Last Tuesday I phoned my mother up, distraught over my cat. It had hit me that day that my cat was going to die. Although I knew she was dying, I felt a terrible certainty that there wasn’t much time left. The rest of the week passed with the same awful feeling spreading its weight over my shoulders. I was late for work every day; I couldn’t sleep, was struggling to eat, and had no energy. Tears kept welling up in my eyes at random, inappropriate times. All I could think of was going home to see her, all I could worry about was that I wouldn’t be able to hold her one last time. I clung to the fact that the last time I saw her, she had climbed onto my lap and I had shoved her off, and kept beating myself over it. This weekend I went home, determined to reassure myself that I was being irrational. But my cat was not in a good way at all. My parents had decided that they were going to take her to the vets on Monday. Today. On Sunday I held her for the last time. She was light and bony, her heart was pounding with the effort of staying alive. I told her how much I loved her. I didn’t want to let her go.
Today, she went to the vets.
She went to sleep for the last time.
I received the message from my parents at work. I couldn’t get away from my desk fast enough. I sat outside the office in a private area, fighting back tears. Then I took several deep breaths and went back inside to work. Even now, I am trying not to cry. I do not want to accept this reality.
I do not know how to process this. My top coping method for when I am feeling this sad is to go home for some cat therapy – to cuddle her, to play with her, just to be around her. I’ll never be able to do that again.