Emma, my cat of 16 years, passed away on Monday. She was losing weight last week and we took her to the vet on Saturday for blood tests. Her condition worsened and by the time the tests results came back with kidney troubles, she was already immobile and sad. Putting her down was a strange mixture of grief and relief. I was sad to see her go and happy that I could end her suffering.
I took the day off from work. I didn’t take the day off from writing. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind but stories have a rhythm and a momentum that keeps the plot going despite how I feel. I will most likely go back and rewrite everything I did yesterday but for the moment it felt good.
I am pretty sure I picked up writing as a coping mechanism from my first wife. I had close to zero control in that relationship but when I write, I am in charge. When I write, I call the shots. When I write, I can make myself smile, feel good and laugh. I needed a laugh.
I know about the five stages of grief but I shorten it down to just one stage: burial. I bury it deep and let if fester within the suffocating weight of my buried grievances. That and lots of Lexapro.
It is still fucking hard though. Making yourself laugh when you realize that the tiny calico girl will not be within arm’s reach from the computer chair is pretty damn impossible. A part of my heart is missing.
The last time I was this upset, I wrote Volleyball Madd-ness. Before that, it was Thigh Vs Thigh. I don’t know where this grief will take me but I am sure it will be ridiculous.