Getting My Head On Straight

Moonshyne on my shoulder, her favorite sleeping spot.

I took a bit of a break from blogging.  Not on purpose.  It’s just that I couldn’t seem to get my head on straight.

My cat, Moonshyne, died on May 25.  She was 18-years-old, and I had her for almost half my life.

I’ve dealt with other pets dying of course, but none that had been such a constant companion.  For 18 years, she was there every time I came home.  She would curl up in my lap or on my shoulder when I sat down, and slept with me many nights.

I’ve dealt with human loved ones dying, but in those situations, my grief was never the most immediate.  It was always someone else whose need was greater, so I managed those much differently.

I thought I was prepared to lose her.  After all, 18-years-old is by far, the oldest cat I’ve ever had.  As people have said to try to be supportive, “That’s a long time for a cat.”  She obviously wasn’t the oldest cat in existence.  Some cats live to 20 or even 25, while others die much younger.

I wasn’t prepared for my level of grief or for the fog I went through afterward.  Being trained as a therapist, and having done work as a grief therapist, I know about it, of course.  I know that it’s a pretty typical grief reaction, which actually doesn’t make it any easier.  It wasn’t that I felt depressed or that I was tearful or anything like that.  I just literally couldn’t get motivated to do anything.  Or if I would get motivated, I’d get sidetracked.  Everything seemed to take much longer to do than it should have.

Then, on top of that, I broke my finger.  I was so irritated at first!  But as I’ve developed a 9 finger typing method, I’ve realized it’s not such a big deal after all.  It’s only a finger.

When I’m stressed out or upset, I read.  (I know, big shock, right?)  But I don’t read just anything; mostly I want to re-read.  I call them “comfort books” which I’d prefer to comfort foods any day.  This time around, I’ve been reading through JD Robb’s In Death series, starting from the beginning.  I realized that I started feeling better before I was aware that I had been feeling bad.

It’s always interesting when I live out lessons from therapy.  I knew that the magnitude of the loss doesn’t necessarily predict the reaction, and that when you don’t deal with other losses, sometimes they come back and hit you, forcing you to deal with them when you least expect them.  This time around, it was my turn to deal with something difficult, more difficult than I expected.  At least I knew what to do: treat myself kindly.  So that’s what I’ve been doing.  I treated myself kindly, and I think I (mostly) have my head on straight again.

Letting Go

Mystery Castle, Phoenix AZ
Photo Credit: RJS Photos

I’m not very good at letting go when I don’t have to.  I’m good with action, and if I’m forced into a situation, I can get through it.  But if I don’t have to, it’s hard, and I don’t like it.

My husband got an awesome new job, which means in the next month and a half, I’m moving from Phoenix, Arizona, to Austin, Texas.  I’ve been to Austin exactly once now, in a whirlwind house hunting trip that mostly left me with the impression of a lot of green.  Before that, I’d never actually been to Austin, but people keep telling me it’s a great place to live.  I love the fact that the city slogan is “Keep Austin Weird!”  I’m not excited about the humidity.

The move is going to be good for both of us.  I’m a firm believer in the idea that life is a series of adventures, and this is a pretty cool one.  I have a lot of loss ahead of me.  I have to leave my awesomely cool backyard, my friends (though I’ll keep in touch with them), my job, restaurants I eat in and grocery stores I shop in.

When we moved here 7 years ago, we moved fast, and we brought with us a lot of things that we haven’t used since then.  I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t even finished unpacking everything.  So, in an effort to be more efficient this time around, I’ve been trying to get rid of a few things.  Like the Gamecube I haven’t touched in all that time, or the PS2 that’s been gathering dust.  I sold them on eBay, and as I’m packing them up, I’m sad to see them go.

I’m not sure why those things cause me to feel the tug of nostalgia.  I obviously didn’t think about them for long periods of time, but somehow they feel more important than they are. A lot of things in life are like that.  We have no use for them and don’t want them until we try to let them go.  Then suddenly, they become bigger than they are, and we feel as if we want and need them.

I feel better when I let go of the clutter in my life, when I rid myself of things I don’t need anymore.  I’m trying to make an effort to do more of it.

What clutter is holding you back in your life?

L is for Loss

Desert Botanical Gardens, Phoenix AZ; Photo Credit: Doree Weller

Loss is part of life, one of the most difficult parts.  As humans, we resist change, yet grow bored when things stay too long the same.  I didn’t fully appreciate the lush green of Pennsylvania until I moved away.  It was only then that I realized the  green was bright and full of life, and everywhere.  When I first moved to Arizona, the brown and heat seemed so clean and so lovely in a stark, simple way.  I told this to a friend who’s lived here all his life, and he shrugged and said, “I don’t see it that way.  I just want to get away.” Loss reminds us of what we have, strangely enough.  In the days, weeks, and months after my grandfather died, I kept wishing I had called him more often.  Neither of us were particularly chatty, so it probably would have puzzled him if I had called for no reason… but I still wish I had. During the brief time I worked in Hospice, I met a lot of people, and no one ever regretted the things they did so much as they regretted what they didn’t do.  We all get busy with life and assume there’s going to be more time.  More time to do, to love, to laugh, to cry, to see, to know. The fact is: there’s only today.  So enjoy it.  Wring every drop you can from it.  And if tomorrow comes, do it all over again.

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” -Norman Cousins