Hours after our phone call, Rick sent me a text- it was a screenshot of his message to his three girls letting them know Oliver would need to be put down. Upon reading this, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
I also had an epiphany about my and Rick’s relationship. We had thought we were doing just fine, but this situation with Oliver made it clear that his triggers surrounding death and my triggers surrounding not feeling heard by him (and several other things) needed to be faced, sooner rather than later; resuming couples therapy would be imminent.
Also, due to the fact that at his core, Rick is a big softie, and because he cared about Oliver more than even he realized, Oliver would not be euthanized in some cold, sterile veterinary clinic, he would pass peacefully in the comfort of his own home. We used a company called Home To Heaven, and Kelly was the lady facilitating Oliver’s transition.
The morning of, however, I leapt out of bed having not slept a wink the night before. How could I waste precious time sleeping when all it equated to was less time with my buddy? So I inhaled some breakfast, made coffee, and ran out the door. As I drove into Rick’s garage, I tried to brace myself- this would be the last time I’d see Oliver in his kitty bed; it would also be the last time he would ever greet me with his adorable crossed eyes and sweet little squeak.
But as I walked through the door and Oliver came towards me, he stumbled, as if he were drunk. He’d become less steady on his feet the past few days, and sadly, maybe even selfishly, seeing him like that brought me even more reassurance that we were doing the right thing. “I’m right here buddy. I got you,” I cried. I then proceeded to give him a full tube of chicken flavored Churu- his new favorite treat. Then we cuddled on the couch and as he drifted off, he shook- it was as if he were having mini convulsions. He’d been doing this a lot lately. I told myself he must be having nightmares, however, the true cause of his tormented movements will remain a mystery.
Rick came home from work early to be with us in Oliver’s final moments (softie). Then he reminded me that Oliver started out as an outdoor cat, so perhaps we should let him outside. Rick put on his collar and made a leash out of shoelaces, and out to the patio we went. Oliver hobbled about, sniffing various plants and grasses. I laughed because after about three minutes in the intense heat, he’d clearly had enough- as if to say “I appreciate the gesture, but also, screw this!” Thus, we followed Oliver back inside to bask in the cool comfort of the air conditioned townhome.
When Kelly arrived she explained that Oliver would be getting two shots: one to put him to sleep, and one to stop his heart. Rick and I nodded, trying to keep our composure. After the first shot, while Oliver was still somewhat coherent, he was placed on my lap. I started bawling and couldn’t stop. “I’m crying for myself, because I’m gonna miss him. He’s going to a better place and I know that. These tears are for me now.” Kelly said assuredly and with a warm smile, “Of course. Just know Oliver is having the best sleep of his life.” As I looked down at my buddy, I could see she was right- there were no jerking movements, and he didn’t seem tense in the slightest. For the first time in a very long time, he was truly at peace. Rick began oscillating between tenderly caressing Oliver and rubbing my weary shoulders. Then came the moment where we gave Kelly the go-ahead to complete Oliver’s journey to the afterlife.
Fortunately, two days later, I had a ketamine appointment with Aja. I cried for the entirety of the three hour session, during which, something amazing happened. On Oliver’s last day, I repeatedly said to him “You have to come visit me. That’s the deal.” Now it was as if he were nestled in my chest- his soul partnered with mine, as if taking his turn saying to me “I’m right here. I got you.”
That said, in the spirit of transparency, up until my session with Aja, I was not ok; I was inconsolable, actually. Crying only led to more crying, and relief in any capacity seemed unattainable. “I still need you, buddy. I know you’re in a better place, and I’m happy for you, but I’m still here and I need you,” I said on a loop as I poured over pics of Oliver on my phone. Please know I’m not implying that this level of grief is not ok- there’s no handbook for managing a loss; we handle it however we must handle it. But in this instance I felt my grief was taking me down- not merely causing me to feel down, and that concerned me.
Over time, it dawned on me, why this was hitting me so hard: during the course of my life, I’ve lost many pets, a best friend, and even my parents, but not once have I witnessed a loved one’s passing. Being with Oliver in his final moments represented so much more than one life coming full circle- it represented a true closure of sorts for all of those lives lost. This realization, I believe, broke me open and allowed Oliver to connect with me during my subsequent ketamine appointment in ways I never imagined.
Ever since that session, I’ve felt Oliver’s presence stronger than ever, and not a moment goes by where I’m not comforted and guided by my little cat angel, and grateful to have loved and been loved by such a special soul.
One last thing: In the months leading up to Oliver’s passing, Rick and I noticed something. Each night when we’d sit on the couch to watch tv, Oliver started laying on Rick’s chest first, before laying in my lap. This was not normal, as they weren’t particularly close- and yet, every single night, this became a ritual. After Oliver passed, Rick had acknowledged that Oliver didn’t always have the best life, and I could tell it bothered him. Yet, we could only conclude that Oliver’s continued gesture was his way of conveying, “I know you did the best you could and I forgive you. And despite the whole mattress debacle, I love you too.”
