Year Seven

It was seven years ago today that we lost our sweet boy Oliver.

Soon after he died, I sat down and wrote out a list of things I remembered about him.  I'm glad I did, as some things faded as time passed.

** I found him online while looking at an adoption website. When I got to the adoption center, he was sitting by the door, as though he were waiting for me.

** He would sleep on the bed or cat cubby with one leg hanging out over the edge.

** If he wanted pettings, he would arch up to bump his head against your hand.

** He liked to sleep in shoeboxes.

** We think he was at least part Norwegian Forest Cat, and he had tufts on the bottom of his feet.  When he tried to start running, he would sometimes slide or stay in place while getting traction.

**  I had an old flannel robe that had been my dad's draped over the foot of the bed, and he enjoyed sleeping on it.

**  Our other cat Willow had a stuffed green and orange fish that was her favorite.  If Oliver wanted to mess with her, he would pick up that fish and start honking to get her attention.

**  He liked to sleep arched over my head and liked eating my hair.

**  He knew when it was 11 p.m. which was dinner time.

** Sometimes he sounded like he was saying "hello" when he'd meow.

**  He loved - LOVED - ham.

**  He would get into the bathtub and scramble around wildly.

**  If he thought his cat friend Duncan wasn't feeling well, he would "mind" Duncan and mother him.

**  We hadn't had him long, and there was a time when we couldn't find him.  We were panicking and all the while, he was lying in the crow's nest on the cat tree, watching us.

**  He seemed to enjoy running down the stairs in front of me.

I'm glad we had the chance to know him and to love him.  But it still hurts to have lost him, even after all this time.

 

 

Those Were the Days

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.

Happy Birthday, bestest.  I miss you and wish you were here.

Understanding Grief

Some good information from the Irish Hospice Foundation:

Understanding Grief - Irish Hospice Foundation

 

 

No One Will Explain to Me Why

Anya: Are they gonna cut the body open?

Willow: Oh my God! Would you just stop talking? Just... shut your mouth, please!

Anya: What am I doing?

Willow: How can you act like that?

Anya: Am I supposed to be changing my clothes a lot? I mean, is that the helpful thing to do?

Xander: Guys...

Willow: The way you behave...

Anya: Nobody will tell me.

Willow: Because it's not okay for you to be asking these things!

Anya: But I don't understand! I don't understand how this all happens, how we go through this. I mean, I *knew* her, and then she's- There's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. And-And Xander's crying and not talking. And-And I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, "Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, *ever*, and she'll never have eggs or yawn or brush her hair, not ever." And no one will explain to me why.

--"The Body," Buffy the Vampire Slayer

As Long As You Remember Me

It's been five years since we had to say goodbye to our little girl Willow.  Time eases the pain but never fully takes it away.

Favorite Hello and Hardest Goodbye

Fourteen years ago, we lost our precious black cat Duncan.  One of the things I remember most about him is that he loved cake donuts.  He'd hear that plastic clamshell open, and he would come running, singing the song of his people.  Even on his final day, when he was so weak and sick, he still wanted a piece of donut.

Don't let anyone tell you the loss of a pet isn't as traumatic as the loss of a human.

 

Prince Rogers Nelson (June 7, 1958 – April 21, 2016)

 

When Great Trees Fall - Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

 

"Don't let anyone take your grief away from you. You deserve it, and you must have it. If you had a broken leg, no one would criticize you for using crutches until it was healed. If you had major surgery, no one would pressure you to run a marathon next week. Grief is a major wound. It does not heal overnight. You must have time and the crutches until you can heal."

Doug Manning

Author of Don't Take My Grief Away From Me: How to Walk Through Grief

and Learn to Live Again

 

 

Just a Little More Time is All We're Asking For

I'm a year further away from the news that shattered my soul but that also means I'm a year further away from a time when my friend was still here.  I feel like I'm standing on the shore, and she's on a boat putting out to sea.  A year passes, and she moves another few lengths, growing smaller and smaller to my sight. Will there come a time when she reaches the horizon and disappears completely?

I posted this three years ago on Facebook.

Over the weekend, I was up before dawn so I was able to watch the sun rise slowly over the horizon, setting the snow sparkling like a million diamonds as the night stars faded from sight.

As I watched, I wondered if Lissa would be able to see another sunrise.  I hoped with all my heart she would be able to leave the hospital and see hundreds of sunrises and millions of stars.  But it didn't happen that way, and it's another thing among many that breaks my heart.

My only silver lining is that now, she's part of the stars and she's part of every sunrise.  And she shines more brightly than ever before.

I was determined to honor her today on this anniversary of her journey into the Beyond.  I didn't want to sit home, folded in upon myself while shedding tears.  I still mourn her death but she deserves to be celebrated too.

When we lived in Texas, we would head for Barnes & Noble on Sunday mornings when all of the Baptists were in church, planning to browse the shelves before retiring to the cafe to drink hot beverages (mine was cocoa, hers was usually mocha), munch on some confectionary, and talk or write.

None of the bookstores near me contain a cafe component so instead I went to the local library, perusing the stacks for hidden gems, picking up a book that was holding for me.

My walk from the library to the grocery store was sprinkled with the smell of fresh-cut grass (yes, they're already mowing in Ireland) and daffodils.  Lissa loved daffodils with their happy little faces.

I breathed in the fresh air, noticing clumps of tiny daisies, a large golden retriever playing with his owner in a nearby sports field, airplanes streaking by overhead.  Drinking it all in on her behalf because she could no longer engage with the world like this.

I bought a sweet treat at the store and left to head for home.  There's a coffee shop right next to the grocery store, and two older women sat at one of the small tables near a window, enjoying coffee and conversation.  Something twisted inside me, the regret that Lissa and I never got to grow old together.

At the half-way mark of the path leading from the tram to our house, the trees part and offer a clear view to the Irish Sea.  I stood and gazed at it for a while, remembering our trip to Galveston and to Florida when we spent time by the water.

Lissa and I met through the magic of letters so I thought today would be a good day to catch up on correspondence.  I put on a Corey Hart CD (he was one of Lissa's favorite artists), singing along to some songs as I wrote, tears streaking softly down my face when the first strains of "Never Surrender" began to play.

Later, I plan to have some hot cocoa and one of those sweet treats I bought, doing my best to recreate those wonderful mornings spent at Barnes & Noble.  I have her physical letters but we'll see if I'm strong enough to handle reading through them today.

Mentioning Corey Hart reminds me of a funny story.  When The X-Files first hit the airwaves, Lissa and I would sometimes catch an episode.  Every time David Duchovny first appeared on-screen, Lissa would invariably ask "Is that Corey Hart?" since the two men bore a striking resemblance to each other, especially at first glance.  It's become an in-joke for my husband and me - if we happen to see Duchovny, one of us will ask "Is that Corey Hart?"

I miss you, bestest.  Thank you for being a part of my life.

My beautiful friend, in happier times

 

 

 

WESLEY: Seeing her on the transporter pad, it was like seeing pure light. I miss her. I feel empty.

GUINAN: I know that sensation. But there'll come a time when all you remember is the love.

WESLEY: I'm never going to feel this way about anyone else.

GUINAN: You're right.

WESLEY: I didn't expect you to say that.

GUINAN: There'll be others, but every time you feel love it'll be different. Every time, it's different.

WESLEY: Knowing that doesn't make it any easier.

GUINAN: It's not supposed to.