What if?

November 20, 2021November 20, 2021 fishyfisharcadeLeave a comment

My blog – described in it’s title as a “film photography” blog – continues to be my place for self-therapy. I think that it may continue this way for a while yet, because it helps.

As I’m typing this it’s almost exactly a week since we lost Stan. A week ago he was sat on a towel atop a cardboard box full of stuff I need to put on eBay that is in the corner of my office next to the radiator. I’m not sure if passing this sad one-week anniversary will make any difference to how I feel, or if I want it to. Over the last few days, if I am honest with myself, I have felt a little better as time moves forward. And as soon as I realise this I then feel guilty – the judgemental part of my mind telling me that I should be ashamed of myself for daring to feel even a tiny bit better than I did. I want to feel better and to not suffer from the pain of grief, and I am feeling a little bit better. But this then feels like a betrayal.

But as the one-week anniversary creeps up (and I dislike the word anniversary in this context. An anniversary feels like it should be a celebration of something nice, not a reminder of a tragedy) I think back to last Saturday night and the “what if?” questions play across my mind over and over again. What if I’d done this? What if If done that? What if the weather had been different? What if I’d stayed upstairs in my office with him? What if things had been different? It seems a futile exercise to do this, to punish myself by considering options that are now forever out of reach and yet it is so easy to do.

The strange thing about my grief is that, while I want it to ease, I also don’t want it to because if feels like letting go. But what I need to remind myself of is that it is natural and necessary to let go of the memories of the loss itself. This is not the same as letting go of the memories of Stan. My memories of Stan are the things to hold onto and to cherish for the rest of my life. The happiness he brought me, and my love for him. These are the things that will remain strong and bright long after the pain of his loss has lessened. I know what I need to do, and how things will move forward, but as ever with so many things we “know”, they can be a lot easier said than done sometimes.

Stan’s things have now been put safely away. While he isn’t here to use them any more, perhaps one day they will be used by another cat, just as some of his things belonged to the cats that were part of our family before him. This is another part of moving forward that has caused pain though. Stan’s bed is amongst these things and, even though we have washed it, each time I walked into the room where it was sat until today I would hold it in my hands and place my face against it. It’s soft and squishy texture reminded me of him and of cuddling his soft, furry body. Now I can’t do this any more. I think it might be for the best, but it still makes me sad.

I’ll finish the blog with another photo of Stan…

Stan peeping out from behind the curtains in my son’s room. He’s either dazzled by the sun here, or was thinking about having a nap.

Uncategorized

Grief and belief and moving forward

November 19, 2021November 19, 2021 fishyfisharcade2 Comments

I picked up Stan’s ashes from the vet yesterday. They were returned to us on the day the pet crematorium had said they would, but there had been a minor mix up and they were taken back to the branch where we’d taken his body last Sunday (the branch that is open for 24 hour emergencies) instead of our local branch as we’d asked. This wasn’t a big deal and I wasn’t upset or angry about it, but it meant a 45-minute trip instead of the 15-minutes it would have taken otherwise.

There is something very sad about collecting your beloved pet from the vets in a box in a carrier bag, even though it was a good quality and tastefully decorated one with outlines of cats and dogs inside heart shapes printed onto the sides. I was ok going into the vets, but emotions overcame me again when I got back into the car again. The constant reminders of the finality of it all make it very difficult.

Stan’s ashes are in a nice oak casket, where they will stay. We have the ashes of all our other cats kept in the same way in similar caskets although Stan’s is much larger than the casket we go for out last cat, Luigi – maybe twice the size – for some reason. I sat him on my office desk when I got home, and then he stayed in the living room through the evening while my wife and I watched TV. Overnight he sat on my bedside table.

If I look at this behaviour with rational eyes, it seems strange. In normal circumstances I’m not a spiritual person, and I don’t really believe in an afterlife (although I don’t deny one might exist either). I very much like the idea of it being so, but my rational mind finds it difficult to accept, throwing all sorts of logical ifs-and-buts in the way of acceptance. I am envious of people who know in their hearts and minds that they will be reunited with their departed loved ones someday. This faith must be a great comfort.

But despite what my mind might say, at times like this the desire to believe is very strong. I really, really want it to be true, and in some way, making sure that Stan’s casket is with us, and not left alone while we are in other parts of the house feels important. It gives me genuine comfort to place my hand on the little wooden box as though somehow he is there. I also think I would feel more guilt if I didn’t have it close by. A sense that Stan might be looking on and would be saddened that I wasn’t keeping him near.

I know that, in time, this connection to the box will lessen, and eventually we’ll put him with the caskets of his brothers (who are now, slightly incongruously, sat on a shelf in the garage!), but by that time the box won’t have the same importance. He’ll be in our hearts and we’ll not need the physical reminder in the same way.

