Pay it Forward

Martha was not my first death; she was not our last. We had just lost Glowy and were at peace that her pain had ended and we were enjoying the adolescence of Martha and Sylvia, small sisters with huge personalities and so much more life ahead of them.

The night before, Martha was chasing and harassing her sister, Sylvia. She was eating, playing, napping on my lap. I scolded her for not leaving Sylvia alone, but then smooched her and told her how much I loved her and asked her to stop beating up on her sister. She licked me, I kissed her; lather, rinse, and repeat, I kissed and smooshed Sylvia. Martha settled on an armchair and Sylvia napped next to her on the sofa. Everyone went to sleep happy and I knew both of them would do what they did every night. They would sneak in beside me with each holding a part of the same hand, my right hand. Their purring and warmth melting into a sleepy, shared comfort for the prior nine years—my arms wrapped around them in a united biological instinct.The sisters were fosters who ended up living with me. I never regretted a moment of them. And, while I will talk about some of their shenanigans later, today is for talking about paying it forward when someone is grieving over the loss of a beloved pet.

Joel, my husband, came into the room while I was sleeping. The first thing I noticed was that no one was in the bed. I looked up at Joel and smiled. He sat down next to me, more shaken than I’ve ever seen him. He told me. Martha must have died in the night and Sylvia was sitting where I left her, guarding her sister.

I sobbed as I dressed; as we drove, with Martha in the back seat, covered and wrapped; as we walked into our vet’s office and I tried to speak; as they ushered us into a room and Joel went back to the car to get our little fur baby; as the vet came in, looking shaken. She had a heart attack and based on how she felt to our touch, we agreed she must have died about the time when we all went to sleep. Quick. No pain. She probably jumped off the chair to usher her sister with her upstairs to our bed.

We—the vet and I—were both surprised because we missed that Martha had cardiomyopathy. Anastasia, one of my first two kitties, had cardiomyopathy and I knew the signs. He was her vet and he had recently seen her and her heart sounded great. This is how life happens. No guarantees. Just love and loss.

When we left—and I assume everyone in the office was now aware of what had happened; some of them had to wait longer because of us—a woman approached me, never said one word, and wrapped her arms around me. I tried to resist, but she insisted with a deeper hug. I released myself into her warmth and compassion in front of dozens of people who either knew my pain or feared my pain. I sobbed and sobbed and everyone stood in quiet reverence. There is something sacred in death and loss and good-byes.

***

This morning, living with a new group of fur babies, our beloved Mimi, my service dog, was shivering and her nose was cold and runny; her tongue was hot. She had been sneezing for a few days, and I brushed that off to allergies—late June in Virginia. We wrapped her in her blanket and ran to the emergency vet. They gave her another blanket and, while I was sweltering, her shivering stopped. It seemed she caught a virus, had a fever, and broke it. She appears tired, but better.

A woman was exiting while I was walking Mimi in the sun waiting for Joel and I noticed that she carried the familiar box of a beloved pet’s ashes. I called after her and after the third try—something told me to continue—she turned and I told her how sorry I was. Her face started to crumble and I hugged her as she emptied herself into me and I held back tears. Tears for this woman, named Tanya; tears for Tanya’s kitty, Zika; for Martha and, later, her sister Sylvia; for Anastasia and Zoe and Glowy before them; for all the losses not everyone understands. I petted her hair, like my vet in New York would do when I cried over Anastasia and Zoe. I cried with relief that Mimi was going to be fine. I cried a good-bye for Clementine, a starling that turned out to be a robin and who we had to rehome the prior week.

As we parted, I told her the story of the first woman who held me. As I spoke, I remembered a second woman who was standing outside one of the doors to my Virginia vet’s offices, alone and crying. I hugged her and she sobbed as I had sobbed. I told her about the first woman and that I will never forget that action and that it brought me comfort on such a sad day for us. A different woman, a different visit, was standing next to me at the vet in Virginia, crying. She was bringing her dog in to have him put down. She cried in my arms and those around us separated and gave us space and quiet for her loss. We all understood.

The doctor at the emergency vet center, also in Virginia, who put Sylvia to sleep not all that long ago, hugged me and let me sob on his shoulder and everyone in the room in the middle of that so-sad night was crying. And, again, when we came to pick up her ashes the following week. They remembered me this morning and the receptionist behind the desk watered up when I thanked her for her tears on those sad days.

Love and loss. Love deeply, grieve, and love some more. The pain is dreadful, but the joy is immeasurable, and worth every tear.