Lysistrata's Journal

So, as I said in my last post, I was feeling pretty good about my life that Wednesday night. Of course, that meant it all was about to change.

That evening was the beginning of the next roller coaster emotion. I came home to find that my oldest cat, Max, had died. He was 16 years old and I knew it was coming, but it still knocked the wind out of me. I walked into his room to feed him, and he was laying on the ground like he normally sleeps. It wasn't until I got closer that I realized his eyes were open.

How quickly the drop came. I had been coasting along, climbing straight to the top when, suddenly, I was free falling. I called my mother while I was still struggling to grasp what happened. My father agreed to pick the body up in the morning, but I was to be the one to wrap him up first. My grief wasn't even a tickle in my throat yet. Finally, after all that had happened during the week, the fear finally showed up. I had never had to physically touch the remains of a loved one, much less what was involved here.

I paced in the living room for several minutes trying to work through some of the more illogical fears. Max wasn't going to turn into some zombie the moment I tried to move him. This wasn't "Pet Sematary." My brain kept saying that, but my heart and lungs refused to catch on. I came very close to hyperventilating.

I finally steadied myself enough to find a towel and walk into Max's room. He still laid in the same spot, eyes open and glazed over. It would've been so much easier if his eyes had been closed! I had to force myself to not look at his face as I gingerly touched his stomach.

I don't know how long he had been dead by time I found him, but the rigor mortise was already beginning to set in. I briefly wondered if while the time I was showing off my so-called bravery, he was laying here struggling with his finals breaths. I wanted to think he had died a peaceful death, but his still open eyes brought up too much doubt. I quickly dropped the towel over him, spreading it so every part was covered. I desperately wanted to wrap him up like a baby, to show some small sign of affection, but my hands wouldn't make the movements. I'm ashamed to admit that I couldn't even close his eyes.

I grabbed the large plastic garbage bag I'd brought from the kitchen and shook it out. Since I was too chicken to wrap him in the towel, I couldn't properly lift him into the bag. I finally had to settle for just easing him into it a bit at a time. Once his tail was safely in the bag, I quickly tied the end in a knot and darted out of the room, only pausing for a moment to look back.

My heart had begun to settle a little while I was in the room, but once I stepped back into the living room, the panic began to take over again. The tears finally found their purpose and began to overflow. I called my sister and then a friend in an effort to calm down, but it was too hard to talk. I mostly sat in silence, listening, while large tears rolled down my cheeks.

I didn't sleep well during the night. It was hard to keep those ridiculous fears from popping in my brain while there was a dead body lying in a bag down the hall. What was even more disturbing was the fact that I didn't have just nightmares. Pleasant, hopeful dreams were mixed in sporadically. In the morning, while I waited for my father, I tried to analyze what my subconscious had been up to. The nightmares had been easily forgotten, but the hopefulness that was creeping in was bitterly mixed with feelings of guilt. How could I feel hopeful when a beloved pet who'd been with me for half of my life was dead?

**I started writing this more than a month ago. I just haven't been able to finish it until now.**

It's taken a while to figure out the answer to my question above, but now, a month later, I think I've gotten a grasp on what my brain has been telling me. Back when I decided I wanted to move, there were several factors that gave me reason to pause in my decision. No matter how much I want to go, the logical side of me has brought up a few points that need to be taken care of. And Max was one of them.

For the past few years, no matter how much I loved and cherished Max, part of me saw him as a burden. He's never been able to get along with my other 2 cats and has spent the better part of these last years of his life closed up in his own room. I've tried to reconcile it in my brain that he liked living in that room all shut up, but deep down I know he couldn't possibly have been content there. The guilt has eaten away more than I realized, but now that he's free, a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. The hope I felt in the morning sprang from the fact that I know he's in a much better place, he's at peace, and I'm now more free to make this huge transition that has dominated my thoughts for the better part of the last 2 months.

So here's to you, my sweet baby. You were like my first child in so many ways. I'll miss you more than I can say. I love you, Max.

~Lys