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d_aulnoySo, today, I'm learning something about grieving. Not so much about the process, but about the etiquette, and the ways in which to do it right.
See, yesterday morning, I thought my cat just threw up a lot, which, what of it? She was a cat. It is kind of their thing.
Our appointment was set for eight o'clock. At seven, she was sleeping on my feet. At seven thirty, she was sitting in my lap. At seven forty five, she was resisting getting into the carrier, at eight fifteen, she was resisting getting her temperature taken by clambering right over my shoulder and back into her carrier, and around eight forty-five the doctor came back into the room to tell me that while they were trying to get a basic abdominal ultrasound, she had some kind of a seizure.
And four hours later, she died.
She was nine. So, you know, I'd kind of been planning on having a little more time.
An hour after that, I had a doctor's appointment. I burst into tears at the "How are you?" from the receptionist, which kinda necessitated an explanation, and elicited a brisk "So sorry" and back to business. The nurse did his best to maintain a steady stream of idle conversation to distract me, which was very well intentioned, but too much effort to respond to. And the doctor squeezed my shoulder and asked me a few questions about her and told me about his dog, and how it had died of pancreatic cancer, and how that had made him feel.
I'm one of those people who sucks at grief: I never really know what to say. But, the next time I'm on the other side of the fence, I know who I'll be trying to emulate.
Gypsy was a perfectly wonderful cat. In nine years, she never once scratched or bit, not even when I had to pull a piece of litter that had gotten into her eye out with tweezers. Most people I know would bite if you came at their eyes with tweezers. She slept at the foot of my bed every night and curled up on my lap every chance she got, and then only if my shoulders were unavailable. She was an incredibly picky eater, acknowledging only two brands of food, one wet and one dry, and she was perfectly capable of going on long-term hunger strikes if she wasn't given her way, but she also loved to lick photographs ans ISBN codes. She could open doors with her paws, she had to explore every box she found, and all the shiny things in the world belonged to her, according to the shameless logic of cats. She was perfectly awful at being a cat - pointed instead of hunting, set her tail on fire, fell behind a bookcase and got stuck there, etc., etc. - but she was absolutely fantastic at being amusing, sympathetic, companionable. You know, just at ... being. That cat was with me from the year I moved out, through my entire graduate career, through every relationship I had. Her passing really feels like the end of ... something, and that something is better than the cliche of "era," something intangible and very feline in nature.
I am really going to miss her. She was family. Thank you all so much for your kind words and sympathy: it means more than I can say.
See, yesterday morning, I thought my cat just threw up a lot, which, what of it? She was a cat. It is kind of their thing.
Our appointment was set for eight o'clock. At seven, she was sleeping on my feet. At seven thirty, she was sitting in my lap. At seven forty five, she was resisting getting into the carrier, at eight fifteen, she was resisting getting her temperature taken by clambering right over my shoulder and back into her carrier, and around eight forty-five the doctor came back into the room to tell me that while they were trying to get a basic abdominal ultrasound, she had some kind of a seizure.
And four hours later, she died.
She was nine. So, you know, I'd kind of been planning on having a little more time.
An hour after that, I had a doctor's appointment. I burst into tears at the "How are you?" from the receptionist, which kinda necessitated an explanation, and elicited a brisk "So sorry" and back to business. The nurse did his best to maintain a steady stream of idle conversation to distract me, which was very well intentioned, but too much effort to respond to. And the doctor squeezed my shoulder and asked me a few questions about her and told me about his dog, and how it had died of pancreatic cancer, and how that had made him feel.
I'm one of those people who sucks at grief: I never really know what to say. But, the next time I'm on the other side of the fence, I know who I'll be trying to emulate.
Gypsy was a perfectly wonderful cat. In nine years, she never once scratched or bit, not even when I had to pull a piece of litter that had gotten into her eye out with tweezers. Most people I know would bite if you came at their eyes with tweezers. She slept at the foot of my bed every night and curled up on my lap every chance she got, and then only if my shoulders were unavailable. She was an incredibly picky eater, acknowledging only two brands of food, one wet and one dry, and she was perfectly capable of going on long-term hunger strikes if she wasn't given her way, but she also loved to lick photographs ans ISBN codes. She could open doors with her paws, she had to explore every box she found, and all the shiny things in the world belonged to her, according to the shameless logic of cats. She was perfectly awful at being a cat - pointed instead of hunting, set her tail on fire, fell behind a bookcase and got stuck there, etc., etc. - but she was absolutely fantastic at being amusing, sympathetic, companionable. You know, just at ... being. That cat was with me from the year I moved out, through my entire graduate career, through every relationship I had. Her passing really feels like the end of ... something, and that something is better than the cliche of "era," something intangible and very feline in nature.
I am really going to miss her. She was family. Thank you all so much for your kind words and sympathy: it means more than I can say.
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Date: 2008-09-15 05:06 pm (UTC)