The Last Time

A little while ago, as I sat ensconced in what I call “the murder mystery reading chair,” turning the pages of Lauren Groff’s Matrix, my sweet kitty, Little Stevie, jumped into my lap for a pat. I set my book down so that I could give my full attention to his small body, because, in truth, I don’t know when the last time will be that he reaches out for that kind of loving attention.

Little Stevie’s typical perch in life: curled up in my arms. Photo by Philipp Elssner.

This is not a blog post about cats in general or even one cat in particular. It is a post about attending, remembering, and loving.

Around a year ago, Little Stevie was diagnosed with probable lymphoma. Probable, because I elected not to have a biopsy done. I wasn’t going to subject Little Stevie to chemotherapy, so why perform a biopsy?

Oh, I know veterinary medicine offers an array of treatments. So, so many treatments. But I firmly believe that “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” When Little Stevie got sick a year ago, I spent a week crying and considering the possibilities. Much as my heart was breaking, I ultimately decided that putting Little Stevie through chemo would actually be for my benefit, not his. But it would be his little body that would have to endure the treatment, while his little soul wouldn’t understand it. So, I said no to the biopsy.

By some miracle, the concerning symptoms that sent me to the vet a year ago subsided. For the past year, Little Stevie has been pretty much his usual self. But recently those previous symptoms have all come tumbling back, seemingly overnight. Little Stevie is receiving palliative care, in the form of a prednisone derivative that is meant to increase his appetite and to decrease the inflammation caused by the tumors that even I, with my utter lack of training, can now palpate.

This is all to say that I don’t know how much time Little Stevie has left, so I try to stop what I am doing when he approaches. I hope to give him the love and comfort he wants. And, of course, I want to soak in his presence. When Little Stevie jumped into my arms a little while ago, I held him closely and gently. I spoke to him kindly and stroked his fur. He purred and settled in for a while.

And I said to myself, I want to remember this. Every single detail. I want to remember. Because what if this is the last time he asks for this kind of attention? What if I never have another chance like this one?

The seriousness of his illness makes evident a truth I so often hold at bay as I conduct the prosaic events of my life: One never knows when the last time will arrive. The last touch. The last conversation. The last shared laughter. If we are lucky, we will have something to remember in retrospect. If we are really, really lucky, that remembrance will be something better than the argument we had with our mother about a stupid bicycle, of all things, just a day before she had her final heart attack. (Yes, speaking from experience here.)

Little Stevie has the softest fur. Softer than baby’s hair. Softer than the fur coating any of my long parade of pets through the years. Softer than soft. While he was curled up in my arms, I marveled at that sweet miracle of softness as feelings and thoughts swirled through my head.

I prayed for the wisdom to know when it is time to allow the veterinarian to give him that gentle release. I confess my track record in that area is not sterling. I tend to hold on too long, and then I have to live knowing that my choices have caused my beloved pets unnecessary additional suffering. Right now, I am trying to remember what one of my friends said the other day, “We treat animals better than we treat humans.” The gentle release the veterinarian will administer will be just that: A gentle release. A quiet, tender goodbye.

I thought of other lettings go. Other pets who have died in my arms. Jesse who died in the middle of the night on my kitchen floor with me gently stroking him and speaking to him, telling him it was okay to go. Molly and Frodo, who died with me holding them, while the vet administered that final shot. In those cases, I hoped my voice and touch soothed them to the end. It hardly needs saying: I was well aware of those last moments.

There have been times when I haven’t had the chance to say goodbye. Max, who disappeared forever, probably a good meal for a fisher or fox. Mieke, who died on the operating table after being administered anesthesia, much to the surprise of the bewildered vet, who asked my permission to do an autopsy to discover what had happened. (Answer: It turned out she had only one kidney, and it was diseased — so the anesthesia was too much for her; it killed her.) Going back in time, I thought of the various beloved pets my parents had euthanized when I wasn’t there. When was the final time I held or patted those treasured beings? What were the last things I ever said to them? I mostly couldn’t recall.

With beloved people, death often sneaks up on us. We don’t typically plan our beloved people’s final exits the way we often can with pets. People die when they die, even when death is expected. Even when we are keeping close and tender watch, people often die at that exact moment when we leave the room to get a cup of coffee to help us stay awake for the long haul. Experiences like that give the sense of death stealing people away from us, so you would think we would hold each moment in our awareness a little better than we usually do. I am speaking for myself here, of course, but I doubt I am the only person who moves through my day, from task to task, without considering life’s finite quality and the limited opportunities to express my love. I am not the only person whose attention, well, wanders from the most holy moments right within my grasp. Excuse me, I have to cook supper, or take the car to have the snow tires removed, or put the clothes in the dryer, or clean up that pile of papers on the kitchen counter.

Sometimes one gets a lucky, conscious last moment — and what a blessing that is. Years ago, neighbors invited us to an outdoor concert at a local science museum. The museum featured an outdoor walkway through lovely vegetation, where injured and recovering wildlife were on view in the cages that kept them safe while they were healing. During the concert’s intermission, my son and I went to see those animals and plants. As we strolled quietly down the path, my son reached out his hand to me. On we went, hand in hand.

At the time, my son was, maybe, 11 or 12 years old. It had been, literally, years since he had taken my hand like that. I don’t know what inspired him to do so in those moments. All I know is that as I walked along, I was flooded with a million memories of his much-younger, small hand reaching way up high to grasp mine. I couldn’t have said what had been the previous time he had done that, but I was well aware that what I was experiencing right then probably constituted the exact last time he would hold my hand like that.

“This is the last time he will ever do this,” I said to myself, “so savor it.”

There may come a time in my advanced dotage, if I get that far, when my son takes my hand again. I will savor that, too, if I am aware it is happening. But it won’t be the same. It won’t be the young child reaching out for Mummy. It will be the older child, an adult who has somehow, mysteriously, become the parent in the equation, while I will be the recipient of his comfort and love. That will be meaningful in its own way, I am sure. I count my blessings that that long-ago stroll at the science museum helped to teach me to notice such dear moments. To attend. To appreciate. To give thanks.

It’s a good thing such reminders pop up every so often. Right now — this instant (for Little Stevie has appeared again and is curled up, cuddling in my arms while I type) — a sweet little cat is telling me to stop. To pay attention. To live my life consciously. To be tender and kind. To imprint these sacred moments on my heart and soul. Dinner can wait. Snow tires can wait. Wet laundry can wait. Piles of paper can wait. Love and tenderness are happening right now — right now! They are the most important things, and I don’t want to miss the moment.

So, I leave you now so that I can pat my cat. His little body is warm, and he is purring. And he has the softest fur.

Love,

Sylvia