Missing Millie
She was gone too young. And so my heart grieves for her, for the years she has lost, for the years that were taken away from her.
My cat died two days ago.
We didn’t know she was sick. We woke up that morning and she could barely walk. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was going to die.
My heart fell into my stomach. Maybe lower.
What’s lower than my stomach? I don’t know. I have to look up the anatomy of a human to find where the stomach is and what’s below it.
Millie was lying on the tile floor, unable to stand. She hadn’t looked that way the day before.
The day before she spent with me.
All day. Purring. Following me. Rubbing against my legs. Sitting with me in every room. Being with me wherever I went. Being. Purring.
Not wanting to leave me.
But now she has.
She’s gone.
She left me with an open wound. My heart cries. Every time I think of her dying without me, the wound bleeds a little more, and I feel as if I can’t breathe.
I still look for her.
In all the rooms where she liked to sleep.
I woke up this morning and knew it had been just a bad dream. I ran downstairs to check on her.
The pain grabs me and squeezes me. How can I breathe with this hand constricting my heart?
Tighter and tighter.
I force my mind to think of something, anything, else. What to make for dinner. Work. Mundane duties. Laundry that needs to be done.
Anything other than Millie in a crate dying at my vet’s office while I am at her home without her.
The tears come quickly and I cannot stop them.
At work, I look down as if I am concentrating and focused on my job.
But my mind is back at the vet’s, watching the technician hold Millie as she takes her last breath.
While I am home, making lunch, unaware that she is dying.
She didn’t even belong to me.
Millie belonged to Millie. She let me love her.
But she grew to love me. She loved me in the end.
Loved me more than she knew she loved me.
I loved her all along.
And so the wound is there, gaping.
What happens if it gets too big? What do I do then?
People tell me the pain will get better.
Others say she was just a cat, or they think it and smile at me.
Consoling.
Condescending.
They won’t say it, but I feel them thinking it.
She was just a cat.
She didn’t really care that much about us, my kids tell me. She just wanted to be fed.
They’re wrong.
They’re all wrong.
She was just a cat, but she was a cat who depended on me.
I was her shelter; I was her nourishment; I was her protector.
And I failed her.
When she needed me, where was I?
Making a grilled cheese sandwich. Letting the everyday divert my attention from living.
She looks at me from under the car, my son’s car, parked in our driveway.
It is late and I want to go to bed. But I do not want to leave her out all night.
I click my tongue and call for her, crouching down on all fours to reach for her. She backs away and hunkers down behind a rear wheel.
“C’mon, you silly cat,” I mutter. “I want to go to bed.”
I stand up and head down the driveway to the mailbox, hoping she’ll follow. It has been our ritual for years. I get the mail and she accompanies me, stopping in the middle of the driveway to wait. Blinking her yellow eyes at me, regal and beautiful, her white paws positioned beneath her, a royal cat waiting on her serf. Even at night when there is no mail, she comes out from under the car and follows me. Waits.
I turn from the mailbox and reach her. Scoop her up and kiss her head, nuzzling my face against hers.
“Silly kitty,” I whisper. “Let’s go to bed.”
My throat clenches, seizes. I can’t even swallow without pain. I struggle to write, to see through the tears.
Why am I doing this to myself? Purging my feelings? Giving myself catharsis?
It doesn’t feel that way.
It hurts and digs at my insides. The wound deepens. Nothing is healing. This isn’t healing, I think.
This is torture. Why am I torturing myself?
I am so angry. The anger festers, cutting into me, making me bleed.
The anger turns on me, and, as I always do, I blame myself.
I hate myself.
Without this anger, this hatred, what would I do?
Would I tell myself that it’s okay? It was just the way things go? Nothing I can do about it now?
Would that help? Would I feel better?
It makes me angry just thinking about it. People are so quick to forgive mistakes. So quick to let themselves off the hook.
Should I? Should I let myself off the hook? Should I just let this go?
Millie is gone.
How do I forgive myself? Why is it easier to forgive others than it is to forgive myself?
Yesterday, as I was making dinner, something fell off the kitchen counter. I turned around and saw my daughter’s pencil box on the floor.
I wondered.
Millie? I whispered.
Last night, we were watching television. A crash came from the laundry room. My husband left and went to investigate. He came back a minute later.
It was just a tennis racket that fell over, he told me.
I wondered again though. Millie?
I want her to come to me. I need her to tell me it’s okay. I need her to tell me she forgives me.
When my dog died eleven years ago, I looked for her everywhere.
I just knew that if I paid attention, I would catch a glimpse of Sweet Pea around a corner or in a dark room or running past the kitchen island. But I didn’t.
A sign then, I thought. Sweet Pea will send me a sign.
She didn’t.
It has been only two days. I will wait for Millie’s sign.
She loved me. I know she did.
So I will wait.
And when the sign comes, perhaps it will be the forgiveness I am needing.
In the meantime, I wait.
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