Regarding Fergus

CW: Pet death, infant death, grief, PTSD

Yesterday nearly broke me. My beautiful, ginormous orange fluffball cat Fergus/aka “Bob”/aka the Big Orange Booger/aka the Patriarchy died suddenly and unexpectedly. Fergus was born almost exactly 6 years ago as a barn cat to some friends of ours.

He was the only ginger in the litter and I begged my spouse for another kitty because we were already at our limit of two. My hubby agreed, and we watched on FB as our kitten grew and became socialized and, in August 2016, while I was away at a congenital heart conference, Phil & Mira collected Fergus and brought him home, his jaunty clipped ear the only sign he had ever been a barn cat.

Hard to believe now, but Fergus was a tiny boy, fitting entirely into the palm of our hands when we first got him. Never in our wildest dreams did we anticipate what a behemoth he would turn out to be.

I’m helping!

When we moved from MI to NY, he disappeared on us in the new house. Four adults and two children searched everywhere in an essentially empty house for over an hour. We all assumed he must have wandered out the front door when it had been left open for a period of time. When we located him the next day, he came sauntering out of the laundry room, presumably having squeezed himself back behind the appliances. He never did set foot back into that room again (not that I blame him). Only last year, when we needed to clean the dryer vents, did we find the desiccated remains of the piece of pizza he had stolen and taken back there to eat in private. He was something else.

Give me the water, you plebe!

On occasion, you might be petting his fluffy self and find a weird wet spot. Often it was on the top of his head, but not always. This weirdness was finally explained when we discovered he loved hanging out under the faucet in the bath and sauntering around a freshly used shower. He hated water most of the time, but these were happy moments for him, and I feel sure he loved knowing we were going to be happily petting him until we hit a wet spot and just left wondering if we needed to go wash our hands.

He also loved to be where the action was. Oh, you’re working? Let me help by fwooping my 20lb body across your keyboard, or sticking my fluffy tail between you and the screen you are trying to see. He was a boy who loved to try and take (often successfully) the pages as they came out of the printer.

Fergus, King of the Printer

Fergus was curious and had no boundaries. You had to feed him first, or he would try to eat the dog’s food while you got his ready for him. He would insinuate himself onto your lap or into the crevice next to you and then spread out as much as he could in the hope that you would move. He would purr loudly, merp three octaves higher than you would expect, and grab your hand with his paws if you were not giving him the petting to which he believed he was entitled that very moment. If he stretched out to full length from the floor, he would likely be able to touch your shoulder if you were sitting. He was big, sweet, and dumb as a bag of hammers.

Yesterday, we headed out early for a long drive to get a medical evaluation for Mira. My sister has been visiting to help the household run since I just had spinal surgery. She called to let us know that Fergus’s back legs were not working well and he was not interested in food or water. She said she would keep an eye on him. I Googled the symptoms and determined that it was most likely a blood clot and that he was not coming back from this because even cats that survive the first clot often throw a second, so euthanasia was the kindest solution. Since he was not exhibiting any signs of pain, we decided to just let things be until we could get home. On our drive back several hours later, I called the vet and was able to get an appointment for 3:20 pm. We arrive home around 1:00 and found our buddy lying on the floor, kind of purring to himself in a self-soothing way. I couldn’t stand it. We wrapped him up in a blanket, and I had my sister hand him to me while I sat in the recliner.

Friends, when I tell you we were not prepared for the next few moments, I cannot emphasize it enough. Suddenly, I was back in September 2014, holding our 10-month-old son wrapped in a blanket at he breathed his last breaths. Patrick in a soft green blanket, Fergus is a soft blue, both breathing shallowly and difficultly. In that moment, I knew Fergus would not make it until his 3:20 appointment, so I talked softly to him and told him how much we loved him and would miss him, and asked him to go meet Patrick and play together until it was our turn to arrive. When Phil came in, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear that he was about to break, I knew the moment had caught him unawares in exactly the same way that it had caught me. We were watching our baby boy die all over again.

And what was worse? This time, Mira, now 11, totally gets the loss and finality of death in a way she did not at the age of 3 when Patrick passed. It was an excruciatingly beautiful and sad moment when she came and sat with me after Fergus had breathed his last breath and she began to pet his head. We all cried, but we also talked about what a little shit he could be and laughed at the antics that had brought us so much joy over the last six years.

When it came time, we took him to the vet and made plans for his cremation. I also elected to get a mold of his paw print. And then the vet dropped the bomb I had not been anticipating. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “When we heard the heart murmur last year and did the blood test, it showed that he didn’t have any risk at that time. Unfortunately, this is a classic case of what happens with cats who have a heart murmur—they throw blood clots and it lands at the saddle juncture…” When I tell you that my heart stopped, I am being literal. I have heart palpitations that I take medications for. And when the vet said “heart murmur,” my heart skipped a beat. Because I had forgotten. In that moment, I was taken back to last summer when we first received word that Fergus had a heart murmur and all of the anger and frustration I had felt. Why?! Was having two kids with congenital heart defects not enough? Did my cat have to have one, too? I was so mad. But then the blood test came back fine. And we had so many other fights to fight, and Fergus was fine. So I forgot. Completely. Nothing I had read on Google had triggered that moment from last summer.

