Intertwined Grief

Watching my 19-year-old cat decline has stirred up so much grief that is intertwined with the deaths of my parents and husband. Although she can eat, drink, use the litterbox, and get up on the couch and bed, she’s slowing down and walking like an old cat. I took her to the vet last week, who said she looked good for being 19. She has arthritis and is losing muscle tone. I’ve chosen comfort care, giving her medication to ease the pain. Unfortunately, I know that it’s just a matter of time before I must let her go. I didn’t expect how all the grief I held in my body would be brought to the surface.

I think of my mom, a vital woman involved in everything, slowly slipping away from a blood disorder and Alzheimer’s. I remember that every time I would visit my parents in Florida, I would see how she was diminishing before my eyes. Because I would see my parents only twice a year, the deterioration was jarring. The first day, as I suffered from jetlag, would be the hardest as my defenses were down, and I would be overwhelmed with sadness. As the visit continued, I would adjust to this new reality. The three of us would play cards, go out to dinner and visit. In 2019, I used my phone to record conversations with my parents, having them tell me stories about their lives. In April 2020, I made an unplanned trip when my mom had to undergo emergency surgery at the height of the pandemic. That was a tough trip as we could not be with her at the hospital; she was sick and confused, and my dad was distraught. I stayed almost 3 weeks, two of which she was in the hospital. She was depleted from her illness when she came home but still had a sparkle. One day before I left, she was her old self cognitively and let me lay in bed with her, a space usually reserved only for my dad. I’m forever grateful for that window of time as that would be the last visit with her. Because I developed a debilitating illness in May 2020 that took almost 2 years to recover from, I could not travel to see her before she died on January 23, 2022. I was fortunate to talk with her on the phone and have her repeat how proud she was of me and how I reinvented my life, something I will always treasure. I was also grateful for the recording because I would listen to it after her death, and it brought me great comfort.

It also brings up memories of the last two months of my dad’s life. Fortunately, I could make two trips back to see and help care for him. On the first visit in June, he could still function, though his memory and physical abilities were in decline. He needed assistance with some of his care. It was a privilege to give back to my dad for all he had done for me throughout my lifetime. He still loved sharing stories about his life, and I would listen to them, knowing I was lucky to hear his voice. We enjoyed a lovely Father’s Day, my dad surrounded by his loved ones. We went to his favorite hot dog stand that had been there since he was a kid. I got to celebrate my last birthday with him as well. I stayed for seventeen days before flying home to Phoenix.

I was only home for two weeks before I headed back to Syracuse. My dad had gone downhill quickly during that time, unable to walk more than a foot to the commode. The day after my arrival, he was in a hospital bed in the living room, where he would spend the rest of his days until his death on July 24, six months and a day after my mom died. The last ten days of his life were hard as he slowly slipped from the dad I knew to a person living in the in-between. When we weren’t meeting my dad’s needs, I would sit beside him and hold his hand. I just wanted to soak in every moment that I had with him. I held his hand until two in the morning when he died. I woke up, went to the bathroom, and lay beside him in the chair. I didn’t hold his hand because my arm was sore from the position it had been in. At 4:30, I woke up, and he was no longer breathing. It was like the absence of life woke me.

Although Mike’s death was sudden, I lost him slowly to the disease of addiction. Our marriage didn’t start out with this problem. There were hard times and moments of grace as his illness progressed. Although he had physical pain, the pain medicines served to dull the psychic pain of anxiety and depression that haunted him most of his life. Mike tried to stop, but it was always for me and not for himself. Quitting to appease someone else never works. Opioid addiction is a tough battle, made worse when he suffered from it when the doctors gave it out like candy. Mike slipped away from me emotionally and physically before he was pronounced dead. Because Mike was only 55, I didn’t think I would lose him to this disease. He had taken too much medicine before, which landed him in the hospital, rehab, and IOP. The hardest part of someone dying from addiction is the death of hope that they could recover. It was death out of time.

As I watch Bella, I’m trying to gauge how she’s doing and if the medicine is helping. I know that at some point, I will have to decide to do what is best for her. I’ve learned from death and grief to enjoy every moment of life. I can’t make her live forever, but I can find moments of joy with her for as long as she does live.