#MicroblogMondays: And life goes on

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Daisy

She sleeps in his spots. Gathering the objects that were his close by her. For a week after he passed, she slept for most of the day, refusing to be comforted or cuddled. Even now, she sleeps more than she previously did, though she smiles when in the areas that smell of him. Her grief is visible but very unique to anything I've ever witnessed.

I don't talk often about Daisy on her own. Jaxson was a larger-than-life individual who easily drew attention. But that doesn't mean that Daisy is in any way a shrinking violet, which was evident when you saw the two of them together. There's was one of the longest relationships I know of, with a bond that still runs very deep. 

The foundation of that bond came from their introduction. Jaxson came into our lives shortly after Grey and I were engaged and he was our only cat for about 6 months following the loss of my first cat. As I watched him in the evenings, bored out of his mind, I knew a companion was needed, but Jaxson also didn't do well with other animals. Intent on controlling his territory, I knew it would take someone who wouldn't put up with his BS.

We found Daisy the day after we returned from our honeymoon. The trip to the shelter was spent playing with kittens and meeting many cats, but it was Daisy (named Apricot at the time) who caught Grey's attention. The next day of formalizing her adoption, which should have been the simple part, was an adventure. We arrived at the shelter to him a guy bellowing at the animal control officer about how he wanted his dog Boomer back. The officer was clearly pissed (frankly, I'm amazed she didn't stick him in a cage), and when she got to us, turned her frustration onto me. After navigating the madness in the front, which was freaking everyone in the shelter out, and packing up this tiny cat, we found ourselves on driving home. It was then that Grey commented on Daisy's size and said "we may have to bring her back if Jaxson hurts her."

Those words would haunt us for the next week, given how stupid we were with introducing Daisy to Jaxson. Instead of giving her her own space to acclimate, we immediately let her explore the entire apartment, with Jaxson hot on her heels, growling the whole way. We were woken at 2 am to witness our stupidity with us witnessing Daisy beating the snot out of Jaxson. She had turned into a hellcat and could literally toss him across the room, which shocked all three of us. This continued for a few days, despite separating her from him, with the final straw being finding him cowering in the corner of the kitchen with a scratch across his nose while she was actively hunting for him.

The vet immediately diagnosed her with PTSD and prescribed Valium. For three days, Daisy laid on the couch in a semi-conscious state. And that's when things changed as Jaxson took that time to lay beside her, grooming her and making nice. When we stopped the meds, she returned the affection. From that day forward, they were inseparable, with her kicking his butt if he ever crossed the line or was too much of a jerk.

Over the past week, I've spent a lot of time thinking about that beginning as I've watched Daisy mourn losing Jaxson. They were together for 17 years, which is longer than most human relationships. But if you think about it more, realizing that both cats turned 18 years old this year, which translates to 88 years old when comparing to humans, and remember that they were around 20 years old in human years when they first met, then one realizes their relationship is much, much older. I'm effectively watching a feisty elderly woman mourn the loss of her life partner. 

There's really no grand lesson with watching Daisy process her loss. Love is love, as simple as can be. But maybe that's what is grand and profound. Two animals spent a life together, loving and caring for one another, building a life while the humans carted them around the country and threw so much craziness their way. Instead of tolerating it, they added to it, making it clear that they were part of our family. 

Now there's a hole. And as I try to navigate my grief, I look to Daisy who is unapologetic in hers. A tiny brown cat who is still just as feisty, but honoring the loss of a life that was while continuing her journey.

Raising orchids

The first time I encountered death was when I was 14 years old. My great-grandmother was dying and, per midwestern tradition, my father's family gathered as she spent her last days in ICU and then for the funeral. I remember her lying in the sterile ICU room, hooked up to monitors and having ice chips passed over her lips while she moaned in unconsciousness. I remember the open casket, with her small body dressed to perfection for that final rest. But most importantly, I have no memory of any adult helping me or any other child process what we were witnessing and how to handle the emotions. Instead, I watched my grandmother, who had a complicated relationship with her mother, actively suppressing all the emotions that came with death. I witnessed the others actively engaging in avoidant behavior, issuing platitudes, and enforcing social rules so as not to bring these "negative" emotions to the surface. And once the casket closed, there was an unspoken understanding that none of what was witnessed would be mentioned again. 

Death has been at the forefront of my mind this year. Starting with Scruffy passing, then one of Maddy and Teddy's teachers dying, and then a coworker's teenage daughter committing suicide, I've been reflecting on how I was taught to process death and how poorly that served me as I encounter loss in my adult life. The idea that death is anything other than awful, scary and to be feared is something Western culture struggles with. With is massively unhealthy, particularly with how it influences the grieving processes.

So when I learned that Jaxson was actively dying and we had only a few days left, I made a plan to do something that has shocked many. Sitting down with Maddy and Teddy while holding Jaxson, we explained to the kids that Jaxson was dying and that we were going to be taking him to the vet to help him pass. 

Then I gave both kids the choice of coming with us to the vet to be part of the process. Emphasizing for them that this was their decision and there was no judgment either way. Without hesitation, both said they wanted to be with Jaxson as he passed from this world, holding his paw while they said goodbye.

With the pandemic, the topic of dandelion children vs. orchid children has gotten a lot of attention. Thomas Boyce's work on understanding how genetics and environment impact resilience (and the links with mental illness) has been fascinating, but with this past year in lock-down, has become required reading for all given how so many have struggled. For Grey and me, knowing we are raising orchid children, who are more sensitive to disruption and chaos, has been critical to ensuring that both Maddy and Teddy emerged from this pandemic relatively unscathed. 

