This is going to be sloppy. It will certainly read as something disjointed and scattered. It will probably just end abruptly as I hit a point where I can't write anymore, and have reached the “crying in public threshold” for myself. I don't know what I hope this will be, but I know that I'm already starting it too late. I think that ultimately, this is going to be me writing about regrets, and hoping to offer myself some compassion along the way. If this offers nothing else, please leave with the understanding that I loved him immensely and will miss him greatly.
I regret that I didn't fall to pieces as I predicted. It hasn't been easy. It's, in fact, been exceptionally difficult to do so, but not impossible. For the first three days I could've found myself in tears within moments of thinking about Brodie. I'd catch glimpses of him as I turned a corner, or expect to hear him at various times throughout the house. For the days following, specific conversations or lines of thought would bring me close to tears, but I felt able to stay composed for the most part, only succumbing to tears again when vividly considering saying goodbye and thinking about the finality of it. And now, I can write about it in public. I think this regret is something most people will be able to understand. It can be akin to survivors' guilt in nature. I think it's a feeling that comes from being the one to move forward, regardless of what circumstances enable you to do so. Moving through the haze of grief is a unique undertaking for everyone, and each time you face it will be different. An agonizing grief must always be something that is unique and hard to reconcile. Otherwise it wouldn't be grief. It'd just be a shitty time.
Shorey and I got Brodie from a friend of hers one night sometime in 2006. He was such a tiny soft ball of brown tabby fuzz. As a kitten his eyes were almost striking blue, later finding their way to a typical green. He was full of energy and trepidation. His anxiety often matched my own. He was mine from the moment we got him. The fact that we both took care of him and loved him was of no consequence. No matter what happened between us, including our eventual breakup about 2 years later, he would remain with me as long as possible. And he did. He grew into a handsome cat with very well defined patterns. His browns deepened and his softer tones evolved as he aged. I say this not as his owner, but as a cat lover -- He was truly beautiful.
He also had a real personality. Obviously any pet owner would say the same, and they'd all say that their pet was different. That they really were unique. I'm no different. I think that about Brodie, and I could point to evidence and confirmation of it from others who happened to interact with him enough to see it, but I'm not so disillusioned as to believe that he was somehow more special than the other pets people love. I have to imagine it's somewhat like the idea that you “can't know what goes on behind closed doors”, in that when you're so intimately connected to something you'll always see more to it than anyone else does. I think that's the case with pets and their owners. We get to know them as they are -- not the excited or scared versions that people see when they visit. We get to see them while they're bothered by our incessant bugging. We get to hear them snoring loudly beside us -- waking or keeping us up at night. We get to play with them at their zoomiest and most boisterous. We get to feel their joy and we're fortunate enough to receive their love. And we're the ones to see them when they're at their worst. And when pain and fatigue wear them down we watch them persevere, shrugging off the wear of age so that they can maintain that loving bond and closeness. We work with them to find comfort, and we agonize over their discomforts.
We break when we need to say goodbye.
But in the end we do it for them. If we're lucky, we do it after we've had years together. If we're really lucky we get to see it coming. If we're luckier still we get to decide it's time.
A week ago I said goodbye and through tears I held Brodie close on my lap while he slept. Gently rubbing his cheek and talking to him while he shared his final snores with me. Fixated deeply on his soft nose and long white whiskers. Making sure I didn't catch any of them the wrong way as I pet him. With Melissa at my side I gave the signal that it was time to let him go, and the vet who came to our house administered the final injection. It took only seconds to take effect -- stopping his heart and leaving him finally in total peace. I don't know how long I continued to hold him after that. Only minutes probably. I savoured them. I regret not taking more of them in the end, but I won't beat myself up over it. I also regret every moment I didn't get to spend with him. I regret the times I kicked him out of a room, or yelled at him for doing something that was trivially annoying or problematic. I regret any time I did something other than hold him close and shower him with love.
But I think that's grief. And I think these are the things I need to offer myself compassion about. I can't get back the time missed, or undo the things I now wish I hadn't, and keeping them at the forefront of my thoughts when I try to think of him will only prolong the hurt.
What I need to do is focus on the joy he brought to me over the course of my life with him. To lean into the good things from our time together. I learned to be an adult with him sitting beside me. We moved too many times for comfort, and each time we'd get a little bit better at it, and he'd hide under the covers in the new place just a little bit less than the last. He sat with me through my hardest times, when I would shut down from family and friends, in the deepest points of my depression. He stayed fixed by my side as I grew into different versions of myself as we both grew. He provided a reason to act responsibly enough so I never inadvertently made him suffer. In trying to be good for him, he kept me from doing harm to myself great enough that it might reach him. He did these things simply by being with me, and I will feel that absence for a long time.
I'm working hard to keep the joyful memories flowing and to let the regretful ones slip away.
I miss you buddy. I love you.
<3 flurp