I regret that now. I didn't fall in love with that trip the way I did with almost every other. I think a lot why I felt off was because I didn't listen to something intuitive and something off the script.
I'm getting better about that.
The day we lost our beloved Lazarus, Kevin and I listened to his impulse to go north. He packed us bags, found some bed & breakfast online, and we drove north. The next day, we bumbled around the small town, let ourselves cry, ate food as we wanted to, and just listened. We found our friend Taina's poster for her concert the following weekend in the window of a bookstore. That seemed like an invitation inside so we heeded it. Kevin found his weird esoteric books and settled in with a hot coffee. I wanted to read about death as a beautiful, natural, and spiritual process. I picked up some Pema Chodron, a tea, and tucked in next to him. The book sat on the arm wrest and I felt the call to write. Instead of talking myself out of it-- "I write faster/better on a keyboard"-- I picked up my notebook and pen and let go.
Passages from what I wrote:
"Hudson is design-y, art-y, kind of industrial, cold, and beautiful. I like it but I don't think I'd be content anywhere right now.
But it's a place that feels like a place. It feels like 'America,' like it knows itself confidently. It feels dilapidated and charming.
I've been wearing the same clothes for two days. Kevin packed me fresh clothes but I just don't care enough to change.
Yesterday, I was nervous energy in motion; changing the bedding, as I've been doing multiple times daily. Airing out the pee pads. Washing the peed on clothing, bedding, and towels. More laundry. More ensuring Laz's haunts were comfortable and clean. Cautiously vaccuuming. I wanted this latest vet to be convinced of our care.
When the tasks were done, I took a short run. After healing from a broken foot, I'm so grateful to run. I breathed and the air was cold. My body felt warmer. My mind didn't feel settled, but like the volume of the buzz decreased.
The latest vet, a referral from our regular vet, came and confirmed. Inoperable tumors on tongue and gums. Renal failure. Thyroid, Rotten tooth.
I heard some. Kevin heard some.
In later reflection, I asked Kevin, "how did we miss this?" And he reminded me that she'd said, "rapid onset," "quickly developing." We didn't miss anything. We did everything we could.
The only option was pain management. Most cats with mouth tumors die of starvation.
The feeling I'd had for days was confirmed. It was time. It was simply time.
Ever since he was a kitten Laz couldn't abide confinement. He howled and escaped if we didn't give him access outside. We didn't intend him to be an outdoor cat. He insisted.
I felt like he was clawing for release again. In the worst moments of the last days he cried and howled inconsolably. I would prepare the softest food for him. He didn't want it. Fresher water? Sitting together? I think he was asking me to release him.
Kevin needed to hear that there were no options. I was so anxious seeing him like that-- I wanted him free. But Kevin was right. In retrospect, we needed the comfort of knowing it was time.
After, I finally felt calm. Depleted. Sad, but relieved.
We headed north and a wall of exhaustion hit on the NY Thruway.
Kevin and I are a good balance in crisis. Most importantly, we're good to each other. Some of my everyday worries wandered in and out of my thoughts. I simply don't care. Death feels more real. I keep thinking of the Mexican saying of putting bodies in the ground. Knowing we're all seeds."
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