Showing posts with label saying goodby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label saying goodby. Show all posts
Monday, April 15, 2013
It was a sad weekend, because I had to say goodbye to my sweet kitty Naia (pronounced Nye-uh) on Friday.
2009
Naia came into my life on August 3, 1998 as a teeny tiny kitten. I found him by the side of the road when I was out on a work trip for the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, doing freshwater mussel surveys on the creeks of central North Carolina. He came bounding out of the weeds by the bridge where we were unloading the canoes, and immediately attached himself to my heart. His first ten hours with me were spent in a canoe, mostly sleeping on my sweatshirt, and he shared my can of tuna fish for lunch.
October 1998
He was very young, only about five weeks old according to the vet, and was probably dumped at the bridge as an unwanted kitten. His eyes hadn't even changed color yet, and he was so tiny he fit in my cupped hands. I named him Naia after the freshwater mussels that were the reason for the canoe trip, which are sometimes called naiads (harkening back to Greek mythology).
October 1998
He was a mischievous kitten, and loved to climb the screen door, hunt moths that got inside, and chase ankles and string. He made me laugh all the time, and at night he would curl up next to my chin and try to "nurse" my neck. He was too young to leave his momma, and imprinted on me.
January 1999
He integrated well with our dog Cobalt, and when Emma came along, he accepted her into the family as well. When I was pregnant, he used to curl around my Emma-belly and purr, then stare indignantly at my belly when she kicked him.
Emma as a toddler was sometimes a trial. On Thanksgiving in 2005, I remember two-year-old Emma chasing him down the hall screeching "Stop running! Stop running!" because she so desperately wanted to hug him and love him and play with him. The bathroom was a good refuge.
January 2005
When Coco adopted herself into our family in 2009, Naia was 11, getting elderly and creaky. Having a young cat in the house rejuvenated him, and he started playing again. Plus, Coco was usually up for a snuggle when I wasn't available to offer my lap.
Coco, in turn, seemed to appreciate that Naia sometimes needed some help. In the last year or so, Naia couldn't always reach all the corners during his baths, or would get tired halfway through. Coco stepped up and helped him out.
He seemed to be able to tell when I wasn't happy and needed a cuddle. He would crawl up into my lap or onto my shoulder, and purr and purr and purr.
If he was feeling especially cuddly, he would head-butt my cheek then tuck his head under my chin. There really is nothing like that feeling. It was unconditional.
Last Friday, I took him in to the vet because his breathing was very labored. I was not expecting them to find a huge tumor in his abdomen and large quantities of blood in the pleural cavity around his lungs. There was no hope of recovery, and I had to make the choice to let him go. It was awful but peaceful and quick, and I was glad that he wasn't in distress any more.
April 12, 2013
For almost 15 years, Naia was my always faithful, ever comforting buddy. Rest in peace, Naia-bo-baia.
2009
Naia came into my life on August 3, 1998 as a teeny tiny kitten. I found him by the side of the road when I was out on a work trip for the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, doing freshwater mussel surveys on the creeks of central North Carolina. He came bounding out of the weeds by the bridge where we were unloading the canoes, and immediately attached himself to my heart. His first ten hours with me were spent in a canoe, mostly sleeping on my sweatshirt, and he shared my can of tuna fish for lunch.
October 1998
He was very young, only about five weeks old according to the vet, and was probably dumped at the bridge as an unwanted kitten. His eyes hadn't even changed color yet, and he was so tiny he fit in my cupped hands. I named him Naia after the freshwater mussels that were the reason for the canoe trip, which are sometimes called naiads (harkening back to Greek mythology).
October 1998
He was a mischievous kitten, and loved to climb the screen door, hunt moths that got inside, and chase ankles and string. He made me laugh all the time, and at night he would curl up next to my chin and try to "nurse" my neck. He was too young to leave his momma, and imprinted on me.
January 1999
He integrated well with our dog Cobalt, and when Emma came along, he accepted her into the family as well. When I was pregnant, he used to curl around my Emma-belly and purr, then stare indignantly at my belly when she kicked him.
Emma as a toddler was sometimes a trial. On Thanksgiving in 2005, I remember two-year-old Emma chasing him down the hall screeching "Stop running! Stop running!" because she so desperately wanted to hug him and love him and play with him. The bathroom was a good refuge.
January 2005
When Coco adopted herself into our family in 2009, Naia was 11, getting elderly and creaky. Having a young cat in the house rejuvenated him, and he started playing again. Plus, Coco was usually up for a snuggle when I wasn't available to offer my lap.
Coco, in turn, seemed to appreciate that Naia sometimes needed some help. In the last year or so, Naia couldn't always reach all the corners during his baths, or would get tired halfway through. Coco stepped up and helped him out.
He seemed to be able to tell when I wasn't happy and needed a cuddle. He would crawl up into my lap or onto my shoulder, and purr and purr and purr.
