Wednesday, March 30, 2005
You are dead, cat
My mother was dying. The doctors had all agreed. Her sixteen year struggle with Parkinson's Disease was ending. She had pneumonia, and now she'd had a heart attack. There was nothing to do but make her comfortable.
I knew she hated to be alone, so I stayed at the hospital as much as possible. Friends stayed with her when I did leave. I only went home to care for the cats, clean up and change clothes. The cats were not happy.
I tried to keep all the cats inside, but Irene, a gray and white, female Houdini, figured out how to escape via the latticed deck. Two days had passed since I'd been told Mother would die; two days had passed since I had last seen Irene. There was dry food on the front porch and water, so she should be okay, but I worried because I had not seen her.
On the third day, my answering machine blinked at me as I came into the living room. I punched the play button.
"I need to speak with you about a delicate situation," said the male voice who then went on to identify himself as the manager of a nearby store. I'll call him Joe. He left me a number to call.
I waited until I was back in my mother's hospital room before I returned Joe's call. "Joe, this is Jan. I got your message."
Joe hesitated, then said, "You have a gray and white female cat?"
"Yes," I answered, knowing what followed could not be good.
"When I came to work this morning, I found a gray and white cat on Karnak Street. She'd been hit by a car. She was dead."
Poor Joe, days of staying alone with my mom trying not to give in to grief, had taken a toll. I could no longer contain my emotions. I broke down and cried, telling Joe, between sobs that mother was dying, and I didn't know what to do about Irene.
Joe told me how sorry he was, then offered to take care of Irene's body. I thanked him and took him up on his offer. He disposed of Irene. I spent the rest of the day in tears.
I was crying for more than a cat. Mom had fought Parkinson's for so long and so valiantly. She was still able to dress herself although I helped at times. She should have had a few more years. The women in our family make it into their nineties, mom was just in her eighties. It was not fair, and I did not want to lose her.
Two more days passed. Mom was not one to give up without a fight. I continued my schedule going home only in the morning. The third day, a friend stayed with my mother in the evening, so I could take a break. I returned home after dark.
As I pulled up in front of the house, I could see the silhouette of a cat sitting on the front steps. I wondered if I had a feline visitor or if one of my cats had escaped just as Irene had.
I walked up the front sidewalk. The cat did not run. The cat was Irene.
All I could say was, "You are dead, cat."
Those words did not bother Irene who waited patiently. I picked her up and carried her into the house.
(I sealed the doggy door that led to the latticed porch. No cats would go out that way while Mom was in the hospital.)
I do not know whose cat Joe disposed of. I had not seen another gray and white in the neighborhood. I have not told Joe yet. Why ruin his good deed?
Mom died a week later.
I knew she hated to be alone, so I stayed at the hospital as much as possible. Friends stayed with her when I did leave. I only went home to care for the cats, clean up and change clothes. The cats were not happy.
I tried to keep all the cats inside, but Irene, a gray and white, female Houdini, figured out how to escape via the latticed deck. Two days had passed since I'd been told Mother would die; two days had passed since I had last seen Irene. There was dry food on the front porch and water, so she should be okay, but I worried because I had not seen her.
On the third day, my answering machine blinked at me as I came into the living room. I punched the play button.
"I need to speak with you about a delicate situation," said the male voice who then went on to identify himself as the manager of a nearby store. I'll call him Joe. He left me a number to call.
I waited until I was back in my mother's hospital room before I returned Joe's call. "Joe, this is Jan. I got your message."
Joe hesitated, then said, "You have a gray and white female cat?"
"Yes," I answered, knowing what followed could not be good.
"When I came to work this morning, I found a gray and white cat on Karnak Street. She'd been hit by a car. She was dead."
Poor Joe, days of staying alone with my mom trying not to give in to grief, had taken a toll. I could no longer contain my emotions. I broke down and cried, telling Joe, between sobs that mother was dying, and I didn't know what to do about Irene.
Joe told me how sorry he was, then offered to take care of Irene's body. I thanked him and took him up on his offer. He disposed of Irene. I spent the rest of the day in tears.
I was crying for more than a cat. Mom had fought Parkinson's for so long and so valiantly. She was still able to dress herself although I helped at times. She should have had a few more years. The women in our family make it into their nineties, mom was just in her eighties. It was not fair, and I did not want to lose her.
Two more days passed. Mom was not one to give up without a fight. I continued my schedule going home only in the morning. The third day, a friend stayed with my mother in the evening, so I could take a break. I returned home after dark.
As I pulled up in front of the house, I could see the silhouette of a cat sitting on the front steps. I wondered if I had a feline visitor or if one of my cats had escaped just as Irene had.
I walked up the front sidewalk. The cat did not run. The cat was Irene.
All I could say was, "You are dead, cat."
Those words did not bother Irene who waited patiently. I picked her up and carried her into the house.
(I sealed the doggy door that led to the latticed porch. No cats would go out that way while Mom was in the hospital.)
I do not know whose cat Joe disposed of. I had not seen another gray and white in the neighborhood. I have not told Joe yet. Why ruin his good deed?
Mom died a week later.
