A Year

My roommate reminded me that it was a year yesterday since I had to take Rhiannon to the vet. I still miss her. The grief is still with me and while it isn't as intense as it was there for a while, I'm still not the same since I lost her and her sister.

I still feel a lot of guilt about her death. Rationally I know that as the human responsible for her, I was making the best decision. Her quality of life was poor due to her declining health. She spent a lot of her time confused and scared. She was having a number of physical issues that medicine couldn't solve. This was the kind choice, but sometimes being kind is very hard.

The truth is, no amount of reasonable facts can make me forgive myself for the act. Part of me feels there should have been another option, even though I know there wasn't one. Then again, I still feel that way about holding my grandmother's hand as she died. Even after all these years, I feel like something else should have been done.

In both cases, things ended the only way they could . . . with me holding on to the person I loved as they died. In both cases, this was profound. In both cases, I think something in my psyche was altered. I'm just not the same person I was.

Then again, on some level, I think that's for the best. I don't think we should ever get used to watching those we love die. I think it should always rip us just a little bit. It is a reminder of them that stays with us, tugs at us, and keeps their memory alive.

My roommate and I talk about Rhiannon (and the other ghost cats) a lot. When I pet the new kitty, I always think about how the fur of the cats I've lost felt against my hand. When I sing songs to my best friend's daughter, they're the songs my grandmother would sing to me.