And Then There Were Four

January 26, 2018 — 16 Comments

Dear Journal,

I think it was about 7:30 at night when Mr. Tiddles released his last breath. I’m guessing. My sobbing kept me from noticing. I cradled his body against my chest and repeated how sorry I was when his distended stomach collapsed one last time. I felt powerless and inadequate. I didn’t want him to hurt. I didn’t want him to panic. But I had no power over either. That is why I apologized, because I couldn’t do anything but hold him and wait.

His last moment wasn’t how I preferred his ending to be. I didn’t want to be there to watch him go. I wanted to be at work or out shopping or anywhere away because I knew I wouldn’t have the courage to bravely say goodbye, and I was right. But then again, maybe being there gave him comfort while crossing over.

7:30 is a good guess. My husband and I arrived at the emergency animal clinic, his corpse still cradled in a towel and held against my chest, at about 8:00. By then, I had stopped apologizing and my sobs had dwindled to an occasional spasm; however, I still needed a moment in the parking lot before I could take him in and ask them “what do I do now?”

That’s all I want to share about that. The night of January 17 is one I don’t care to relive much, even in words. I’m trying to forget it, waiting for this memory to feel more like a bad dream. Maybe next month.

I worried about my husband afterwards. Still do. In our 12 years together, I’ve seen him cry 3 times, if my memories are accurate. But while explaining our situation to the nurse at the front desk of the clinic, his voice cracked and number four was added to my recollections. While I’m cautious about expressing my grief in his presence (and therefore exacerbating his own), I don’t want to act like nothing is wrong. However, when he hurts, I hurt, and bearing the sorrow of two isn’t easy.

Two days later, I waited in my car at the usual pick-up spot after my husband leaves work. It was then that I had an idea that would cheer him up. In the past, he responded well to what I call “mobile dance parties.” These “dance parties” are nothing more than amplifying the upbeat song playing on the radio and announcing the dance party at an embarrassingly high volume immediately after he opens the car door. For example, if a spunky Madonna song is playing, I turn it up and yell “Madonna mobile dance party” when he opens the door (if it’s Janet Jackson, I’ll yell, “Janet Jackson mobile dance party!”). He’ll smirk and maybe roll his eyes, but I know it amuses him. For the short commute home, I sing loudly (even if I don’t know the words) and seat dance (lots of bouncing and shoulder action). I’ll encourage him to sing and dance along, but he’ll only want to honk the horn in time to the tempo because he knows it entices flirting.

A good mobile dance party, though, relies heavily on the chance that an upbeat song is playing on the radio when he opens the car door. I didn’t want to wager this opportunity on that, so I queued one up from my iPhone, remembering an Olivia Newton-John song I heard a few weeks ago.  It was perfect: upbeat, fun, and fan-80s-tastic.

A little after 4:30, I watch Steven approach my car, my finger hovering near the Play icon. I felt giddy imagining his delight, that handsome smirk and playful roll of his eyes. He’ll climb in the car, I’ll demand that he dance and sing along, he’ll only want to reach over and honk the horn in tempo to the song, and for three and a half minutes, we’ll forget why we were sad.

He opened the back door to unload his backpack and lunch bag onto the back seat.

I hit play and yell, “Olivia Newton-John mobile dance party.”

He smirked a little, but didn’t roll his eyes. That’s okay.

I shimmy my shoulders and sing along as he climbed in the front seat and fastened his seat belt.

As I navigate the car into traffic, I lean towards him and sing loudly.

He didn’t try to honk the car horn.

I experienced a moment of clarity halfway through the chorus.

You see, when your cat recently passed away from a cardiac arrest, don’t try cheering up your spouse with an Olivia Newton-John mobile dance party that features a little ditty called Heart Attack because that is what is known as a terribly insensitive lack of judgement.

My boisterous singing of “A heart attack (heart attack); you’re givin’ me a heart attack” rapidly decelerated to a regrettable, “Well, that was a poor choice.” I turned down the radio and stewed in brief silence. Feeling like a buffoon, I worried Steven thought I was ridiculing his sorrow so I stammered out an apology and asked how his day was.

Unlike me, others in our life were capable of exhibiting a sincerer form of condolence. The cards expressing sympathy, the heartwarming messages posted to social media, the phone calls, my husband and I are grateful for them all, from family and close friends to strangers who work at the pharmacy that supplied his pills. It’s comforting to know that people understand how a cat can feel like a member of the family because at first, I couldn’t justify why I felt so hurt. I couldn’t grieve because I believed my emotional response was melodramatic and stupid. But this collective sympathy expressed that feeling the hurt and sadness is reasonable and okay, that I wouldn’t be derided for the crying or the melancholy. It felt like a gentle hug.

Mr. Tiddles returned home to us in a small wooden box with a plaque bearing his name a few days ago. At first, holding that box felt confusing. My brain said I was holding Mr. Tiddles. At the same time, it told me I was holding a box of ashes. I had to sit down for a minute until it could make up its mind, eventually compromising on something comprehensible. This was still Mr. Tiddles, just…different.

