I’ve been stuck. Grief. Depression. They have a way of doing that.
The good news is that I’m better at getting unstuck than I used to be. The bad news is — I still get stuck.
Or I guess it isn’t really bad news… it just is. It’s life.
As I sit waiting for inspiration — something to write about — I often go back to things I have written before and rewrite them. Sometimes this is good as I find ways to improve my writing; but also, I’m not sure if it is good. I can always find ways to make my creative endeavors better. And if I never “ship,” they will always stay in draft mode, never seeing the light of day.
Does it matter if I never share my creations with anyone else? It depends, I suppose. Some creations can definitely be for my eyes only. On the other hand, I get such enjoyment from sharing. And one of the roads out of depression is connection. (It’s ironic: the thing that can help you the most when you are depressed — connection — is the thing that can be the hardest to do.)
I wrote about grief right after my dear companion Stanley died. After I wrote it, I looked up the stages of grief and saw that my experience was pretty typical. I didn’t have anything new to say about the subject, so why share it?
I was also afraid of further isolating myself because those who are not cat lovers might not understand what I’m going through or be interested in reading about it. And I don’t want to be written off as someone whose life revolves around her cats (even if it does.) Or further solidify the stereotype of the “the crazy cat lady.” I get it. I talk about cats a lot.
But in my grief, I also remembered some creative works that I admire that center around cats. Kitty City: A Feline Book of Hours by Judy Chicago and A Cat Named Darwin: How a Stray Cat Changed a Man into a Human Being by William Jordan. What I found in the pages of these books was a vindication of my deep appreciation for cats. What if these people had chosen not to publish these works for fear of being labeled — dear God! — as cat lovers?!
The truth is that I do love cats (there I said it) and especially Stanley. Here is what I wrote about grief and trying to come to terms with my loss. If you are not interested, that’s okay, you don’t have to read it. I am sharing it here for myself and for anyone else it might help. And to help me get unstuck.
September 26, 2021
Grief is funny. But not in the “ha ha” sort of way. More in the “isn’t that interesting?” kind of way. I have been tumbling through the stages of grief over the last several days, and today I am contemplating the journey.
The first stage for me was resisting reality. “It can’t be true.”
The second stage was gut-wrenching crying. Complete and total sadness that I thought I would never recover from — and in some ways, I didn’t want to. The mourning felt like the right thing to do — it was the only thing I wanted to do. Even as my heart was breaking into a million pieces, and I thought I might die from the sadness, I didn’t want to do anything else.
And then the numbness set in. I had felt so much that I couldn’t feel any more.
The next stage is where I spent the most time: wishing for a different result. I relived the moments over and over, believing I could change the outcome or handle things better than I did before. Surely there was something I could have done to make things different… be less painful… be better somehow… There is always something I missed that I could have done better. Always.
I got stuck in this stage. It was torture. I have been here before in other circumstances. It’s amazing how much time I have spent wishing for things to be different. If it were possible to change the past, I would have done it by now. God knows I’ve tried.
During these moments of longing for things to be different, I really believe that I can make it happen. And I am afraid if I stop thinking about it, I will lose the opportunity to change the outcome. The rumination also serves as my punishment because I believe that I’m in some way to blame for doing or not doing something that could have made things better, different.
In the case of Stanley’s death, after I realized nothing was going to change, and I couldn’t undo the past, I moved on to the stage of disbelief. “I can’t believe he is gone.” Somehow saying the words out loud is part of the process. Why this seems necessary, I’m not sure, but it seems to be so.
And then I went back to sadness and crying, but not quite as intense as before — thankfully, because it’s exhausting.
Next I began to tiptoe into acceptance. I started reflecting on my memories of Stanley and what I will miss. I started to notice other things around me and see some good left in the world. During this stage, I slipped backwards into crying some, but I didn’t stay as long.
Guilt came next. And fear that I will forget. If I am not thinking about the loss, I am bad, so I start thinking about it again. This is where I am today.
And as much as I don’t like to accept it … if I want to keep living … the only way out is through. So I will keep going.
October 9, 2021
Stanley held our family together.
I know that this may sound absurd to some of you, but Stanley did so much for us. I am only beginning to understand how much now that he’s gone.
Stanley was the alpha cat. We always said that, but I thought it was only in regards to the hierarchy of the cats. And while I knew losing Stanley would leave a giant hole in our hearts, I don’t think I fully understood — until now — what a big hole he would leave in our lives. He was the glue that held us together.
Most mornings, Stanley woke us up, usually between 7 and 7:30. He would start by meowing incessantly, close to my face. If I tried to snooze him, he would become more persistent, sometimes pawing at me. Then he would climb on the nightstand and hover over me until I awoke from his intense stare. If that didn’t work, he would dismount off of this perch by way of my head.
Once I got up, Stanley would join me in the bathroom as I sat on the toilet, brushing against my legs and vocalizing to make sure I was actually awake. Upon leaving the bathroom, he would lead me down the hallway to the kitchen and instruct me to get his food — STAT!
