Farewell, Cleo
Today we lost our beloved cat, Cleo.
She departed quietly and abruptly, nestled in my arms as I sat beside John in a sparsely furnished room with hideous yellow and orange walls at the animal hospital. This frail, emaciated bundle of white fur, with strikingly green eyes, had been our constant companion for the past seven years. Her departure shattered something within me, allowing a number of carefully buried memories to rise to the surface.
The morning began with a sense of unease as I awoke an hour and a half before my alarm was set to go off. Unable to fall back asleep, as I often do without much effort, I surrendered to the inevitable and started my day with a shower. When John later knocked on the bathroom door, informing me that something seemed amiss with Cleo, the knot in my stomach tightened as my apprehensions grew, and I started to dread the hours that lay ahead.
This is the part where I attempt to explain my peculiar habit of waking up eerily early on days when I am about to face an undesirable challenge or event. Call it superstitious nonsense, or an attempt to find patterns in the chaos, but it has been a recurring phenomenon since I was twelve years old.
It was April 28th, and I woke up well before it was time to get ready for school. Despite being underdressed for the chilly Southern California morning, an inexplicable urge compelled me to venture outside. I wandered over to one of my childhood swing sets, sat down, and swayed gently while lost in my thoughts. It didn’t take long before an overwhelming wave of emotion and a profound sense of loss enveloped me. Despite the peaceful chorus of early-morning birdsong, I had an unsettling feeling that something had fundamentally shifted, and life wouldn’t be the same again. Little did I know, in that moment, the validity of my suspicions. Within hours, my parents would fly back from MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston to San Diego delivering the heart-shattering news that my older sister had succumbed to cancer. Childhood, as I had known it, was truly over.
On the way to the hospital, I held Cleo tightly, swathed in a beige blanket adorned with paw prints. John helped us settle in the reception area before departing to ensure the youngest made it to school on time, promising to return promptly. Through tear-filled eyes, I handed Cleo over to the staff. After an agonizing wait, I was called in to speak to the veterinarian about Cleo’s examination.
In a matter of seconds, the vet’s tone made it apparent that I wasn’t going to feel positively about the sentences that followed. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, fighting back tears, though my vision began to blur nonetheless. I realized I had stopped listening and forcefully snapped back into the moment in time to hear, “She has a significant amount of fluid in her lungs …”
Upon hearing those words, I was struck by a memory of being in my Mother’s hospital room in San Diego. It was sometime in 2011, and around 4am, I was awakened, yet again, by a nurse entering the room to check on my Mother. We were both exhausted, as these constant interruptions, though necessary, prevented us from getting any semblance of rest. I didn’t dare complain, knowing my Father was practically living in the hospital at that point, tirelessly supporting my Mother in her battle against breast cancer. As the nurse left, she turned to me and casually remarked, “The fluid in her lungs is a constant problem, you know?” I nodded silently, suppressing the strong desire to respond sarcastically, highlighting that it was but one of the countless other ailments brought on by stage four inflammatory breast cancer.
“… we could remove the fluid to provide her some relief, but it won’t make a difference in the long run. She’s just so systemically sick,” continued the vet. I snapped back to the present. The decision was then made. I was escorted to the designated room no pet owner wants to enter. My eyes were bleary as another nurse, whom I hadn’t yet interacted with, handed me a clipboard with a request for my signature. Permission to euthanize? I informed her that John was on his way back to join me and that I needed more time before reviewing or signing anything else. She left the room, leaving me to pace back and forth, intentionally avoiding the mirror on the wall that would reveal the devastation etched on my face. In those moments, I struggled to comprehend how to make such a profound decision. Who was I to wield such influence over a precious little life? I yearned for more time. I longed for more options.
Towards the end of my first year of college, I emailed my professors, urgently requesting to take my finals as early as possible. I needed to fly back home to California and spend time with my ailing Mother. My Dad had called, uttering those dreaded words, “It’s time to come home,” and, deep down, I knew exactly what he meant. A week later, I landed in downtown San Diego and we immediately headed to the hospital. My Mother greeted me with a smile on her face, radiating an optimism that I knew she mustered for my sake. I tried my best, albeit unsuccessfully, to match her positive energy. I told her I’d step out briefly to freshen up after the long flight, assuring her we would catch up properly upon my return. I couldn’t have been gone more than ten minutes. When I returned, I watched my Mother’s body taken over by convulsions as a seizure gained all control. Nurses scurried around in a frenzy while I stood frozen in the doorway, consumed by sheer horror. My Mother never regained her ability to speak after that incident. With this latest turn of events, we knew hospice care was just around the corner. I desperately needed more time.
I gathered my composure as best I could and signed the necessary paperwork, authorizing the hospital to euthanize my darling Cleo. When John appeared in the doorway, he held me tightly until the nurse returned. Determined to hear firsthand that the vet’s conclusion was unavoidable, he requested to speak to her. Once satisfied with her explanations, he turned to me, seeking my confirmation. I nodded in silent agreement. A few minutes later, they brought Cleo in. Her breathing was unbearably ragged and she seemed to have shrunk since I last held her. It was all happening so quickly. I can’t recall this, but John claims I spoke to her as she passed.
"She’s gone. 10:10pm,” announced the hospice nurse upon my Mother’s death. I physically recoiled from her bedside as the others around me wailed, embraced each other, or simply put their heads in their hands. I immediately forged a path to the doorway. Along the way, a relative asked, “Don’t you want to stay? A proper goodbye?” and gestured to my Father and the others who were still at my Mother’s bedside. “That’s not her anymore” I offered, and left the room, never to return. I wouldn’t see her that way. Despite my self-assurance at that time, I’ve always second-guessed this decision.
Cleo was gone. She lay there motionless. Determined not to avert my gaze despite the discomfort and turmoil growing in my chest, I drew her limp, fragile body even closer to mine. I will accept this, I thought to myself. I remained still.
The thought of returning home without Cleo filled me with dread. John and I had both cleared our schedules when we sensed an emergency brewing, but I knew he had a photoshoot to attend. I sent him on his way, suddenly determined to walk the many miles back to our house. Along the way, tears continually streamed down my face as I reflected on all that had transpired. The melancholic melodies of Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Debussy, Chopin, and Peggy Lee accompanied me on my journey.
Finally, after a few hours, I reached our front yard. I sat on the porch, mentally and physically exhausted, as Rosebud, our energetic English Springer Spaniel, joyfully romped and rolled through the grass. She basked in the sunshine and hadn’t a care in the world. In that moment, she appeared to me to be one of the most magnificent living things I had ever laid eyes on.
I have come to accept that this overwhelming grief is the price we pay for loving so deeply.
