Every inch of me is tense. Uncontrollably, I hold my breath. I am waiting for this year’s catastrophe.
January 6th is my own Pearl Harbor Day. It is my day that will live in infamy. It is the day that for the past three years has heralded a month of tears and grief.
It is 3:30 in the morning on January 6, 2005. Mark shakes me awake, “Something’s wrong with Spunky.”
I look up at him, blearily. “What?” Before he can answer a long ,mournful meow cuts into my heart. It was Spunky, but it was not his voice. I throw off the covers and hurry to the hallway. He is pressing his forehead into a corner, straining against a wall that will not let him pass. He stops a moment and stands there, panting, blindly weaving his head back and forth. My heart sinks.
We settle him as best we can on the bed, keeping physical contact with him as much as possible. This seems to have a calming affect. The minute one of us stops touching him he starts thrashing and crying.
The hours creep by. The vet office doesn’t open until nine; I have an early morning orientation meeting that I have to be at. We agree that I will take care of the meeting and Mark will call the vet to get an appointment.
Mechanically, I get through the meeting. Mark calls me to tell me that we can bring him in as soon as we can. I return home and we silently drive to the vet’s office, Spunky lying prone in the bottom half of the carrier that we lined with blankets.
We walk up to reception, where I am preparing to fill out the paperwork they always require. The receptionist takes one look at the three of us and ushers us into an exam room and takes Spunky back to see the doctor. I feel my face crumpling. After years of being the usher, the giver of sympathetic looks, I am the usheree, the grieving owner. The tears I had been holding back for hours come and I weep uncontrollably. The doctor comes into the room. Spunky’s new, strange meow follows her. “There’s nothing we can do for him. He’s disoriented, he can’t see. He’s probably had a stroke.” Our eyes meet. I know what I must do. “We’ll put a catheter in his leg and then I’ll bring him in. You can stay here as long as you like. When you’re ready, just let the receptionist know, and we’ll take care of him. Go ahead and check out now while we’re placing the catheter.”
I knew what to expect. I knew the dizzying array of options available for pet remains. I couldn’t afford any of them but the basic disposal. “Please don’t send him to a rendering plant,” I plead. “I don’t want him turned into soap.”
“No, he’ll just be cremated with other animals.”
I sign the slip, and go back into the room. Spunky had returned and Mark was weeping over him. “You were such a good cat.”
When the serum had been injected and we could finally stop crying long enough to leave, we walked out to the car and returned home. I crawled into bed. I had joined the ranks of pet owners who had had to make the difficult decision to let their companion die with dignity. As I wept inconsolably over the loss of my beautiful friend, I was thankful that he had made it so easy for me. He was not the cat of the day before, he was obviously uncomfortable. He allowed me the only logical choice.
It is 11:30, January 6, 2006. I am working at my desk wishing the twinge of headache I’d been experiencing all day would go away. Mark walks into my office, pulls up a chair, and sits down.
“Mark found me a job offer down in LA and I’ve decided to take it. I’ll be moving out by the end of the month.”
I look at him, and then, suddenly, I can’t. I return to the data entry I had been working on. “Don’t you love me anymore?” I ask. I start hiccuping as tears start to fall and I clench down to keep the sob that wants to escape imprisoned.
“I’m moving out.” He gets up and leaves.
I stand up and run to the bathroom, where I throw up and then collapse onto the floor, trying to keep the sobs as quiet as possible. When I feel like I can control myself again, I splash water on my face and walk into the vice-president’s office. “I don’t feel well. May I go home?”
He looks up. “Since you look like you’re going to puke on my desk right now, yes.”
Tears well up in my eyes again, and I flee. I drop bus fare on Mark’s desk, and leave. I make it to my car, barely, before the tears fall again. I cry the entire way home. When I get home, I crawl into bed.
When he gets home, I am eating dinner. “I want you out by my birthday.”
He looks at me. “I’ll try, but I can’t make any guarantees.”
It is 5:30, January 6th, 2006. I am on my way home, and call my dad to schedule my next visit to Arizona. “I’m thinking the second weekend in Feburary,” I tell him.
There’s a silence on the other end. “Is that okay?” I ask.
“Well, you know Grandma’s not been feeling well.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she finally went to the doctor to get some new medications, and he found a tumor. It’s an end-of-life-situation.”
I go numb. I concentrate very hard on not crashing into the car in front of me. “How long?” I finally ask.
“Well, it’s hard to say. But, I’m not sure what you’ll find by the middle of February.”
“Okay, I’ll relook at a calendar when I get home.”
“Sooner would be better than later, I think.”
So, yes, I’m a bit paranoid about this day. I count down the hours until we’ve silently slipped into January 7th. 4 1/2 hours to go and counting….