If he was feeling especially cuddly, he would head-butt my cheek then tuck his head under my chin. There really is nothing like that feeling. It was unconditional.
Last Friday, I took him in to the vet because his breathing was very labored. I was not expecting them to find a huge tumor in his abdomen and large quantities of blood in the pleural cavity around his lungs. There was no hope of recovery, and I had to make the choice to let him go. It was awful but peaceful and quick, and I was glad that he wasn't in distress any more.
April 12, 2013
For almost 15 years, Naia was my always faithful, ever comforting buddy. Rest in peace, Naia-bo-baia.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Sometimes even the expected can be unexpected... heartwrenching... horrible. It's taken me more than a week to write this post. Our dog Cobalt went up to Friday Harbor with us last weekend, but she did not come home.
1994-2008
She'd been getting progressively impaired this summer, though she never had any acute attacks like she did a couple years ago. Just a general decline. Less stable on her feet, a little blind, a little deaf, but still her same sweet self.
July 1996
She was originally from Wilmington, North Carolina, born in 1994. Shaun got her from an animal shelter, in November of our first year together. She was about nine months old, our relationship was eleven months old. She was mostly past the puppy stage, incredibly sweet and cuddly. She wanted to be a lap dog, a 50 pound lap dog. She was picked up as a stray and we think she'd been abused, as she was always skittish around tall men with deep voices. We didn't even hear her bark for more than a year.
January 1996
She lived with me (illegally, in my no-pets apartment) for our last summer in Wilmington, while Shaun did research in Florida, then they moved to Pittsboro, North Carolina in the fall of 1995 when Shaun started in the PhD program at Chapel Hill. I finished up my Master's degree and joined them in December.
January 1996
She enjoyed the colder winters and occasional snows of the Piedmont, and deluded herself into thinking that she could catch the squirrels and deer in our yard.
July 1996
It was hilarious to watch her scratch her own back by wiggling with all four feet up in the air.
February 1999
She hated baths, loved to be brushed, and would flatten into a puddle of black fur when the temperature went above 80F.
July 1996
We moved to Friday Harbor in 2001, to the wonderful cool Pacific Northwest. Lots of beach walks and snuffling in the underbrush at Jakle's Lagoon. When Emma was born, Cobalt was interested and gentle and protective. She was very tolerant of the toddler-play.
February 2005
She traveled with us up and down the East Coast visiting and vacationing from Maine to Florida, and across the width of the US three times.
August 1996
She pretty much went where we went for 14 years. She was part of our family from the very beginning, from the very first inklings Shaun and I had that we would be a family.
January 1996
We knew she was old and gradually failing. She had a long life, and had cheated mortality several times - hit by a car, heartworms and the terrible treatment for them, cherry sized bladder stones and surgery to remove them, pancreatitis, and a stroke or possibe brain tumor - not to mention the less dangerous crises - bitten by a copperhead, stoned from licking a toad, a muzzle full of porcupine quills, lots of apparently benign but still sensitive large fatty tumors, and idiopathic vestibular disease.
October 2007
Despite all that, she kept going along. Even up to the end, she didn't seem to be in great distress, just a bit creaky. I was dreading having to make the decision to put her to sleep, but we didn't have to.
February 2005
Cobalt, Cueball, Cue-balty. You will be terribly missed. Rest in peace, sweetie.
September 1998
1994-2008
She'd been getting progressively impaired this summer, though she never had any acute attacks like she did a couple years ago. Just a general decline. Less stable on her feet, a little blind, a little deaf, but still her same sweet self.
July 1996
She was originally from Wilmington, North Carolina, born in 1994. Shaun got her from an animal shelter, in November of our first year together. She was about nine months old, our relationship was eleven months old. She was mostly past the puppy stage, incredibly sweet and cuddly. She wanted to be a lap dog, a 50 pound lap dog. She was picked up as a stray and we think she'd been abused, as she was always skittish around tall men with deep voices. We didn't even hear her bark for more than a year.
January 1996
She lived with me (illegally, in my no-pets apartment) for our last summer in Wilmington, while Shaun did research in Florida, then they moved to Pittsboro, North Carolina in the fall of 1995 when Shaun started in the PhD program at Chapel Hill. I finished up my Master's degree and joined them in December.
January 1996
She enjoyed the colder winters and occasional snows of the Piedmont, and deluded herself into thinking that she could catch the squirrels and deer in our yard.
July 1996
It was hilarious to watch her scratch her own back by wiggling with all four feet up in the air.
February 1999
She hated baths, loved to be brushed, and would flatten into a puddle of black fur when the temperature went above 80F.
July 1996
We moved to Friday Harbor in 2001, to the wonderful cool Pacific Northwest. Lots of beach walks and snuffling in the underbrush at Jakle's Lagoon. When Emma was born, Cobalt was interested and gentle and protective. She was very tolerant of the toddler-play.
February 2005
She traveled with us up and down the East Coast visiting and vacationing from Maine to Florida, and across the width of the US three times.
