Last night,
Bindi lost her fight for life and left us here in this world to go on to her next journey. I cannot tell why I am having such a hard time with what has happened. I do not know if I am angry because her life was so short and it would have been easier to accept if she had lived a long and happy life, or if it is because I am 41 years old, and this is the first time I have had to deal with losing a pet directly. Growing up, I was away at school whenever any of our cats passed, and then my first cat as an adult ended up moving in with my parents when I moved to the UK as the laws wouldn't allow me to bring her with me. She died with them and I remember crying for two days non stop even though I hadn't lived with her in years. But with Bindi, it feels different. Maybe it is because it is so raw. Maybe it is because this time, I was the one having to make all the choices on what to do and how to best help her. Perhaps it is the replaying of every moment, every decision, every effort that, if I had tried a little harder, done it a little different, made another choice, the outcome would have been different. I am trying to remind myself that her light shone so brightly that she only needed this short time with us to make such an impact, and that she didn't suffer too much, and is in a better place now. And try to believe that there are lessons in loss and although I cannot see it now, I will one day know why and accept and even appreciate how I grew from this loss. But all it is now is a huge hole that keeps getting bigger and deeper and that cold sinking feeling of ice melting in my tummy doesn't fill it up one iota. I keep seeing her face, her eyes, feeling her soft soft fur and remembering her sweet little quirky ways and it all just makes me feel so deeply deeply sad. I know I must grieve. I know it will get better in time. I know I will go through the pain and guilt, and anger (sort of there right now, along with pain and guilt), the bargaining (did that already when she was fighting for life), the depression, reflection and even loneliness, while surrounded by loved ones. I know they can't do anything for me anymore than I can make the kids feel better about what has happened. We talk it through - well Ben does - I just cry and cuddle. And I know I will start to feel better one day soon. We won't forget her, but will adjust to her not being here. And remembering her will not hurt so much one day and we will even think back to how she was with laughter rather than tears. Yet despite knowing all that, I still have to do the work of grieving, and can't skip any steps, though right now, I long to more than anything.
Bindi had been with us at home and I was nursing her all the time, after having been in and out of the vet last week. Last night, I took her to the vet as I knew she wasn't drinking enough. But with me, every time I came close and lay my head next to her bed, she pulled herself up as best she could (she had become almost entirely paralysed for some reason) so she could move to be near me. Every time I held the water in front of her, she tried to drink. Every time I tried to feed her, she did her best. This was about ten times a day and through the night as well. But when I took her to the vet last night, they took her from me and put her in a cage to give her fluids to rehydrate her. They called this morning and said that she curled up and when the went back ten minutes later she had died. So of course, I am now going through the agony of knowing she died alone instead of with me in my arms. I am going through the agony of thinking that perhaps she was fighting because I was fighting, yet when I left her there, she thought I had given up so she did too. I struggle to know if we should not have let her go sooner, so she did not suffer, but we were waiting for results that did not come and did not come and we were praying it was something that was easy to cure once we knew what it was. But now, we may never know and I realise agonising over what I could have done differently will never bring her back. And I know I just need to shed tears of thankfulness that we were ever blessed enough to have such a soul touch our lives at all.
Bindi had had a hard start to life and was found terrified on Court Street with her 4 siblings. They were all really afraid and we think Santa brought her to us as we had so much love to give and could bring her out of her shell and help her recover from her trauma. But I am a big believer in emotional trauma turning into physical ailments. Bindi had always been afraid - she was paralysed with fear a lot of the time, especially when she first came to us, and so it was so sad to see her become paralysed physically later. I wish, in retrospect, that I had tried homeopathy on her early on to help her with her emotional blockages and perhaps she might never have become so stuck, and then so sick. But I am new to this path of trusting alternative methods and so cannot and will try not to beat myself over what I could have, should have, done.
So thank you all for your prayers and thoughts and sending healing vibes our way. She fought hard and I almost think the way she went, it was because I had given her permission to stop fighting - that it was ok to let go, and that was really what she wanted to do most, but she had been holding on because it was I who couldn't let go. So Bindi - I am happy you are at peace at last, and hope you loved our family as much as we loved you for the short time we were together. Rest in peace sweet sweet soul and hope our paths cross again one day. xxxx