At this point, Callie and Scottie would come out from wherever they had spent the night and gather at the threshold of the kitchen. As I plated their food, Stanley would continue meowing and pacing, sometimes licking the cabinets in anticipation of the meal.
Finally I would put the food down in their respective spots: Stanley first — of course — Scottie next to him, Callie in a separate room so as not to be intimidated out of eating her food.
Stanley would finish his food and then begin cleaning off the others’ plates. He would sit outside Callie’s room and (usually) wait until she emerged. Then he would go in to clear off her plate. We called him “the cleaner” and sometimes we sang the Stanley Steamer jingle in recognition of his tidy ways. (“Stanley Steamer makes your home cleaner!”)
While the cats were getting breakfast, I would clean out the litter box. It was crucial to do this immediately after the feeding so that it would be ready for Stanley’s morning visit. If I timed it just right, I would be done just as he appeared. He preferred a clean box, especially first thing in the morning.
After these morning cat chores, I could begin getting ready for my own day. If it was a weekday, I would turn on the television to watch the morning news while I dressed and got my breakfast. After breakfast, during work-from-home times, I would “go” to the office at the back part of the house in my “studio.” Stanley would join me after making his rounds, which often included sitting at the back door and caterwauling. It was like he was saying good morning to the outside world.
Once in my studio, Stanley would approach my office chair and circle around my feet until I picked him up. I would pet him as he began purring and kneading my lap, trying to make himself comfortable. When he got into a suitable resting position, I would attempt to work, typing on the keyboard, trying not to jostle him too much. This would usually last for five minutes or less before he would get annoyed, try to reposition himself, and then eventually get down. He then would make another round through the house, often stopping for a drink at the water fountain, before returning to my room and making himself comfortable on the other chair in my studio or the window perch above my head. And there he would sleep for most of the day. My office companion.
At lunchtime, Stanley would come out to the dining room to see if there was any food for him. Then he might sit at the back door and talk to the birds. Or find a place to stretch out and soak up the afternoon sun.
When the weather was nice, I would take Stanley outside after lunch and let him roll around on the warm concrete, giving himself a massage as he drooled and I rubbed his belly. Sometimes I would offer him catnip. He would indulge and then begin rolling around again, turning upside down, smiling, and displaying what we called his “snoopy face.”
After this break, I would go back to work. Sometimes Stanley would follow me and beg for attention and we would do the morning routine all over again: me trying to type while his head bobbed up and down on my arm until he or I couldn’t make it work anymore and he found a more suitable place to rest.
As the afternoon turned into evening, Stanley would come to let me know it was time for his dinner. If I missed his usual 5:30 mealtime, he would get more and more demanding until I couldn’t ignore him.
Dinner was much like breakfast in that Stanley cleaned his plate and then all the others, and waited for me to clean the litter box. There might be some more time at the backdoor or the back window, checking into the outside world and, maybe, convincing me that he should have more patio time.
After my dinner, Stanley would often join me to snuggle while I watched TV. He would take his evening nap and then convince me that he needed a bedtime snack. I could not resist his pleading eyes. He had me wrapped around his little paw and he knew it.
When it was time for bed, Stanley followed me around and often grew impatient as I did my “preparing for bed” routine. Sometimes he would give up and go to bed without me. I would have to climb in and slide my legs underneath him. He would get up sleepily and greet me with an irritated meow. I would apologize for disturbing him and he would settle back down on my legs where he would stretch out and fall asleep. I learned to sleep on my back motionless in order to disturb him as little as possible.
When I awoke in the night, I would extract myself from my weighted Stanley blanket, go to the bathroom, and return to find him still at the foot of the bed. He dutifully got up and repositioned himself next to me, flipping upside down so I could rub his belly. I would often fall asleep with my arm wrapped around him. Hours later I would wake up to find him in my face, telling me it was time to get up. And the day started all over again.
Okay. So Stanley’s absence affects me the most. He was my loyal companion. My friend. My timekeeper. He told me when to get up and when to go to bed. He reminded me to eat my meals, to slow down and take breaks, to notice nature — the outside world. Without him, my world is off kilter and that affects the rest of my family. This is how he held us together: by holding me together.
So the last few weeks — two weeks and three days, to be exact — have been difficult, to say the least. I have been trying to figure out what life looks like without Stanley. I’m making progress. I just typed that last sentence without bursting into tears.
If you have never loved a cat, or any animal, the way that I loved — no make that love — Stanley, maybe you will never understand. But it isn’t just my love for him that makes his loss so difficult; it’s that he was a significant part of my life. Every. Single. Day. His absence is like an open wound that will take time to heal. And for that, I am not ashamed.
Here’s to living life to the fullest. Experiencing all of it and embracing who we are. May you find your way out of whatever you’re going through — and know that you are not alone.
