As a twentysomething serial girlfriend with a penchant for destructive men, I could barely care for myself much less a houseplant. So when my cousins found a homeless cat, I seemed the least likely candidate for feline foster mom. Still, I went to check out the orphan. I figured two lost souls ought to meet. At our first encounter an orange bundle leapt into my arms. Before I could say, "How do you hold a cat?" he ambitiously straddled one shoulder to let his bushy face peek through my long hair.
He was undeniably gorgeous, with deep rust rings looping through flaxen fur. An apricot "M" marked the soft spot between his ears. He adopted me immediately. We returned home with my then four-year-old cousin Lindsey, who proceeded to give me a crash course in cat.
I had just turned 30 and was studying to become an adult bat mitzvah. I asked
my instructor, Esther Klevens, to tell me the Hebrew word for hope. "Tikvah," she said.
And so he became. Alive. Vibrating. Golden deep eyes. Tikvah. My hope.
As I dug Tikvah's grave the week of February 10, 2003, anger and shock
maneuvered my shovel. Tikvah would have turned 13 in a few months.
When "What Next?" Ends. In early December he was diagnosed with low-grade gastrointestinal lymphoma, a feline cancer that emanates from intestinal bowel disorder (IBD). Over the weeks that Tikvah's body wasted from 10 to 5 pounds, I wrapped him in towels to syringe-feed him. I tenderly massaged and cleaned his chapped paws. I poked needles into his back to drip IV fluids into his dehydrated body. I combed food specks from the beloved orange fur that barely masked protruding bones. And I accumulated doctors — primary veterinarians, an oncologist, a holistic vet, a homeopathic practitioner.
During feedings, Tikvah peered over the rim of his terrycloth papoose. I grew to admire his spirit. We confronted each obstacle as a team. When Tikvah's red blood cell count plummeted, I raced him to the emergency clinic for a blood transfusion. I could decipher labwork as if I'd gone to veterinary school. But in less than one month, the cancer traveled from stomach to nose to brain.
Tikvah's first seizure began with moans that amplified into screams. I carried him to the litterbox, assuming IBD's wretched diarrhea was on its way. Instead, he fell over. His front legs stiffened into wooden pegs and his eyes dilated into black pools.
Within seconds, his body softened and he turned to me with a look of
"Why?" One doctor thought low blood sugar caused the seizure. So I sped back to the emergency clinic. When his sugar level came back high, I realized I'd run out of "What nexts?" The oncologist confirmed lymphoma in his central nervous system. I took Tik home to die.
At Tikvah's euthanasia, my husband and friend Janet cried as I read a farewell letter. But after a few days, no one knew where to file my sorrow. Business clients nervously asked "Are you okay?" and my dance students listened reticently as I dedicated our concert piece to Tikvah.
Tikvah passed away on January 24, 2003. Months later, I marvel at the quiet where he used to be. I stare into photos, as if to animate their stillness.
"If you are grieving for an animal that is sick, dying or has died you are not alone. Such a loss can be one of the most devastating as well as physically and emotionally traumatic events you will ever experience," writes Harriet J. Cuddy, Certified Pet Bereavement Counselor and facilitator for the St. Louis Pet Loss Support Group.
Society doesn't uncontrolled emotion. When heartache is over a companion animal, portals to grieving become all the more narrow. Many don't recognize the depth of the bond. "They fail to understand that the death of a pet is sometimes more painful than the death of a person who played a part in your life," Mary Montgomery explains in
Good-bye My Friend, Grieving the Loss of a Pet.
For 12 years Tikvah rode atop my shoulders during dog walks or chores. Sometimes he swatted my hair with a big floppy paw. My lap was his floor, my hair his playground. He was a warm fluid hug. I called him Little Buddha, for his gracious, accepting nature. As my family grew to include two dogs, another cat, a husband, three stepkids, and my own child — Tikvah remained its heartbeat, wise, cool-headed and kind. He was unquestionably the good kid in my brood.
I am haunted by emptiness after his death. Yet I have to authenticate my
grief with metaphor: "Imagine if your child died. This feels the same way." I resent this need to qualify love. Why must I ration devotion — this much for a husband, this much for a son and this much for a "pet?" Love is measured in depth, not kind.
I've stopped seeking approval to mourn. "You alone know how much you've lost. No wonder your heart is heavy and your spirit bleak," Montgomery says. "But if you allow yourself to be sad and to grieve…bleakness will eventually pass and so will pain."
Grieving is a continuum with stages: Shock, Denial, Anger, Depression, Acceptance. Stages don't unravel sequentially. They ricochet unpredictably, fueled by dreams, memories or events.
