There have been times when this nasty business has really got me down. If you count my miscarriages (and, of course, I do), then the total bereavements that I have suffered in the past 3 years is an impressive 8. Some were expected, and part of the natural order of things (grandparents – sad, but natural), and my Father in Law (untimely, too soon), the babies and all of the associated hospitalization that went along with that. And then there was the cat.
After two miscarriages, back in October 2012 (the 6th, 12:30 on a sunny Saturday afternoon), there came a knock at the front door. A neighbour asked, “Are your cats in? There’s been an accident.” One cat was in the back garden, but I had not seen her brother since I let him out that morning. My blood ran cold. Of course it was him, and we took his body to the vets for cremation (Vet: “Let me just check for a heartbeat,” Me: “He’s got rigor-mortis.”)
I know he was just a cat, but I felt so damn angry at the universe for taking him away. It won’t take a degree in psychology to work out how much displaced love is re-focused on our furry friends. Never judge the mad cat lady, maybe she suffers from miscarriage.
It took me over a month to emerge from the depths of depression that the loss of Mac plunged me in to. It has been suggested to me that it was a ‘real’ bereavement that finally allowed me to get in touch with the confused and unfulfilled feelings of loss from my miscarriages, and perhaps that’s true.
Grief is a strange thing. I got a new kitten “because I can at least control that.” Whether it’s the next phase of mourning or just the whole shitty lot compounded together, I do feel like a bereavement veteran. It’s not a great place to be.
I feel mostly OK now. Most of the time. I still miss the cat. C’mon, universe. There was no need for that.
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