I read yesterday about how avoiding the term “moving on”, and instead talking about “moving forward” is beneficial when we are grieving. “Moving on” can imply a finality, that the thing we are griving for has been left behind, which can be a very painful suggestion when you are dealing with loss. “Moving forward” instead suggests that we are keeping things with us. The grief is still there, but our lives are growing around it, reducing the pain we feel as time passes. Now, I’m sure that this could be agued as a semantics question, with individual interpretation being what matters, but at this time I’ll take my comfort where I can find it. It reminds me a little of the line from the Marvel TV show, Wandavision: “But what is grief, if not love persevering?“

I think I’ve written more in the posts on my blog this week than I have for a very long time. The usual short posts attached to whatever photograph I have to share seem very flimsy in comparison with what I’ve written this week. While part of my writing about the loss of Stan is to celebrate his memory and express my love for him – along with the sadness, remorse, and guilt that are there too – another part is because this is therapeutic. I need to express myself openly to help me deal with what has happened and how I’m feeling as a result. Maybe someone else might find these posts when they are in a similar set of circumstances, and maybe my words might offer some insight and even comfort to them in the way that the experiences of others have been helping me.

As has become usual this week, I’ll close off with Stan himself. 🙂

Stan sits beside his well-used scratching post while his bed dries atop looking like scenery from the world’s oddest Super Mario level.

Uncategorized

Feeling guilt over the death of my cat

November 18, 2021November 19, 2021 fishyfisharcadeLeave a comment

I’ve spoken a little over the past few days how one of the things affecting me since Stan was run over last weekend is my sense of guilt.

Guilt has always been something that I’ve encountered when we lost one of our other cats, but in all those cases it was different. Each one of them died at the veterinary practice because the decision had been taken to end their suffering. We have lost them to cancers, kidney failure and suspected poisoning from eating something they shouldn’t have while they were outside, and in every case it was very clear that easing their suffering was the most dignified, humane, and loving thing to do. Despite this, the guilt was still overwhelming. Should we have done more for them? Did we overlook something that might have changed the outcome? The feeling of remorse at the times we were too busy to spend time with them (often busy just doing unimportant stuff in the grand scheme of things). And possibly worst of all, the feeling that we might have given up on them too soon. All our other cats lived to a relatively good age – only Tom, another cheeky little black and white fella, died younger, but even he was eight years old. Still too soon though.

The guilt I feel over the loss of Stan is different. It isn’t guilt over a decision to end his suffering, it’s guilt that I could have done something that would have preserved his life. All it would have taken was for me to come downstairs, walk through the kitchen (as I did anyway) and then into the utility-room and lock up his cat-flap for the night. It would have taken a few seconds and he would have been safe and sound in the house with us. Instead, I made a cup of tea and sat down with my wife in the living room to watch a movie. And while we watched, Stan went outside, went onto the road, and then lost his life.

Everywhere I look I’m told that I shouldn’t blame mysef for something like this. I couldn’t have known what was going to happen. I thought he was asleep upstairs still. He’d been outside on many other occasions at this time and always been ok. He sometimes wouldn’t go out at all and would instead just come into the living room and nip at my ankles until I made some room for him to spread out.

But if I’d just locked the cat flap…

It feels a little like the world’s most awful videogame, where the mission is to keep your beloved pet cat safe and well, and I failed. Only instead of re-starting the level and making different choices in order to get a successful outcome, the game just ended with no way for it to ever be played again. It feels a bit cheap to be making an analogy like this. And disrespectful to Stan. But my mind keeps on wanting to re-play the events of last Saturday night as though somehow, maybe in some miracle, I will actually be able to change time and Stan will be back with us, full of love, affection, and mischief.

I was responsible for Stan. I was responsible for giving him a safe home, providing him with food and comfort, keeping him healthy and happy, keeping him safe, and providing him with love. And on one of those things I failed because of a moment of carelessness. The guilt I feel is because of my love for him, and it is because I failed in my duty to him. While I believe that this guilt will ease and the pain I feel will lessen, I’m not sure that I will ever be able to forgive myself properly, and that for the rest of my life, from time to time, I will remember what happened and how I might have so easily changed things. I guess this is a burden of loving

I’ve written this today because I found this page on pet-loss guilt last night. It contains a sentence that seems particularly important given what I’ve spoken about today:

If a beloved pet goes missing or dies suddenly or traumatically, we can tear ourselves apart with guilt for not having foreseen what would happen.
If only…. How to deal with pet loss guilt

I actually found that this poage helped with how I am feeling quite a lot, despite what I’ve written above (in fact I would recommend the site from where it is taken – The Ralph Site – as a very good resource for anyone suffering through the loss of a pet or animal companion). And, despite the somewhat downbeat nature of this blog post, I do believe that things will get better over time. My love for Stan is what causes me this pain right now. But my love for him is what will prevail in the end.

I’ll close the post with another photo of Stan. Seeing him makes me happy.