Shock: Refusal To Believe. After Tikvah's diagnosis I sought advice from Kinship Circle members. Responses poured in from around the world. Among them, Cleo's story radiated a beacon of hope. The little cat in California had nearly succumbed to IBD/lymphoma. One year later she was alive, her weight up and diarrhea in check. I consulted with Cleo's guardian and doctor via phone. I switched to organic food and cat litter. I tweaked dosages for pills and powders.
The thing that never occurred to me was that Tikvah would actually die.
When he did, I did not know how to stop saving him. Hours before his euthanasia, I administered IV fluids and homeopathic drops. Leftover medications are stashed on a shelf. I continue to rescue Tikvah in my dreams. I worry about missed meds or insufficient calorie intake.
"At this stage, we do not yet accept the reality of death," Cuddy cautions. "There is a loss of awareness and sense of numbness. 'I can't believe…' is a common response." For some people, the sorrow is physical. It shows up as pain, a trembling stomach, or pressure in the chest. Others sleep incessantly or experience insomnia.
Anger: Estrangement, Isolation. I detest the vicious cancer that ravaged my otherwise perfect cat. I resent my original veterinarian, who did not stress the gravity of IBD or advise an earlier biopsy. When I envision Tikvah struggling to breathe or balance, I revile God. My husband's inability to empathize infuriates me.
Anger stems from feelings of powerlessness. Most caregivers commit their time and heart to an animal's well-being. After a beloved companion dies, the guardian's capacity to protect and heal disintegrates. If anger seeps inward, it can evolve into guilt and depression. It's crucial to purge anger through affirmative outlets such as exercise or other physical exertion.
Ultimately, anger fades when a person can express feelings to another. But family members are not ideal listeners. They may pass judgment and urge you to
get over it or
get another animal. Some are dealing with their own despair over the death. To vent feelings in a supportive setting, a person may need the unconditional ear of a pet bereavement counselor or companion animal loss support group.
Denial: Saving Him In My Dreams. Denial is a last-ditch effort to negate death. I dreamed doctors said: "We were wrong. Tikvah doesn't have brain cancer. If we try this treatment, he'll be fine." And in my dreams, I save Tikvah. He is alive.
"Denial is rooted in fantasy and a deep desire for wish fulfillment," Cuddy says. "We may engage in bargaining with God, the veterinarian or clergy. Comments like, 'I promise I will be a better person if only my pet will come back to me' are common."
Guilt: "What If?" & "Should Have". After Tikvah died, I focused on details about his burial and headstone. I asked my vet to wrap his body in favorite blankets, surrounded by letters, prayers and photos. When the wintry soil thawed enough to permit burial, I gathered family and friends in a circle around Tikvah's photos. I felt serene as I told Tikvah he was as big as the sky and as intimate as the beat of my heart.
But days after the memorial, I berated myself with "what if?" and "should have." Why had I accepted the vet's non-aggressive antibiotic-and-we'll-see-what-happens prescription? If only I'd researched IBD and begun treatment months earlier. Now Tikvah was gone forever.
Guilt is a typical reflex after the death of a companion animal. When caregivers can no longer nurture an animal family member, they are plagued with regret and self-blame. Intellectually, I know I fully devoted myself to Tikvah's recovery. Emotionally, I must forgive myself for failing.
Depression: An Absence Of Everything. Misery may worsen before it gets better. Companion animals occupy nooks and crannies of daily life, from a computer-side perch to shared nap. No one is happier when you return or gloomier when you leave. Kisses occur in ordinary spaces. Home feels lifeless without the animal who personified it.
As I drift back to work and family, fragments of Tikvah remain. Orange strands caught in a brush. Silence in place of purrs. I ache to feel the weight of him over my shoulder.
I have begun to accept nightmares, panic, insomnia and lethargy as pathways. I can't accelerate the grieving process or ignore it. I simply have to journey down each corridor, no matter how dark or painful, before I can accept Tikvah's passing and cherish his memory.
These are the children who never grow up. Forever dependent upon us for survival. Forever devoted. They die as they live, pure love.
Acceptance & Resolution: When Tears Come. Today I realize that images of cancer will fade beneath memories of my mini-lion, with his studly strut and confident smile. I imagine renewal as a time when Tikvah's absence no longer monopolizes my thoughts. "Although six months is an average length of time to mourn, avoid comparing your grief with that of others," Montgomery advises. "Often it takes a year of seeing the seasons change and of celebrating holidays and birthdays without your pet before the hollow ache disappears."
Several weeks ago my father and I recalled Tikvah's wrestling matches with my Lhasa Stanley. The inseparable buddies rolled around my apartment like orange and white tumbleweed. Tikvah stalked Stan with the stealth of a puma, until he moved in for The Pounce. Then he jumped atop Stanley piggyback style. He bopped Stanley on the head before tumbling off with a Garfield grin.
For the first time in months, I remembered Tikvah with laughter instead of tears. One bit of solace lies just beyond the horrible sadness and void: I cherished someone who returned that love every day of his life.
Heartbeats