August 1996
She pretty much went where we went for 14 years. She was part of our family from the very beginning, from the very first inklings Shaun and I had that we would be a family.
January 1996
We knew she was old and gradually failing. She had a long life, and had cheated mortality several times - hit by a car, heartworms and the terrible treatment for them, cherry sized bladder stones and surgery to remove them, pancreatitis, and a stroke or possibe brain tumor - not to mention the less dangerous crises - bitten by a copperhead, stoned from licking a toad, a muzzle full of porcupine quills, lots of apparently benign but still sensitive large fatty tumors, and idiopathic vestibular disease.
October 2007
Despite all that, she kept going along. Even up to the end, she didn't seem to be in great distress, just a bit creaky. I was dreading having to make the decision to put her to sleep, but we didn't have to.
February 2005
Cobalt, Cueball, Cue-balty. You will be terribly missed. Rest in peace, sweetie.
September 1998
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Missing You
It’s never long enough
To say goodbye
When there is no time at all.
When it all happens in an instant
And I can’t even get there for an eternal day.
A month spent hoping,
While reality contracts
To three rooms.
A hospital bed
With screens for heartbeat and breath,
A waiting room
Filled with tense-faced strangers,
And a hotel room
Where sleep comes slowly.
Endless round of sameness,
Feeling helpless,
Worse than useless.
Unable to face getting out of bed
To wait through another day.
In going through the motions,
I somehow endure without screaming.
I become numb.
A year without you,
And there’s still part of me
In that silent space.
My heart’s thinly healed,
And the world
Just keeps going
Around.
-------------------
One year ago today was my mom's car accident. April 2005 was a long, bleak month spent mostly in the hospital in Bangor, Maine, hoping that Mom would wake up from the coma. But she didn't. In the year since, I have been sad, happy, depressed, angry, joyful, miserable, and resigned. Often several of these at once. It's been hard.
Though she actually passed away April 23, it was on March 30 that we lost her.
To say goodbye
When there is no time at all.
When it all happens in an instant
And I can’t even get there for an eternal day.
A month spent hoping,
While reality contracts
To three rooms.
A hospital bed
With screens for heartbeat and breath,
A waiting room
Filled with tense-faced strangers,
And a hotel room
Where sleep comes slowly.
Endless round of sameness,
Feeling helpless,
Worse than useless.
Unable to face getting out of bed
To wait through another day.
In going through the motions,
I somehow endure without screaming.
I become numb.
A year without you,
And there’s still part of me
In that silent space.
My heart’s thinly healed,
And the world
Just keeps going
Around.
-------------------
One year ago today was my mom's car accident. April 2005 was a long, bleak month spent mostly in the hospital in Bangor, Maine, hoping that Mom would wake up from the coma. But she didn't. In the year since, I have been sad, happy, depressed, angry, joyful, miserable, and resigned. Often several of these at once. It's been hard.
Though she actually passed away April 23, it was on March 30 that we lost her.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
1943-2005
On April 23, 2005, my mom passed away. Mom is gone. I keep hearing that in my mind, and I still can’t believe it. Even now more than a week later, it seems unreal, like a bad dream that I can’t wake up from. I don’t think I would have ever been ready to go to the funeral of either of my parents, but this was so sudden. She wasn’t old, she wasn’t sick, there was no long-term health problem that we could come to terms with; she was just taking a short drive down the road to have lunch and knit with a friend when the accident happened.
The past month Emma and I spent with my dad in the hospital was one of the longest of my life. It was so hard to be there with him every day, to try to support him in our desperate hope that Mom would recover, or at least open her eyes, and still take care of and play with Emma. She was wonderfully behaved the whole time and brought a lot of smiles to my family and everyone else in the ICU Waiting Room. While I was glad she was there, it was heart-wrenching to look at my smiley happy girl and know that she had no idea what was going on.
What I regret most about this whole senseless tragedy is the lost time. Emma will never know her Grandma. She’s still too young to even remember her. Mom and Emma should have had maybe 25 or 30 more years to enjoy being grandma and granddaughter. They will never sew together, never bake a pie, never pick beans and pull up carrots in the garden, never watch the phoebes build their nest on the porch beams at the house in Maine. Mom won’t be there when Emma starts kindergarten, is in a school play or art show or concert, graduates high school and college, and won’t see her as a bride. There will be no more three-generation mother/daughter photos.
Mom and Dad had planned to come out to Friday Harbor and visit us this spring, and were looking forward to seeing our new house. April 20, the day they were planning to arrive, was the day my dad, sister, and I had to decide to discontinue life support and let Mom go.
Emma and I planned to spend a month on vacation in Maine this summer. Mom and I had hatched a plan to make a quilt together. I had even started looking at patterns and color combinations. I can’t even express how much I was looking forward to this.
I just keep thinking “This isn’t fair.” I know the corollary to that is “Life isn’t fair,” but this seems almost too unfair to bear.
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