Colleen Leonardi

Being in the Bittersweet | Four

 

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There are bees whose front side fits perfectly inside the opening of a flower. I know this because I watched these bees gathering pollen from a purple flower two days ago at the park. I watched how the bee was made for the flower, the flower was made for the bee. 

Rumi said something like, "...there are beings that live on fragrance," and I don't think he meant just the bees. I think he meant us, too. I've been thinking about those beings and the fragrances they live on as I watch our cat slowly pass. It's been weeks since we first learned of her having a tumor in her intestines. The growth is growing.

She has arrived at the place where she won't eat. We give her turkey. She likes it for a day and then doesn't. We give her chicken. She likes it for a day and then doesn't. We even let her eat the clover and grass and my nasturtium flowers in the garden. We normally don't because they make her sick. But she doesn't even want to nibble on those. She sits in front of food and stares at it. 

Sometimes I think she is forcing herself to eat because we want her to. But I won't really know if that's true, will I? Mostly she seems confused and tired and withdrawn. Her life force energy is passing into the place where food won't nourish her in the same way it used to. 

I think, Is this what it means for someone you love to pass? They won't accept the substances of this world for nourishment? The bee no longer fits in the flower. The chicken no longer tastes like chicken. 

When we went to the vet last night I asked about the process of putting her to sleep. Our cat turned her back on me when I asked him, When will we know it's the right time? The vet was a saint, tenderly telling us as he held his hands in his pockets that there are 1,000+ ways to know when the time is right and yet none of those times will be right for you. 

I write all of this to remember what he said, to not get lost in the panic I feel in my belly as I spend time with her and she cries at me for something I cannot give her. Some say your dear friend of a pet will let you know when it's time. And I don't think it's time because she is still sitting outside in the wind and sniffing the air and licking what food we do give her and climbing into my lap now and then and purring. 

So no, I don't think it's here yet. I see her still turning to the fragrances of this world, even though I know what she is searching for in nourishment is a fragrance not of her world with us here in Ohio. And so we love her. And that becomes the best food ever. 

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Being in the Bittersweet | Three

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Everything is green now. The blossoms have become something they call leaves. I look up at the sky through the trees and see verdant wings emerging everywhere. I remember that these wings are known as leaves and that I like leaves. I remember that they provide shade, smell good and stay with us all throughout the summer season. I remember that come fall they'll transform into a spectrum of fire colored things. It's this memory, of the fire in the green, that makes me miss the blossoms less and love the leaves more. 

My Mom has left. She is down south with family for the summer. And so it is. 

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It was as she was preparing her things to travel that we found out our cat has cancer. Bink is a beautiful cat with green eyes and a mane of hair that belongs to something wild. Years ago my husband's friend found Bink and Bink's sister in the woods at Hocking Hills. She gave Eric Bink and kept Bink's sister. Eric has pictures of Bink when she was a kitten in the palm of his hand. He used to put her in his pocket. She looks like some kind of animal sprite from an enchanted forest, all puffy and little and cute. 

Now she is 14 years old and celebrated her birthday recently. Now she is dying. Her illness and passing has overwhelmed any feeling of sadness I might feel for my Mom leaving for the summer. Her lingering death has, in a way, made my sadness that much more expansive and grounded at the same time. 

The last time I dealt with death in this way was when my grandmother was dying of cancer. I was young. I didn't know what cancer was. And I don't think you do until you or someone you love has it and loses parts of themselves to it. I find myself grieving some of my grandmother when I grieve for Bink. The storehouse of sorrow is like one big lake in me where many memories live. 

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I get through my day, sure. But it isn't without tears. I'm a walking sob. We savor her purrs, her meows and her wide-eyed stares. We give her what she wants. We make her happy. The tumor keeps growing and her ability for happiness, for comfort and satisfaction shifts. Suddenly we don't know what makes her happy and we have to learn all over again. She has to show us as she stumbles and slows down and looks up at us. 

When she licks my hand I feel the heat in her tongue and wonder how anything so alive can also be dying. My friend has a dog who has cancer and has exceeded the expectations of the vets, living beyond the time-frame they gave her to live and getting along fine being the happy dog she is. When I told my friend about Bink and she told me about her dog she said, "It reminds me that being sick is not being sick." 

I know what she means. Even though Bink is carrying this ball of cancer cells in her belly she is still the light that is Bink. And what a lesson it is to watch her and be with her each morning in our kitchen and see her and have her see me. For it's in the seeing that I feel how there is green in her and green in me. And right now being in the green is good enough. It has to be. 

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Being in the Bittersweet | Two

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It's done. The move is complete. The boat has stopped rocking. We've found some ground for now. 

When I woke this morning to write this post I made a pot of earl grey tea. Before making tea and writing, though, I went for a walk. And while I was walking I found a cracked robin's egg on the ground. I scanned the trees to see if I could spot the nest. And there it was, high up and small and open to the sky. 

So a new robin has come into the world.

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As I write that I'm reminded of how yesterday when I went for a walk before the final stages of my Mom's move I saw a dead cat. That's right. A dead cat, not in the middle of the road, but placed ever so delicately in a neighbor's front lawn, legs out stretched with its furry cheek pressed into the damp soil like it was napping in the fresh grass. Perhaps the cat had decided to lie down the night before while some form of fatigue and disease overtook its body. Perhaps it was then that it decided to stay put, close its little kitty eyes and rest into whatever was causing it to slow way down into its final stop. 

And so a kitty has left this world. 

When we were moving yesterday I was certain everything would go well. Others who were helping us were not so sure. What about the time?! I can't believe we're doing this. How did we do that! I need a drink. But I knew things would work out. That sense of ease in me was not cheap nor free. I've been working a long time to cultivate reserves of stability in my life. I like to think those reserves served not just me but everyone yesterday. That by virtue of all the oars in me willing our way through the waters of moving day I helped lead our boat to higher ground. 

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And yet unease was present too, often in the same instant, for me. It spiked when I was among the dusty corners of the apartment. (I'm highly allergic to dust.) But also just in seeing all of my Mom's stuff being taken away and stuffed out of sight, her belongings some aspect of her that has been forced into hiding for the summer while she takes a sabbatical and travels. It was the robin being born and the cat passing away. It was light and dark on a Sunday afternoon. 

By the end my Mom kept saying, How did we do that? I don't know how we did that. I smiled and said, We did it. So let's celebrate the fact that we did it. Let's cheer on the camaraderie we managed on a Sunday afternoon among the dust bunnies, slippery steps and uninspiring drives back and forth from the storage unit. Let's light a candle and laugh together over pizza. Let's be in the bittersweet together. 

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As I write, there are lilacs blossoming. This is the time for lilacs to blossom. And there are certain kinds of birds making nests that won't be making nests three months from now. This is the time for making nests. And there are apple blossoms giving off their fragrance in the park, despite the last rainstorm. This is the time for apple blossoms. And there are strawberries revealing their red heads for the hands of a child to come and pick and savor in some kind of strawberry pie or strawberry shortcake. This is the time for strawberries. 

And there is also the certainty of uncertainty. This is the time for the certainty of uncertainty.

To that I say - Let's be in the bittersweet together.