From the valley of goodbyes

It’s been three weeks since my last entry, and the only reason I’m adding one today is that I feel overdue. I’ve been in a valley of sorts for weeks now – flung in there by grief and overwhelm, both personal and professional. But I’m starting to find balance again – even if peace remains elusive – so now’s a good time to look for perspective in writing.

I’d known for months that Patricia (my daughter’s mother-in-law and my good friend of a dozen years) was failing, that ovarian cancer was exacting its toll on her, despite her valiant fight of more than five years. I had asked repeatedly if I could come to Dallas to see her, knowing she would no longer be gracing my kitchen with her humor and force of personality. She repeatedly waved me off; Jonathan said she just really didn’t want to see anyone but her closest friends. And it hit me somewhere around June that I would never see her again.

I wrote her a letter telling her all the things I would have told her if I’d been at her bedside: that Jonathan would always have a family who adored him, that I thought their best years were ahead – that I could see them both accomplishing great things – and that I was grateful for her friendship, one that had been forged over the years despite our huge differences. She was a devout Catholic, a church-goer, a German from the Midwest, which she translated to mean one who was not comfortable with the sharing of feelings. I was a messy spiritual seeker, who never had a thought that didn’t warrant expression. I was  emotional and passionate; she was reserved with a capital R. It seemed at first that the only thing we had in common was our children.

It wasn’t until I learned of one little habit of hers that I realized we had more in common than I thought. When I visited one Thanksgiving, she took me for a walk around her beautiful old neighborhood and showed me where she fed stray cats. One of them had decided to set up housekeeping with her, and when she began to fail, moved with her to assisted living. (Magee is now learning about life as one of two cats, with Patricia’s wonderful goddaughter Alison.)

Ten days ago, with Erin and Jonathan at her side, Patricia passed. I knew it was coming, but it felt “soon” – and woefully incomplete. I realized the importance of being able to say goodbye in a meaningful way – at least meaningful to me. And I didn’t get that with her. I am going to Dallas for a memorial in a couple of weeks, so perhaps then I’ll feel reconciled to the loss of a dear friend and important family member.

While this was all going on, and realizing my complete and total overwhelm, with far too many “patients” at home than I could adequately care for, as soon as Lizzie was deemed healthy, I asked my friend’s daughter if she would like to foster her while a home was sought. She jumped at the chance. Of course in the five weeks since a homeless man handed her off, I came to adore this scrumptious little monkey. It’s impossible NOT to fall in love, when you see them bloom so beautifully. i.e. from day one…

to week five:

So I was loathe to let her go, but she was a bandwidth-stealer like no one else, from stealing and hiding earrings, to needing constant feedings, to driving me out of my bed at night from the euphoric happy-dance kittens do on your head. So off she went, and after only a few days, it became clear that I might never have Lizzie back at home either. My friend and her daughter adored her right off, and are now strongly considering adopting. As thrilled as I was and am, I find myself thinking, wait… I didn’t get to say goodbye… 

And I feel another premature goodbye may be in the works. After doing so well for a week, Dorian appeared on the sidewalk Wednesday, nursing a terrible eye problem. One of them was swollen shut, the other didn’t look great either. I showed up anxiously on Thursday and tried to coax him into a carrier so I could get him to a vet, but when he saw the carrier, he bolted. And on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, when I was there with a trap, he was nowhere to be found. I’m praying that it’s not too late to help him, and that I’ll see him again.

Add to the above a complete crush at work at has required me to work with zero days off for weeks and weeks, ongoing disharmony between felines, and vet trips for Skeeter (an expensive procedure to find out why she can’t breathe) and Claude (possible beginnings of inflammatory bowel disease or worse) and you have the tailor-made prescription for complete, total, meltdown/burnout. Hence the challenge in climbing out of the valley. Tears are daily visitors – often three or four times.

The good news is that this is not depression; I’m just scraped raw by loss, and by all I’ve seen and experienced lately. I am equally driven toward happy tears by tiny miracles: Big Mike sleeping peacefully near Claude, Skeeter chowing down after being too sick to eat, rave reviews from two pint-sized readers on the first chapters of Marvin & Mocha, an email from someone who adopted one of my kitties telling me how much love she has brought into the home.

I just need to get it that goodbyes come in many different ways – and sometimes unexpectedly. And all we can do is get ready for them by living the best, most complete lives possible. Patricia, if I carry you close in my heart, goodbye is irrelevant.