Life, and Death, Go On

We've had a break for several weeks now, since we have had to deal with "life" and its attendant, and really not that morbid, consequence of death. My Dad has finished his round of radiation and has no chemo currently scheduled. I guess they hold off on that in the event of a recurrence which, hopefully, will not happen. But, while the human action-equation has slowed down somewhat, the lives and aging process of our beloved cats goes on in just as determined a way as human lives do and the combined effects of dealing with both "flows of being" keeps us somewhat on edge.

As I type this I am keeping company with one of our kitties, Callie who, at the age of nineteen, is proceeding toward the ultimate physical conclusion of her life. She is in a basket behind me, and slightly to my left, where I can reach over and pet her now and then, just to remind her how important she has been, and is, to our collective household. It was only with numerous reassurances from our veterinarian that Callie is in no pain that we decided to bring her home to spend these last, too few and precious days with her human companions, who will miss her intensely when she is gone.

As is the way of pussycats, the others leave Callie to her dying while they tend to their own living. I, however, being a more evolved and intelligent being, try to keep Callie company without wallowing in premature grief. Callie sleeps peacefully and, unless she makes it sufficiently and decidedly known to me that she prefers being elsewhere in the house, will stay in her "nest" until I move her to the bedroom. I know many people prefer to die at home - as long as it is not more comfortably done in a hospital - and I am hoping the familiar surroundings will bring at least some peace and comfort to our dying friend who has helped fill our lives with so much love, amusement, and joy for so many years.

Callie is a long-haired, dilute calico, which is how they describe the lighter shades of greys and tans as opposed to the black, brown and dark brindle of the "undiluted" calico cat. She has a definite, and firmly twerpy, "animality" (which is a term I coined to help prevent any accusations of anthropomorphising) that has successfully held true against the onslaughts of several other companion cats her entire life. She is the only one of our cats to have successfully held Bootsie (our "street-tough" sweetie pie) at bay and, I think, even frightened him a little - an unusual experience for Bootsie (who, by the way, can be an enormous, furry chicken on occasion). She used to take great joy in blind-siding our other kitties and could really pound out a resounding drum beat on the floor when she was telling any of the other cats to back off. I recall the first time I heard this "concert" when I was downstairs and it happened almost directly over head. It was extremely loud and alarming and when I ran wildly up the stairs expecting to see pussy cats squashed beneath major pieces of furniture, I saw only our sweet, feminine, little kitty, Callie, delicately licking a dainty paw and glaring about at the other cats with a wicked gleam in her eyes. (She showed 'em - and nearly caused a coronary event in a woman far too young to have rated one.)

Although made gentler by the necessity of aging's effects upon her corporeal being, all of her "pepper and spice" are still very much evident in her tail twitchings, which have become quite eloquently communicative as she has had to trade one form of communication for another. (There is this one particular tail twitching which I can only translate as "Good kitty, like Hell!" - which certainly seems to be fairly accurate, and definitely apropos, to both her animality and the moment at hand.) I am hoping that I am reading her desires fairly accurately, as we want her to be happy and relaxed for however much more time is hers. She also naps a lot - something I know a little something about from the human perspective - and I am assuming this is all a part of the ultimate process.

Callie seems to appreciate the occasional chin-scritching and mommy-cat commentary as long as I do not overdo it - which is again signaled with various twitchings of one very fluffy and very communicative tail. Somehow the word "dilute" does not fit in here, even if it is the accepted standard of description for the color of her coat, as opposed to the color and flavor of her life and animality.

I hope we will be a stable and reasonably secure family for awhile after Callie passes (which we hope will be further in the future rather than nearer - as long as she is not in any pain or suffering in any way), in that it seems as though the animal companions and the human ones trade off crises - first one and then the other - giving little respite in between. Part of the price of continuing to live, I suppose, is watching some of those you love and know intimately pass away, leaving only memories and emotions for comfort, along with the other companions still active participants with you in life.

If there is some way to explain this so it is able to impact upon the sensibilities of those younger than me, I would like to convey that, although by fact and definition death is morbid, there is really not too much to fear from that determinedly avoided aspect of life as the younger of us might suppose. It is no wonder that various religious literatures and philosophical treatises have described life, and death, in terms that have rendered it both ethereal and frightening. We are here, with one another, for so short a time - certainly food for thought in light of our continuing fights with those who do not share our own particular beliefs in life - as though we had all the time on the world to contend rather than accept and love; care and mend; communicate and learn. We really should measure all of our imaginings of greatness or what that should be against the overwhelming wisdom of the observation that this world will end, not with a bang, but with a whimper - all of our striving and self-delusional imaginings snuffed out in one frightened little squeak - a tethered lion incapable of a genuine, triumphant roar.

For whatever reason it exists within me, I have always yearned to speak as many foreign languages as possible, although I am singularly lacking in talent at that pursuit. To communicate, or to be able to communicate, with as many people as possible has been a dream - perhaps "daydream" is more accurate - for as far back as I am able to recall. Desire versus a decided lack of talent and drive, however, and I can only manage a few pathetic words and phrases in a minimal number of tongues. My one really solid phrase in French is, however, "Je suis arrivee'," "I have arrived."..."I think, therefore I am." Perhaps I am closer to my daydreams than I fully appreciate - I will keep trying.

While my sister was in the hospital, I remember hearing her doctor warn her, "There will be tears." The statement has remained with me and I am hoping it will be the title of an eventually viable poem. I think I will try to write that poem, and rework it, here in my blog - in case there is any interest on the part of anyone who may stumble across my mutterings and meanderings.

For my sister and my Callie-cat:

There Will Be Tears -

Your every instinct has been
To comfort and befriend.
You do not want to see
The pain losing you will be to me,
But little can prevent,
Alleviate or change
The hearts, minds and emotions
Of those who will remain.

You need to know that you,
In your vastly underappreciated,
Misunderstood "humanity,"
Are sufficiently important
To rate the grief and tears
Of these few of us who stand
By your side, who recall the many years
Of love, sacrifice and joy
You have rendered in our lives,
Sometimes through fault or mistep,
Sometimes through triumphant choice.

Do not resent our hearts' cries
Or the tears that come unbidden,
We would not have any hearts at all
If they could not, at times,
Be broken.

So, "there will be tears" and memories,
Fond, silly tales and sweet remembrances;
You will live on in heads and hearts,
That hold no thoughts of forgetfulness.
Those first tears, and the ones to follow,
Like precious jewels will remain
To decorate your eternal crown
And help you live again.

I will try to keep working on this and let you witness the "process," such as it is, here in my blog. Maybe, if some of you would like to contribute to it, we can all write a poem that expresses these ideas much better than merely one individual is able to manage. If not, oh well. Another piece of paper for my survivors to wade through. (Hee, hee, hee!)

In closing, I would like to share a poem by Emily Dickenson, quoted very loosely, that has stayed with me since I was very young and struggling within myself. It has brought me tremendous comfort in times of need, yet has also challeged me - I'm not really sure just why - to strive for better things, more knowledge, and to grow as far as possible in compassion - perhaps more a reflection of a collective familiarity with its author, rather than of this single piece:

"The bustle in the house
The morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth.

The sweeping up the heart
The putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity."

Love and Best Wishes Always,
Izzlebug