Two years ago today, I had to say good bye to you forever. There are some times when that day seems like a lifetime away, so much has happened since then. Other times, it feels like a giant wound that just keeps getting reopened. I don't remember everything thing about the 30 days you spent in the hospital. I don't remember every single visit, every step forward or set of steps back. But I remember every single wretched thing about the day you died.
On Thursday, January 26th, 2006 you had a great day. The following day, you began the downward spiral. By Saturday, your mother had requested all treatment be stopped except for a morphine drip. On Sunday, January 29th, I picked myself up and went to the hospital with the purpose of saying good bye to you. You were unresponsive and I knew that you would not have wanted me to put myself through the wringer every single day until you passed. So I drove the mile and a half from my home to Moffitt Cancer Center. I wore a maroon Polo shirt, blue jeans and brown leather sandals. Isn't it ridiculous that I remember that? I remember seeing you so small, so weak and so different from the man I knew. You were tossing and turning, but not aware of your surroundings. I held your hand, and said your name loudly. You turned and our eyes locked for the last time. I couldn't make out any recognition in them as I said "good bye" with tears running down my face. I went and sat down on the chair in the corner of that awful room to collect myself. I could see the nurses at the station across the hall trying not to stare, but I could feel their sympathy. I remember wondering how many times a day they saw this type of thing and how they kept their sanity.
After I managed to pull myself together, I drove home and tried to have a day. I didn't know how long we'd have to deal with you being partly here but mostly gone. That afternoon, Jill came over to teach me how to use my new sewing machine. We sewed pillows for my couch, which I had just bought new slipcovers for. We sat at my table, avoiding the obvious and just talked about nothing. Later we ordered a pizza and garlic bread, my treat for her helping. I asked Jill if she wanted to sleep over. I thought she might not want to go home to an empty house, but she surprised me and said she wanted to just be by herself.
Dean and I watched TV for awhile and then went to bed. I couldn't sleep but could hear Dean's steady deep breathing as my mind wandered to the inevitable. At 11:18 pm, the phone rang and I just knew. I answered it with a knot in my stomach to hear Jill say in the tiniest voice I've ever heard, "He's gone, Natalie."
Do you want to know the dumbest thing? It took me one and a half years to step foot in the Moffitt Cancer Center, even though passing through it while on campus is often much more convenient than avoiding it. When I finally stepped through the door the familiar scent from that day left me nearly paralyzed. But I went in and have done it several times since. I still think I see you sometimes when someone with your shape enters my peripheral vision. I dream of you often, sometimes in them I know you are dead, other times it's as if nothing has changed and I'm upset to wake up and remember the truth. Then there are moments that take me utterly by surprise because your memory catches me off guard.
One such moment happened when I was cleaning out the medicine drawer. When Allie was a kitten, she had a runny eye. The vet said it was herpes and that I should crush up a half of an l-lysine tablet and mix it in some wet food twice a day. I quickly learned that if I didn't crush the pill up well enough, she ate around the bigger pieces and left them. Since crushing the pills to a fine powder two times a day was difficult and time consuming, one day I took the bottle with me to the lab, planning to crush a few with the mortar and pestle and then use a small scoop to measure out what I needed from the powder. When you caught wind of my idea, You became excited about it because you used a mortar and pestle everyday and "developed just the right technique" for such a job. I remember watching you that day, your huge hands diligently crushing up pills for a sick little kitten and my heart was warmed. You loved my kitties (and everyone else's!) so very much. When I stopped just feeding the ferals and started doing TNR and kitten rescue, I couldn't help but think what a kick you would have gotten out of snuggling the babies. Maybe you would have even kept one for yourself.
So just a couple of days ago when I came across that bottle of l-lysine with some powder still in it, well I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Maybe in a couple more years I'll be ready. But right now I'm still taking my time.
On Thursday, January 26th, 2006 you had a great day. The following day, you began the downward spiral. By Saturday, your mother had requested all treatment be stopped except for a morphine drip. On Sunday, January 29th, I picked myself up and went to the hospital with the purpose of saying good bye to you. You were unresponsive and I knew that you would not have wanted me to put myself through the wringer every single day until you passed. So I drove the mile and a half from my home to Moffitt Cancer Center. I wore a maroon Polo shirt, blue jeans and brown leather sandals. Isn't it ridiculous that I remember that? I remember seeing you so small, so weak and so different from the man I knew. You were tossing and turning, but not aware of your surroundings. I held your hand, and said your name loudly. You turned and our eyes locked for the last time. I couldn't make out any recognition in them as I said "good bye" with tears running down my face. I went and sat down on the chair in the corner of that awful room to collect myself. I could see the nurses at the station across the hall trying not to stare, but I could feel their sympathy. I remember wondering how many times a day they saw this type of thing and how they kept their sanity.
After I managed to pull myself together, I drove home and tried to have a day. I didn't know how long we'd have to deal with you being partly here but mostly gone. That afternoon, Jill came over to teach me how to use my new sewing machine. We sewed pillows for my couch, which I had just bought new slipcovers for. We sat at my table, avoiding the obvious and just talked about nothing. Later we ordered a pizza and garlic bread, my treat for her helping. I asked Jill if she wanted to sleep over. I thought she might not want to go home to an empty house, but she surprised me and said she wanted to just be by herself.
Dean and I watched TV for awhile and then went to bed. I couldn't sleep but could hear Dean's steady deep breathing as my mind wandered to the inevitable. At 11:18 pm, the phone rang and I just knew. I answered it with a knot in my stomach to hear Jill say in the tiniest voice I've ever heard, "He's gone, Natalie."
Do you want to know the dumbest thing? It took me one and a half years to step foot in the Moffitt Cancer Center, even though passing through it while on campus is often much more convenient than avoiding it. When I finally stepped through the door the familiar scent from that day left me nearly paralyzed. But I went in and have done it several times since. I still think I see you sometimes when someone with your shape enters my peripheral vision. I dream of you often, sometimes in them I know you are dead, other times it's as if nothing has changed and I'm upset to wake up and remember the truth. Then there are moments that take me utterly by surprise because your memory catches me off guard.
One such moment happened when I was cleaning out the medicine drawer. When Allie was a kitten, she had a runny eye. The vet said it was herpes and that I should crush up a half of an l-lysine tablet and mix it in some wet food twice a day. I quickly learned that if I didn't crush the pill up well enough, she ate around the bigger pieces and left them. Since crushing the pills to a fine powder two times a day was difficult and time consuming, one day I took the bottle with me to the lab, planning to crush a few with the mortar and pestle and then use a small scoop to measure out what I needed from the powder. When you caught wind of my idea, You became excited about it because you used a mortar and pestle everyday and "developed just the right technique" for such a job. I remember watching you that day, your huge hands diligently crushing up pills for a sick little kitten and my heart was warmed. You loved my kitties (and everyone else's!) so very much. When I stopped just feeding the ferals and started doing TNR and kitten rescue, I couldn't help but think what a kick you would have gotten out of snuggling the babies. Maybe you would have even kept one for yourself.
So just a couple of days ago when I came across that bottle of l-lysine with some powder still in it, well I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Maybe in a couple more years I'll be ready. But right now I'm still taking my time.
