Out of the mouths of babes

My sheltering-in-place bubble was burst in early May, with my granddaughter’s third birthday. I was so miserable with loneliness that we decided we would do what it took to resume visits and continue safety measures when out in the world. Having my daughter and granddaughter back in my life was like a magic potion for my heart and soul. It had been two months, and my grand-toddler had changed so much.

The uncontrollable bounces of a two-year-old had smoothed out, and her interactions with my cats became an amazing thing to watch – especially with Lena. Knowing she was sick and frail, S would tilt her head to get close to her, and then speak soothingly. “Hi Lena, hi,” she would coo, “are you feeling okay? Are you?”

She was also able to get the more standoffish Big Mike to sit still for her affections – especially after she learned the way to his heart was through treats, which she would offer so liberally I would have to limit her to a couple little hands-full.

I should not have been surprised that her empathy and compassion had grown. She has always asked to go on my morning rounds with me “to feed the homeless kitties.” And months ago, she told me that I should still be putting out food for Prince Harry, the feral I fed for years who died of a sudden acute illness. “He’s still in the TREE,” she would insist, looking upward into the cypress hedge he used to perch in. And when I told her that one of the kitties at the farm had died, she was thoughtful. “I think he’s still walking around,” she offered.

To me, these utterances were not the fantasy yearnings of a toddler who doesn’t know or fear death, but things she felt in her heart were true.

Between Tuesday and Friday this week, I thought of my inadvertent angel often, wishing she were here. On Tuesday, alarmed that Lena had lost more weight and become weaker, I took my darling cat in for an ultrasound. A jet-black, year-old mama cat I adopted along with her kitten Iggy, Lena had  been an elegant, loving and calming fixture at my home for 15 years.

They found cancer in a five-inch section of her gut, which had spread to her lymph system. I sobbed in the car on the way home, and resolved to make her remaining months wonderful. By Wednesday, when she began refusing food, it became clear that those months would be days; by Thursday I realized it would be hours. I spent the night on the couch with Lena tucked in next to me – something she was normally too independent to do. And Friday morning I made the call. Friday afternoon, I said goodbye in the beautiful garden of my vet clinic, with blooming flowers, butterflies and birds all around.

(The only silver lining of this entire Covid crisis is that although my vet clinic cannot allow pet owners in the rooms, they will do a euthanasia on a table in the garden, where you’re able to hold them as they take their last breath.)

But despite the beauty of the sendoff, I imploded. Perhaps it was the accumulation of months of isolation, anxiety and societal upheaval, and perhaps it was the loss of Lena herself, but I just retreated to my comfy chair with cocktail and tissues and didn’t care if I got up. My daughter asked if I still wanted to keep a planned visit the next day, and though I had my doubts as to how social I’d feel, I wanted the boost of their company.

Erin told my granddaughter about Lena, and where S is always fearless in talking about things, she was shy this time, as if sensing I was an emotional minefield she dared not step on. One thing I did notice was that Big Mike was beginning to suffer the effects of Lena’s passing as well. He was withdrawn, a bit spooked, and not very hungry.

As my granddaughter hovered over his sleeping figure, petting him softly, she turned to me with big and knowing eyes. “Big Mike misses Lena,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But he’ll be alright.”

And so will her grandma. Once she gets that Lena is still here, “walking around” and maybe “in the trees.” Thank you, Saint Frances, for the reminder than big truths come in small packages.