half empty, half full

i wear grief like a shroud
like an old familiar shirt
the same one i've worn a thousand days
over time it frays, gets soft, worn
by fingers and arms and tears
and i forget that i wear it, and it falls
away.
then one morning i wake
or one day over lunch it comes
and i find myself wearing that same
dark clothing again.

i wear it like my sister's fine french perfume
lingering, even after i have washed
a scent so strong that it makes
me cry, a bit, but so lovely
that i cannot help but mourn
when i can no longer sense it.

***

yesterday i got a call from the vet, before i could go and pick up shiva. they said that she had been up and around and was doing well, and then she ate some food, and lay down on her side, and was not moving. they said i should come and sit with her, because it looked as though this may be the end.

so i did. my poor little girl was all wrapped up in heating pads, with an iv in her tiny leg. dan got there and we cried together because it is so difficult to watch another being in pain.

and yet she was purring--a loud, rumbling purr.

i know cats purr when they're happy, or when they're in pain. i listened to teresa's cat purr as she gave birth--welcoming her kittens, easing her own discomfort. i had the feeling later that perhaps shiva was purring for both those reasons--because she wanted to comfort herself, but also because she wanted to comfort those around her. for what other reason is a purr so loud?

we sat with her for about half an hour, just petting her little chin and listening to the purr fade down to a low murmur. neither of us could stand to watch her suffer any longer, and my vet said, you have done all you could do.

they asked if we would like to hold her while she passed, but shiva hated being held in life, so we both thought she probably would in death, too. instead we sat and petted her, and then she was gone.

***

dan and i sat up talking that night, discussing the odd string of events that led her to live with us. it all went back to september 11th--which was how cari and i met. and then her mother dying--which led to the pug moving in with cari and tony, and shiva being relocated to our house since they didn't get along.

cari and i cried for a while on the phone, remembering a small gray cat who was tenacious, mellow and social.

i know that logically we did the right things: the vet, the shots and medicine, tempting her with all manner of food. i know that even if we discovered what it was, her life would never be the same--there would be more meds, more shots, more of everything--and that is not how shiva would have wanted to live.

she was so cold the last few weeks--even with all that fur, she had no fat left. i cannot tell you the number of times i could feel her cold little feet through my jeans. closer to the end, she did not care if you covered her when she cuddled close, something she never would have allowed when she was feeling better.

i know all these things, and yet i look around for her when i sit typing, wondering if she is warm. i listen for that bleating meow, asking for food, and when i go into the kitchen, i expect that she will be sitting there, waiting patiently.

my heart just has to catch up to my head.

***
when quinn died six years ago, shiva had just come to live with us. she arrived in may; quinn died on july 4th. i told dan that i did not want to go through that again--that we would keep shiva and that was the only cat we would have.

and then the next thing you know, we have henry.

i can see the future this once and i know that henry will be sick and die before i am ready for him to do so. i know that the same thing will be true for my parents, for uncles and aunts, for family and for friends. death swoops them away in the same manner as the mystical stork dropped them into this world.

every time someone dies--and i mean someone, because cats or dogs or birds, they are all little someones, even if they are not human--it reminds me that i cannot stop loving those around me. that i cannot wall up my world so that i can ignore the pain when they leave. that i must--i must--make an effort to take the opportunities as they come, and love unreservedly. if i did not care so much, i would not hurt right now.

the pain i feel, the sorrow, is only because i knew joy. when i lay down this mantle of grief that i currently hold, i do so with the knowledge that i will wear another, and another after that, until someone picks up what i have left behind and wears one for me.

the responsibility of companions

i'm owned by two cats, one of whom is sleeping happily on the sofa right now.

the other is at the vet's, awaiting a temperature-taking at 8 pm that will determine if she stays where she is or if she gets retrieved and brought to urgent care for observation overnight.

i keep thinking of all the things in life that are important--how it is not just a human life that is important. today at work i suddenly thought of that bible verse about how god knows even when a sparrow dies.

then certainly he knows that shiva is suffering.

part of me feels like a horrible friend to her: forcing meds to make her feel better, electing surgery to see if we can figure out what the problem actually is. she is not quite 15 yet, and still fiesty and sweet and terribly, terribly cuddly. in spite of the fact that she has been having issues with her bladder, and knowing where to poo, she is still my responsibility. maybe she just wants to die--but i am keeping her alive because i am being selfish. i don't know.

today she had the surgery--they biopsied her liver, stomach, intestines and lymph nodes, to see if it's cancer or something else. she had a 50/50 chance of making it and she made it through the surgery. however the vet called me later and said that although she'd made it through surgery, she wet herself, and then punctured the hot water bottle that was in the heated kennel with her. the vet blow dried her fur, but her temperature was still sliding. normal for a cat is 100-102; shiva is at 91. in the last month she's gone from 7.5 pounds to a bit over 3.

i keep wondering if i am doing the right thing--if i am simply prolonging her suffering, if she would prefer just to sleep and not have pain any longer. it's hard to guess, when you're not a cat, and a hard decision to make as her friend.

cari had her from the time she was born until she was nine--that was when her own mother died, and she got her mom's pug. the pug and the cat did not get along, and thus, shiva relocated to my house. shiva's been my companion for six years now; she goes to sleep on my back, and wakes me with a hungry stare. when i read she is on my lap. when i cry she is on my lap. she's sociable and friendly and so mellow.

now she is not herself any longer. i dislike the notion of playing god with her, but i suppose that when one is companion to a being whose lifespan is considerably shorter than your own, that is the path you follow.

mentally i can handle this--i know that it is out of my control, that there is nothing i can do. jed and donna, my sister's loss, and now my shiva--who is really not mine, anyway.

i think of donna's funeral--the pastor quoted a bible saying. you know for someone who's not a fan of the bible i seem to be thinking of it a lot lately--but then again, death does make you think. anyway the quote was akin to "my father's house has many rooms."

when i consider it in that fashion--that death is simply a part of life, that it is not entirely an end, but perhaps a status change, or a change of scenery--then i can handle it.

it is when i focus on how it affects me that it becomes overwhelming. then all the deaths pile up and sit around me, making my fingers cold and my body shiver.

there is nothing i can do now, for shiva, which is the most difficult part. right now i just wait until 8, when they take her temperature and see if her body is ready to continue its small fight, or if it is ready to move on.

either way, i will support her.

addendum: shiva's temp is up to 95.2 and rising, so she is staying overnight at the vet in a heated kennel. go koja go!