When You Fell Asleep Forever
Programming Note: While I write literally all day at work - emails, slack messages, whiteboards and more, I haven’t actually sat down and truly written anything in many years. Encouraged by my wife, Mary, to start sharing some of the stories of my life, especially with our daughter, Emma, I’m going to take on the challenge of writing down as much as I can remember about the moments which have been important to me along the way.
Emma, I hope one day you’ll read and enjoy these as much as I’ve enjoyed remembering them.
You fell asleep forever with your eyes wide open. One moment you were here, and the next you were still here, but not here. You were there and yet here at the same time. All I knew was that I was no longer with you. I wiped the tears from my eyes, told you that I loved you, and kept petting your matted hair as you lay on the metal table in that cold operating room.
We’d been together for eighteen years, and you’d seen so much. When we got you we weren’t married yet, we lived in Hoboken and were thinking about buying a house. There was no Emma, no Harley, and your sister Maya wasn’t so keen on the idea of having to share our tiny apartment with a Jersey City ratbag like you. There was no Corcoran Group, no New York Times, no NBC. No cancer, no loss of loved ones, no anxiety or medication. No art studio, no iPhone, no social media. We brought you home in the car, where you were so small you just sat in Mary’s hand the whole way home. We called you Abby, after Abigail Adams. You slept on my chest that first night, and loved to sit on my lap as I worked on the computer in the mornings. You loved to explore, crawling into places we never knew existed, and finding your way into the spaces where we couldn’t reach you. We moved to our new home and the world opened up for you. You explored our old, drafty house, and would take any opportunity to make a break for it and go outside into the yard. We’d find you in the bushes, under the house, even in the rafters and the attic. One time we even woke up to your little face at the bedroom window, where you’d scaled the yard fence, the shed roof, and the tiles outside our room. You loved treats, naps on top of the sofa in the sun, and being rubbed at the base of your tail.
You never really wanted to sit with me, and would only stay a few minutes when I’d pick you up and put you on my lap. You enjoyed being petted, but only from a distance, and not for longer than necessary. You were always just an old alley cat. You’d always be content just keeping to yourself, away from others, looking out the window at the birds. You always slept with one front leg outstretched. You never really liked to play, but sometimes you’d try to grab my hand through the stair railings. You weren’t afraid to scratch those who’d crossed you, even if it was their birthday as you did one year with Emma. Sometimes you’d catch mice and bugs in our house, and were proud to show us what you’d done. You never slept with us in our bed like your sister loved to. But you loved to talk, and would chirp and purr to us all the time. We’d call you by name, and you’d let us know you were around, somewhere.
When Maya passed away it was just you, but by now you were living with me down in my office in the basement. You’d started to spray the furniture upstairs, so we brought you down to live with me, where you’d be warm, and be able to eat and drink whatever you wanted to. You spent most of your days asleep on top of my old couch, periodically sitting on the stairs or exploring the raw side of the basement. I found you in the roof of the basement after hearing footsteps above me. I found you on top of wardrobes and inside containers. You loved to sit on the furnace and keep warm. You never went far, but when you started to spray again, we had to keep you in the raw part of the basement next to the washing machine all the time. It became your room, but we had to close the door all the time now. We’d hear you cry when you were hungry or thirsty, or when you just needed a hug.
Over time you started to get sick. You stopped looking after yourself, and your fur began to mat. I tried and failed to clean you up and cut out the lumps that were forming. But they’d just form back again weeks later. You couldn’t control when you needed the litter tray. You started to limp, and your crying increased. You began to lose your hearing, and we’d be able to come right up behind you without you knowing, startling you in your new bed we’d bought to make you comfortable. It began to get harder and harder to jump from the furnace and your bed on the dresser, down to where your food was. You’d cry at the door and I’d come and pick you up. You got lighter and lighter, but were still covered in your beautiful long hair. You’d chirp and purr to me, but you never really wanted to spent long being petted and hugged. There was always something else to do. Somewhere else to be. Something more interesting over there.
As your crying intensified, we began to worry about you. Eighteen years, they tell me, is almost ninety in cat years, and you were just an old puss. We began to talk about your quality of life. We began to think the unthinkable, about saying goodbye. And we made the call to the vet. The day before you died, you sat on my chest on the couch, and we gave you all the treats and snacks you wanted. We gave you all the love we hope we’d given you over the years, and you fell asleep on the couch in the warmth of my little office space heater. The morning it happened I gave you more treats, and got the carrier from the shelf. You always knew what that meant. You fought to get inside, as you always had. You gave one final hiss to Freda as I carried you out the door. Mary and I teared up in anticipation of what was coming. Emma chose not to say goodbye and keep you in her memory forever.
You cried the whole way to the vet, but when we arrived you said nothing. They weighed you, and told me you were a heartbreaking four pounds. We had to pull you from the carrier onto the table, but you enjoyed the attention and the petting you were getting from everyone. You purred as you leant into me. As I petted you all I could feel was dry skin and matted fur. The doctor came in and I explained why we were here to say goodbye. He prodded and poked in the places he prods and pokes, and mentioned that you had a heart murmur, but that eighteen was a grand old age for such a beautiful puss. He said he’d get something to calm you down, and his assistants helped me get the room ready. He shaved a small part of your leg and gave you a small injection. A few moments later you shifted your weight from your usual lunchbox sitting position, to stretch out and lie down. You were at peace, and I kept petting you in long strokes from head to tail. I told you I loved you, the last words you’d ever hear, and knelt down so you could see my face. The doctor attached a small tube to your leg, made a second injection, and left us together in the room. Your eyes were wide open, and you said nothing as it happened.
I took you home. I cried the whole way. When I got home we hugged, and cried some more. I buried you in the garden next to your sister, in amongst the lavender bushes by the deck. I cleaned out your things from the basement, and you were gone. I still hear you. I still think I see you. I am filled with regret and guilt about having done the right thing or not. I wish I had more time with you, and I already wish I’d made more of our time together. I hope you’re chasing all the mice and eating all the treats where you are now. I hope you are happy. The pain will dull with time, becoming a blunt ache laced with memory. I miss you with all my heart, and my life won’t be the same with the Abby-sized hole you’ve left in me.
Latest Articles
