Joy and suffering

I do believe there is as much joy in this world as there is suffering, though I have not historically experienced life this way. It’s ironic, because my name translates to variations on cheerful/happy/light-hearted in the Italian and Spanish languages.

Acknowledging suffering more than joy, for me, has been a conscious choice and an exercise in elevating our common hardship … honoring our shared spirituality … declaring “I know it hurts, I’ll endure it with you, I won’t look away” … whether you’re human, animal, insect, or plant … which, my fellow sensitives may affirm, can feel empathological.

I post this nearly 3 weeks after our black and brown tabby cat Ruffalo passed and just 3 days after our black cat Bee passed. Experiencing their physical deterioration and their resultant emotions - as well as navigating my own anguish - has been entirely unbearable. I have been faltering under the weight of it all and writing for a way out.

**

Ruff and I were best pals for 17 years. She came to me on a piece of cardboard box, like some magic carpet ... a serendipitous delivery from the stocky guy employed at the county’s mosquito commission next door to my work at the time. She was 4 weeks old. I was 27 years old. As the story goes, a hawk swooped down on her litter at a nearby farm, snatched Ruff's siblings, and momma cat left thinking all the babies were gone. 

Those kitten-blue eyes, it was impossible to not keep her. It is proving equally impossible to let her go. Losing her. Being responsible. It is exactly as Nana described having to put down our calico cat Patches when I was away at college: the hardest decision she ever had to make ... the hardest thing she ever had to do.

The bond Ruff and I had was magic - each of us hyperaware of, and super sensitive to, what the other was experiencing at any given moment. She was a first-class napper - always found the softest blanket laying around the house and the perfect slice of sun coming through whichever window - and also a legit lap cat. She had a pretty chill existence as an only pet, with no exposure to fellow felines or other animals and limited exposure to humans aside from my partner Ray, who came onto the scene when she 4 1/2 years old. 

Ruff was unaccustomed to visiting the vet; I will always fault myself for not taking her regularly, as I believe we could have identified some health issues earlier. After having her neutered as a kitten, we went to the vet once when she was having trouble using her hind legs at 14 1/2 years old (she was worse after the vet than before, and it will always be a mystery whether they caused additional problems, but we recovered in time), and once again when her GI system became compromised at 16 1/2 years old (she was too fractious to be examined, and we left with treatment recommendations based on empirical evidence). When Ruff was still unwell after a few months of trial with traditional and alternative routes, we had to make a decision.

The day of the at-home-euthanasia, I sobbed to friends and family uncontrollably and inconsolably. The first week, I replayed the scene over and over in my head - beating myself up for not addressing certain details that could have made her passing most comfortable, placing blame on the vet and Ray for not thinking of these nuances, wondering what Ruff experienced in her last moments of this incarnation. Going into week two, I rearranged the room where it happened - sometimes a good reset, not helping much now. Toward the end of the week, Ruff’s cremains and paw imprint arrived - materials marking the end of her embodied spirit. 

**

Bee adopted me and Ray the first winter of the pandemic, in December. After setting some dry food out on the front porch for some feral kittens we noticed hanging around, a scrappy, sweet adult cat (we guessed in the double digits) began turning up for meals and within a day took up domicile in the window well beneath our fireplace overhang.

We immediately fixed up his safe spot with some straw for warmth - and soon installed a cat door, a floating platform (from an old piece of futon), and cat stairs (from a couple old tables) into our basement. The little guy was so skinny and hungry that he would eat multiple plates of wet food at a time to maintain calories and strength in the snow. We were so relieved the evening he mustered the courage to poke his head through the cat door and come in to eat and sleep on the platform.

Bee settled right into his bachelor’s pad - replete with furniture, jazz and classical music on rotation, and an endless supply of snacks and wet and dry food - but continued to catch/eat birds and baby bunnies. Initially, he would wander off toward the reservoir in our development near the woods - we often speculated he got lost from his previous home - and not find his way back until we walked around shaking containers of treats. Once he oriented around home, he didn’t go far and kept a good eye on the things from his spot on the porch; the dog-walkers always looked for him, and the little girls always wanted to pet him.

When we invited him upstairs recently (for some additional comfort on Ruff’s passing) and noticed him sleeping more versus venturing out, we laughed that he was enjoying becoming more of a house cat - though we did sense another vet trip was in order. Upon taking him and hearing that his numbers were off the charts … that he was in kidney failure and had been hiding his pain … that he would have to be put down immediately … we were blindsided … undone … gutted.  

The at-home-euthanasia the following day went smoothly; we knew the drill this time, but Bee also had a calm temperament, and I am sure felt immediate relief from the immense pain on initial sedation. I am questioning whether we were so consumed with Ruff in her last weeks that we didn’t notice Bee was having symptoms, and feeling he was robbed of experiencing the people companionship that was coming to him … and that he deserved. We’ve since cleaned up and done the laundry - sometimes feels like a fresh start, not helping much now. We are awaiting Bee’s cremains and paw imprint to formalize the end of his embodied spirit.

**

Our home is empty. First, there was no Nan. Now, there is no Ruff, and there is also no Bee. 

Here. Then. Gone. 

Tears continue to fall from my eyes unpredictably, in the same way waves of guilt, anger, and sadness roll through. As I sit with the heartache, inside the sorrow, I consider how I will go on … without my shadow of 17 years, my partner through all the ups and downs of life … without our newest member, who fit right in with our family of misfits.

I take in the well-intended recommendations: be thankful to have had some control over their suffering, focus on the good memories, take solace in the fact that Ruff lived a long and spoiled life and that Bee had love and a home when he was lost and alone, and remember they will always be with you in spirit.

The words are sensible, but they won’t ever make losing Ruffalo or Bee OK, really. Truth is, even the passage of time doesn’t make losing our loved ones OK.

I recall learning that grieving loss is actually not a linear process, as was once believed ... no neat set of stages to sequentially pass through ... no door to close when someone dies or when something ends. Instead, we each learn to live with our grief in a way that allows us to move forward and to find joy again.

It it liberating to release ourselves from any such expectations … to allow ourselves to be not-OK following a loss … to know that we can create alternate versions of ourselves that account for the gaping wounds and the abiding emptiness. I am holding this perspective close.

I am ready - maybe for the first time in my life - to sit in the emptiness and breathe … to allow things be as they are. I am willing - maybe for the first time in my life - to tune my antennae for joy a bit more … to consciously alchemize the suffering. I believe - fortified by the beloveds - I am brave enough to do these things now.