Friends

Now here I was. Already suffering PTSD and back in the moment of my son’s death, grief at the loss of him and Fergus swirling together, ready to take me under, and the vet had just told me, essentially, that my cat had died from complications of a heart defect. I’ve had some time to think and sleep on this, and I still don’t know what to do with this information.

And yet, part of me knows that’s a lie. Part of me knows that it was my experience with Patrick that informed my actions with Fergus. I held him and made him feel comfortable and loved, and reminded him he was not alone in the last moments of his life. Moments that were quiet and peaceful, instead of being spent in a car rushing down the highway in an effort to get to an emergency vet that would charge me $1000 just to tell me there is nothing they can do but keep him comfortable.

Six years is not long enough with a cat. Ten months is not long enough with a son. Loss sucks. Grief sucks. Seeing the downward spiral coming for you and not being able to get out of the way sucks. It’s terrifying. The fear washes over me. How long, this time? How long until I can begin to dig my way out again? How long will the dig take? What if something ELSE happens in the meantime? Why us? Why now? Haven’t we been through ENOUGH? God dammit! I am already physically broken and trying to heal. How do I do this?

Logo is a registered trademark of Mended Hearts

There are no answers to my questions. But then I remember that tomorrow is Pentecost. The color is red. Red like a heart. Red like good, oxygenated blood. Red like the symbols for CHD. And it’s seen as the beginning of the church’s mission to the world. It’s a reminder of my mission. To share, honestly, with others about where I have been and where I am; about my struggles. To educate and give others space to feel, process, and share their own stories if they feel so moved.

It’s also a reminder that God can and does give us more than we as individuals can handle. But I am not alone. My sister is here. My spouse is here, and we are both supported and loved by the congregation he serves. My friends and family can reach out by phone or social media. I am here for Mira and Phil. Our other fur babies are here, cuddling up to us and giving us comfort. This moment sucks. It hurts. It’s awful in ways I simply never anticipated. But I am wrapped up in and held up by the love of others. Just as I held Patrick, Fergus, and Mira in moments they needed comfort, love, and care, so too do others now do the same for me. We are a community. It’s the only way this works. Thank you for being part of mine.

Accepting That Patrick is Gone

I want to share something with you from my counseling session today. An unexpected blessing that has left me in a beautifully painful but freeing space. I am on the precipice of real change. Real healing. It’s scary, but exciting. My mind is racing a thousand miles an hour on the outside around a calm, quiet center. A hurricane of emotion.

I was talking with her about how ever since I saw the Memorial Day pictures in my memories, I had felt sad and anxious. I said that I was “dreading the emotional slog to September. I know what’s coming, and I can’t stop it.” I talked about having done the 31 Days of Patrick and how that had kept me from reliving his life day-to-day this year, but it hadn’t stopped this part of my grief cycle. She said something to me then that, after the shock of the hit wore off, I realized she had told me last year, and it was one of the reasons for doing the 31 Days of Patrick to begin with: Nothing is coming. It already happened. Patrick’s already gone. He’s gone.

Friends, I can’t tell you how heavy a hit that was. I mean, logically, he had to be gone for me to know it was coming, but for me to be dreading it, it had to be something that could happen—and he couldn’t die again. So that made no sense. She then went further and said, “You can’t lose him any more than you already have. You won’t lose the memories, or the feeling when you hear ‘Happy.’ He’ll always be with you.” And I suddenly realized that that had been my real fear each year. That I would somehow lose him more. That I would lose what I have left.

Just since our talk this morning, I am already feeling less sad today than I have for several days now. Patrick’s not leaving me in September. It’s just an anniversary. He’ll be with me as much then as he is today and tomorrow and every other day. This seems so simple a truth. And yet, accepting it means putting behind every piece of emotional denial I had. It means having to feel every feeling that has been stuffed away. It’s one of those moments when what is in your head suddenly slams down into your heart, and there is no turning back. You can’t unsee it. You can’t unknow it. “Patrick is already gone. He. Is. Gone.” It’s an excruciatingly painful realization. And yet. Simultaneously, there is this huge unburdening. A lightening. A letting go. “I can’t lose him again. It’s not possible. I get to keep everything I have.” There is nothing to fear from any of his anniversaries.

So I find myself in a strange new space. Having all the feels. But it also feels like an amazing breakthrough. And since we don’t hear much good news right now, I just wanted to share it with all of you.

P.S. For those who missed the 31 Days of Patrick, I recreated them as a Shutterfly book for Mother’s Day which you can view here.