The Paradox of Passings
Losing two loved ones on the same day
Arriving home from vacation I discovered Monkey Boy, my 17-year-old Siamese-mix cat had “crashed” while we were away; he was dying. Monkey had suffered from kidney disease for a long time, but he was the pillar of health when we left just 10 days earlier. Cats are fine actors; they often disguise their ailments until it is too late for treatment. I expected nothing less than this from my noble Monkey; I knew the alarm in his kidneys would ring one day, and his ninth life would end.
We spent his last 24 hours together, reminiscing. I held him and he purred. He weakly attempted his signature head bump a couple of times. I tugged his ears. Terminally sick, he was sweet and brave to the end.
I called Monkey an “over-licker”, he was always impeccably groomed and dressed in his beautiful lavender lynx-point coat. There was never a piece of fur out of order. I desperately tried to force feed him, and his already substandard hygiene situation became worse. Too weak to lick himself, I humiliated Monkey with a sponge bath, while he only had hours to live.
In that moment, we both let go, and the next hours were dedicated solely to our mutual love. It was beautiful.
Monkey asked me to accept his fate and thanked me for the past 17 years. We grew old together; each of us had become geriatric, he faster than I. We had a deep, intrinsic understanding of one another’s souls.
Monkey was great in bed; he slept soundly in a perfect oval shape, next to my left ear every night. We often woke in the wee hours to share a little love. I would pull his ears, while he purred quietly. This was our secret; my husband George snored on the other side.
Monkey could never get physically close enough to me, his nose had to touch me when we slept together; I usually flinched when that cold wet nose landed on my face. Each night this led to turf wars for my pillow; Monkey always won. On his final night, Monkey was too weak to jump onto the bed. I picked him up and he assumed his entitled position next to my head.
Several hours later I found myself cuddled up beside my husband. We were falling off the bed. As I looked back to my side, Monkey was occupying the MIDDLE of our King Size bed, sound asleep, his stripped tail wrapped around his neck. His paws covered his eyes assuring daylight could not interrupt his deep slumber.
Months earlier I had learned how to rise from bed without disturbing Monkey, so I did so on this day, his last. He snored his little “cat snores”; the world was the way it was supposed to be. Monkey slept in.
The lady with the wagon came, and Monkey left with her. It took five minutes. Then I sat down to write this piece.
Exactly one hour and 15 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Barry, one of my best friends, calling from London. Barry was a long-term caregiver for Ken, his spouse of 36 years. The stress of caregiving had taken its toll on Barry, and this trip to London was the first respite he had enjoyed in over two years.
“Ken died in his sleep,” were Barry’s first words.
I was beyond stunned; and said, “I’m leaving right now, I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”
While Ken’s passing was not unexpected, it was shocking. Ken, like my cat, had become clever in living with his own long-term kidney disease. Ken suffered failing health for several years; he had recently decided to not undergo kidney dialysis.
When I arrived at the condominium, I stood in Barry’s stead, dealing with the building management, the police, the mortuary, and left-over medications. I emptied the house of perishables but lacked the bandwidth to water the plants. I regret that now, but the entire day had become an out of body experience. I did what I could.
While the process managing Ken’s final arrangements was swift, it seemed like hours to me. I was in slow motion, surrounded by a lifetime of Ken’s memories; many of which we had made together. Ken was the consummate collector, and had a wonderful taste in antiquities and art. While I sat on the sofa and waited for the authorities to do their jobs, I took a nostalgia trip, focusing upon all we had shared together. We both loved two artists, Purvis Young and Thornton Dial. Hanging on the walls of the apartment is the same art that adorns my walls.
I recall Ken introducing me to his art dealer, who I jokingly called our “drug dealer.” We visited the gallery often, and spent too much money on way too much art. We, however, loved it together, and chased the stories of Purvis and Thornton throughout the art world.
We loved traveling, fine dining, and fine wine. Remnants of all the things we loved together surrounded me. The silence within the apartment was unbearable. Thoughts of my friend being prepared by strangers to take his final trip down the elevator disturbed me beyond tears. Meanwhile, Barry, his loving partner, 4,388 miles away and helpless, is speaking to me on the phone.
Just like the veterinarian, the mortuary brought their form of a wagon. The police determined Ken had finished his ninth life due to natural causes.
After all was done, I closed the house to await Barry’s return. When I set the alarm and shut the door, the sound of the lock clicking in the door jamb seemed so loud and final. The keys were stowed safely.
As I followed Ken’s body down the hallway, I felt confused. I have more questions than answers.
The burning question is: “Was Ken’s ending as beautiful as Monkey’s?” I fear the answer.
But one thing I do know is that Ken had a remarkable, beautiful life, and it was an honor for me to shepherd him into his 10th life. I returned home for my own two-day slumber.
