their hearts and making the right choices for themselves.
And now grief is here. Grief is living in my home for a while. I didn't want this visit, but I welcome grief into my home as I know the lessons are important and enormous and powerful and necessary for myself and my family in different ways. We all have a different path to walk through this process. We will do it alone and we will do it together. That's what families do.
Thank you to all of you who graciously held space for my family today and over the past several weeks. Thank you to all the vets who were involved in Luna's care. The past 5 weeks have been complete hell. Now the healing begins. It will be long. It will be slow. But we will heal.
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