This morning I went to a tea to remember a dear friend of my mother’s who passed away at the grand old age of 97, just after Christmas of last year. “Last year!” Oh that sounds so terribly long ago, and yet it was only 2 weeks ago when we sang in the New Year. “Happy New Year 2017”
Inez was a friend of my mom’s from the years we lived in Hope, B.C., (near the west coast). She was one of my mom’s friends who stayed close after my Dad died when I was 5, and then in their later years they ended up living near each other in our current community and so, their lives intertwined. My oldest sister B and Inez’s only daughter, Lilian, were best friends, until Lil died of cancer 15 years ago. Inez, out lived all four of her children, her husband, and most of her friends.
Why is it, that funerals, memorial services, or even simple teas, like the one I went to today, always take me down memory road and bring reflections on how we live our life. I was thinking about what her son in law J, (Lil’s husband) said about how, in Inez’s lifetime, she learned to just keep going. Maybe it was part of living through the depression years and the 2nd World War that taught endurance and resilience to that generation, but whatever lessons taught to survive, she learned them well. I can’t even fathom living beyond all of my children but I know it would tear my heart out and yet, somehow she continued to live and breathe.
I remember when Lil died 15 years ago, in February 2002, my sister came with her daughter to attend her best friend’s funeral and at the time, my niece T, had her first baby daughter. They asked me to watch my great niece, H, who was this bright eyed, sweet adorable, 91/2 month old. Oh, our time together was delightful. Although it was bitter cold, I bundled her up and took her out for a walk and when we returned her cheeks were rosy red.
It had been such a dark winter, for not just me, but the whole world. Only 6 months prior, on September 11, 2001, almost 3000 people lost their lives in a horrific terrorist attacks on the World’s Trade Tower in New York, the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and in a plane crash near Shanksville, PA. The month of that attack was memorable for me in a more personal way, since after trying to conceive for a long time, I finally was pregnant with our longed for, final addition to our family; our Soulbaby.
It was hard to be joyous when a tent of sadness had fallen over the world but yet, I had a glimmer of new life growing and I walked around often above the heavy grey fog, the rest of the world was still reeling under. At least until, the end of November when a routine ultrasound brought me down to the depths of that darkness and my dream for another baby crashed when I heard, “I’m sorry, there is no heart beat.”
Even though our baby had died, my body didn’t want to let go. Two weeks passed and still, no natural miscarriage came. By the end of November, my Doctor, fearful of an infection, admitted me to the hospital, to have an induced miscarriage. As my uterus started to contract, I watched soft snowflakes gently fall outside my hospital window, appearing like angel feathers falling from heaven.
Somehow, like Inez, I continued to live and breathe, dragging my heavy overcoat of pain and grief, numb to the simple joys of life. When you are a mother to other children, you have to get up in the morning. feed them, cloth them, brush their teeth, even though I longed to bury myself under the depths of down in my bed and allow sleep to sweep me from my living nightmare. When we had found out we were pregnant, we had decided to get our children two kittens for Christmas. We thought it would be nice for them to have fur friends to nurture, as I was caring for a new baby and so, we committed to adopt sibling Siamese kittens; a male and a female. A few days before Christmas of 2001, we brought the kittens home.
They were tiny, fluffs of furry white with piercing blue eyes. The little female, who we named, Misumi, after a dear family who lived across the road from us in Hope, was spunky. She ripped around the house in spurts of energy, only to collapse on the cozy blanket with her brother, soaking up the heat of the fireplace I had on non-stop that winter. We named the little male, “Samurai” thinking a warrior name was befitting, but he seemed listless and quiet from his first days in our home and little did I know then, how much he would earn that name.
I should have known better, since I have had several cats in my lifetime but in hindsight, we should not have taken the kittens until they were at least 10 weeks old. It was Christmas time though and I had wanted our children to experience the joy of new life and happiness for the holidays. The breeder had assured us that it would be fine. It was not fine.
It clearly became apparent that the male who we nicknamed, “Sammy,” was not eating well, and each day he seemed to have less energy, until he was just lying on the blanket in front of the fire for hours at a time. We knew something was seriously wrong and so we took him to the vet, who gave us special formula and little doll- like bottles to feed him. They were hopeful that with the supplemental milk, and special soft cat food, he would pick up and so we took him home. I carried him around much of the time in a little blanket, coaxing him to feed and willing him to fight.
Since it was Christmas holidays, D took our 3 older children up downhill skiing almost every day and I was home with our preschooler, Harrison and the kittens. It wasn’t long though, before we knew Sammy wasn’t picking up and so my husband David and I took him back to the vet’s office. They examined him and agreed, his health was seriously at risk. They kept him overnight and gave him some fluids but early the next morning they asked us to come in for a consult.
We rushed to the vet’s office where we were told Sammy may have a digestion abnormality, although in my gut, I think he had been weaned too soon from his mother. The vet suggested that we euthanize him since he was suffering and probably would only last a day or two more at the most. With tears in my eyes, I looked at David and we both nodded our heads in agreement.
With great care and compassion the vet, brought Sammy to us to say goodbye. He held him as though he was a fragile china doll and softly whispered, “Sleep well,” as he administered the needle that would stop his heart.
Exhale!
Exhale!
Exhale…….
He then slowly wrapped him in a cozy flannel blanket and placed him in a tiny box and passed him to me. As I looked into our vet’s blue eyes, I recognized a world of peace and kindness and I felt my chest crack open.
As we drove home, the heavy darkness I had been carrying inside of me released and tears poured down my cheeks in torrents, as I kept repeating over and over again, “I can’t even keep a kitten alive, I can’t even keep a kitten alive.”
When we got home, the door from our house into our garage opened and I could see all of our children’s expectant faces peering through. David got out of the van and quietly spoke to them and as he closed the door, their faces were already contracting in tears and sadness.Then I could hear David rummaging around where we keep our gardening tools and finding what he wanted, he walked out to the yard. I sat in the van for quite a while, growing colder and colder, holding the weightless box, and a wisp of a dream, allowing my tears to empty.
Sammy died on January 2nd, 2002. He was 10 weeks old. My soulbaby, had been 10 weeks old too when her heart beat stopped. I didn’t know how I was going to go on that winter, but knowing you have a family to care for, you get through. And that February, when I knew my sister’s best friend had died too young, leaving her three girls mother less, suddenly life just seemed too hard. Why, Why, Why! do we have to experience such pain, such sadness, such suffering in this lifetime?
And then, as I watched my rosy, red cheeked great niece sit in front of our fireplace, playing happily with my children’s old baby toys, totally oblivious to this being the day of her “Great Auntie Lil’s funeral, totally unaware of all the fear and hate in the world, I could see a crack of light beam through the dark wall of grief I had been building all winter long.
We go on,
the road goes ever on,
and I must follow it,
if I can.
Maybe Inez had the key and could see far ahead. So far ahead that she remembered the way home.
A lot of goodness has occurred in the last 15 years in my life; I got pregnant again the month after Lil’s death and one year and one week after my miscarriage, I gave birth to our sweet amazing Grace, just down the hall where I sat watching angel feathers fall.
And THAT Christmas, was full of magic and wonder as we marveled over the joy of new life in our home. The memories from that time, like a bandage, cover the scar that never totally heals. The pain sometimes seeps to the surface, even now, reminding me to keep flowing through life, with least resistance, like a river to the ocean, always moving closer to home.
Farewell Inez!
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Until we meet again, may you be well, happy and peaceful.
Blessings from Hope
