Monday, July 27, 2009
Amanda has a very detailed post about how things were for us with Pipper as we watched her get sicker and sicker. Friday was horrific. Our vet appointment was at 3 and we found ourselves tortured by watching the clock throughout the morning. All I wanted to do was smother her with hugs, but she was miserable and wanted to be left alone. I was heartbroken - I didn't want to bother her, but I knew that with every minute that passed our last goodbyes came closer and closer. Every half hour or so, I'd go search out wherever she was resting, cuddle up to her with a big hug, and then leave her dejectedly as she shrugged me off and tried to find another place to rest where she wouldn't be messed with.
This went on for a few hours. A little bit before 2, just about the time I was starting to really freak out that I wouldn't get to hug her and say my goodbyes, she finally let me curl up with her. For the next hour, I lay there trying to soak up every last second we had together - trying to memorize the smell of her fur, the sound of her purring. I hugged her. I talked to her and told her how much I loved her. I thanked her for all of the things she taught me, thanked her for being one of the greatest friends I've ever known. I cried like crazy and then apologized for crying all over her.
The hour was gone quickly. Amanda and I began to help each other by trying to focus on "one minute at a time" and only one task at a time. Time to get dressed. Time to get the crate. Time to put her in the crate. Time to take the crate down to the car. Time to drive to the vet. I don't think either of us would have been able to really function if we'd been viewing the situation with any kind of macroscopic vision.
I don't think I can really talk about the vet visit. Suffice it to say, it was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life.
Life without Pip is hard. We've been sleeping poorly - both of us wake up in the middle of the night worried about kicking her or trying to figure out where she's at only to painfully remember that she's gone. We've been hearing phantom sounds around the apartment that sound like her purring, her nails on the hardwood floors as she walks around, etc. Each of us have broken down into tears a number of times and there have been many sighs and frowns without the need for any explanations as to why.
Logically, I know that she's no longer in pain. I know that she's no longer struggling to breathe, struggling to be comfortable within her own skin, and struggling to hide her illness from us as she did for so long (something I've now learned that cats do). But those thoughts are small comfort when I walk into our bedroom at night and feel the habitual words "Hi, buddy" choke themselves in my throat with the sudden remembrance of her passing away.
I miss her immensely. I love you, Pip. I love you and I miss you.