Though seemingly unconventional, addressing the needs of our orchid children has resulted in them thriving in an environment that should have burned them out. Maddy not only met all her IEP goals this year but was exited from her IEP. Though 504 plans are in place for both kids, their teachers have commented on how they may not need these plans in the future (though I'm fighting to keep these in place for now). The tools and support strategies developed for them have resulted in two relatively gritty individuals who have a far healthy sense of the world than either of their parents (and arguably many members of their family, both living and deceased). 

With Jaxson's death and mourning his passing, Maddy and Teddy have been very involved with the process. They were in the room before he was euthanized and saw his body after he passed, allowing them to see that death could be peaceful as well as final. In the days following his death, they've both talked about him, expressing their sadness, created art of him and for him, talked openly about being sad, and made a point of spending time with Daisy as she has been grieving. We've cried together, talked about souls and beliefs about the afterlife, and begun a discussion about living well. 

What's been shocking has been others' responses to what they are observing, with both kids mourning well when so many have been afraid of what their response would be. I've encountered anger from others with this shock, as beliefs are being challenged (and in one case repressed grieving has surfaced), but generally, the observations have been openings to conversations. There's been a lot of good that from this experience, despite a terrible loss.

#MicroblogMondays: Missing him

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Beloved

You died on a Tuesday afternoon. And we are making plans for the garden where your ashes will be spread. The house feels so empty without you. The energy is so different without you here and my body aches with the knowledge it won't feel your softness pressed against it. 

Almost 18 years ago, you can into my life. No more than 3 lbs and missing fur on your nose after a day spent in a cage, watching all your siblings be adopted while you were left behind. My heart ached from the recent loss of one of my other cats and I didn't think I was ready to love again. But when you threw your paws around my neck, I knew I had to take you home. Your chaotic nature reminded both Grey and me that life was continuing and we needed to continue with living it while honoring what was lost. A year later when Daisy came home and after a traumatic introduction, you two bonded and we all became a family. You brought the light of life with you.

I never expected the journey we would have together; surviving graduate school and all the change that came from that process. Then there were the darkest years of my life of living through infertility, repeat losses, and having "family" turn its back. Those moments when the only lifeline I had was having you curl up beside me. I never thanked you for saving me during that time, reminding me that I was loved and that life was still worth living, even if it looked different than what I had planned for.

You shifted with me again when the kids arrived, ending one chapter and opening a new one. Reluctant at first to welcome these two odd creatures,  you quickly claimed them both, watching over them navigating this world. You were the calm during the storm of two major moves for our family, first to the East Coast and later back West, working in tandem with Daisy to turn whatever space we occupied into a home. 

I miss your facial expressions. Being greeted by you every morning with a meow that was uniquely yours. Spending evenings with you on my lap, insisting on being pet. During this past year, doing all my teaching with you close by, routinely putting a paw on me to let me know that you were there and all would be alright in a world that most certainly wasn't.

I knew the end was coming. After finding that growth on your body, it was only a matter of when. Still, I wasn't ready for the news that the cancer had spread throughout your body. I didn't want to let you go despite all the signs you were giving me that it was time.

Yesterday, you woke me at 4 am to go outside to watch the sunrise one last time. Daisy joined you, which was unusual for her, so I knew you both understood what was happening. You then taught with me one last time, pressing your head to my leg during the moments I felt less sure. Giving me that look I know so well that was telling me everything would be alright.

Your parting gift to me was you allowed me to hold you as you died. You trusted that I would let you go, even though I desperately didn't want to. Despite snarling at the vet, making it clear you would happily bite them, you allowed me to put my arms around you and touch you while they administered the drugs that would stop your heart. You breathed your last breath while I stroked your body; a sigh that released your soul and allowed you to be free. 

You've left behind so many beautiful memories of a life well-lived. A life where you brought so much love, comedy, adventure, and grit. I can't begin to tell you how much you are missed already. Daisy is visibly heartbroken not to have you here, Maddy and Teddy swing between laughing about the memories of you and crying because you are gone. Grey and I are physically numb.  My being hurts from the knowledge that you're no longer here.  

I don't know how to live my life without you in it, my beloved. This next chapter without you in it terrifies me. But I also know that you expect me to continue living and living in the manner you taught me to. That doing anything less is not an option as your lessons are firmly engrained.

I love you so much Jaxson; I always will. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for pointing me to the light. 

#MicroblogMondays: I'm not there

 Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Their grief

The email came on the evening of Easter. With "sad news" in the subject line, we learned that one of Maddy and Teddy's teachers died on Saturday in a car accident.

On the heels of losing Scruffy, I'm at a loss for how to tell them.

So today, following a medical appointment for Grey, we sought the ocean.

As they played, I watched the waves, allowing the rhythm of water catching on the shore to calm my spirit and unjumble the thoughts and emotions from all the loss from this past week. From this past year. 

From a lifetime. 

Grief is hard on so many levels and learning how to manage it for me has been an education. Learning how to help others manage it, especially the young ones, is a different level. I have zero illusions about what this will look like or how it will play out. 

What I do know is that I will punch anyone who tries to tell me that losing this teacher isn't a great loss. Come Monday, an entire elementary school will be grieving together and encountering a loss few could have imagined. In a blink, everything has changed.

So instead I'm left preparing to confront grief. Only this time, their grief and healing are foremost on my mind.