Even days beyond his passing, with Mr. Tiddles locked away in a box, I forget he’s gone. I still have the impulse to buy a broth he can eat because he doesn’t like the pate anymore. I still want to bend down and pick him up, placing him at his normal feeding spot on the counter because he couldn’t do it on his own near the end. I wonder how long it will take to forget these heartbreaking habits.

Of all the trauma I would like to forget from this experience, I do like to reflect on a phone call from his vet on the morning after. Based on my description of his final moments, she assumed he threw a clot that landed in a lung. We expected this to be one of the few ways he would go. What I didn’t expect was that because Mr. Tiddles becoming a symbol of hope for other cats diagnosed with advanced cardiomyopathy.

After sharing that Mr. Tiddles would go down in her record book for living the longest after his diagnosis, the vet said, “I have to tell you; just the other day, one of my patients was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy, also.  When the owner asked about life expectancy, I told them, ‘Well, the textbook says it can be a matter of months, but let me tell you about a cat named Mr. Tiddles.’”

If I could say one thing to Mr. Tiddles to help me let go, it would be, “Thanks for all the stories, Mr. Tiddles.”

16 responses to And Then There Were Four

    laughingwithlisa March 5, 2018 at 9:12 am

    Cary, First off I want to say I am so sorry for your loss. Pets are magical and I so get your pain and loss. I still carry one of my dogs’ name tag on my key chain. That was probably almost 15 years ago. Also, your writing is superb and your humor is smart, honest raw and needed. Thank you for sharing your everything.


    Liked by 1 person


    I know how it feels, Cary. I’ve lost Angel, Mon Cherie and Esme… each one of them left their paw prints on my heart and their kitty-love in my memory. Mr. Tiddles is always going to be part of your life. And grief will take long. You didn’t lose ‘just a pet’. You lost a part of your family. A part you worried about, a part you saved, a part you cared for. But one day, and that’s a promise, you will think back and your heart won’t bleed anymore, it will give your brain a little nudge and it will make you smile.
    Thinking of you and your husband and sending you a hug.

    Liked by 1 person


    I’m so sorry. I have no words. They’re all lucky to have such loving parents.

    Liked by 1 person


    I “liked” because there is no LOVE button. I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve probably told you this before but my husband and I put our cat (she was mine for almost 20 years), Freeta, to sleep in 2012. Advanced kidney failure, etc., etc. The man who has only cried one other time (when his mom passed away) cried in the vet’s office for our kitty. I am forever indebted to this fabulous beast for the amazing stories I still tell about her. My husband sings songs once in a blue moon that he used to sing only for Freeta (because she’d sing back – noisy, talkative calico that she was). We buried her ourselves in the backyard where she loved to laze around in the sun. Trust me – all rescue cats know that they’ve been cherished. You are a great, generous person and I send you hugs. Be well & take care of yourself.

    Liked by 1 person


    So sorry for your loss. Hugs to you, your husband, and a special scratch on the head to the rest of your family.

    Liked by 1 person


    Awwwww Cary I’m so sorry for your loss!! What a beautiful and funny way to tell us about his passing and your handling of it. I cracked up at the song that came on your radio. I’m thinking about you guys. ❤

    Liked by 1 person


    As difficult as it was for you to hold Mr. Tiddles as he passed it was probably the most comforting thing you could have done for him. I had a very similar experience with my dog who had cancer a few years ago. As I pet him and told him what a good dog he was and how much we would miss him I could tell that it was soothing him. It’s an awful memory for you to have, but I hope you can feel good about the fact that you were holding him and providing comfort as he passed.

    I’m very sorry for your loss and hope that you keep remembering that your and Steven’s grief is natural and necessary.

    Liked by 1 person


    I’m so sorry. I know how hard it is. In all my years as a cat owner, almost all of my little loves that passed away involved me making a decision about the timing. They never go in their sleep, leaving me with no responsibility. Did I move too soon, did I wait too long? I always end up apologizing, too. Snuggle with your husband and other cats, and know that you gave Mr. Tiddles the very best life you could.

    Liked by 1 person

    Amy Vaughn Melton January 26, 2018 at 9:27 pm

    In response to my “how was your day?” text, you responded at 7:10 that Mr. Tiddles just passed.

    I love you guys very much!!!!

    Liked by 1 person

    Leslie Lee Lansky January 26, 2018 at 3:26 pm

    I am sitting here reading this with a lump in my throat trying not to cry at work. I am so sorry for your loss. Watching and holding your kitty for that last breadth is excruciating. It was one of the hardest cries I ever had when Halley took her last breath in my arms, all I could do was cry and apologize as well. Her habits and memories will always be with me. You and Steven are amazing for saving the lives and giving love to all of your fur babies. And Mr Tiddles is playing and waiting at the Rainbow Bridge to see you both again someday.

    Liked by 1 person


    My heart breaks for you and Steven.

    Liked by 1 person


    Mr. Tiddles. He was one lucky cat. I am sorry for your loss, Cary. I’m old. I know it will get better.

    Liked by 1 person


    I’m so sorry…

    Liked by 1 person


    Awww. I’m so sorry. My thoughts are with you guys and sending hugs.

    Liked by 1 person


    And now I’m crying at work.

    I’m so sorry.

    Liked by 1 person

You got something to say? Say it.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s