The Emptiness Of A Full Bowl
I must have been crying in my sleep...
I woke up with wet cheeks and swollen eyes. It's my first morning without Lola.
She did not meet me at the bedroom door to say hello and be petted. Our usual morning routine consisted of me sitting on the top step to pet Lola and Mercy as they purred and meowed and told me in detail of their interesting night time adventures.
It is my first day without Lola jumping from place to place in my path trying to get me to stop long enough to pet her. Really pet her. And I did, more times than I could ever count over the past 5 years. Each time I would tell her she had to live for at least 20 more years.
She and her sister, Nalla, were rescued bottle babies that I fed every 4 hours round the clock for what seemed like weeks that would never end. I would do it all over again now--a thousand times over--to have my Lola back.
When she was only 6-weeks-old Lola changed--she was less active--and I knew there was something very wrong with her. After numerous local vet visits it was determined Lola needed more help than what they could give her.
For 3 weeks I slept with Lola's tiny body wrapped around my neck in 90 degree weather--like a little furry loudly purring collar--so I could keep an eye on her. I slept very little and very lightly those few weeks as I had when I bottle fed, afraid I would miss something. Afraid I would lose my Lola.
After one particularly difficult night I knew I had to get Lola to a vet clinic that could do more testing. I just felt I had to try and see if there was help for Lola.
My dear friend, Mary Ann, drove Lola and I to Columbus so I could hold my little, furry bundle. It was a very scary hour and a half drive since Lola was getting out of breath. I held her and looked her in the eyes and told her to fight. "Look at me, breathe Lola. You have to be okay. Hold on". And she did.
Long and short of it, if she wasn't kept in an incubator and didn't have heart surgery she'd die. Likely in a few hours. The cost for the surgery was more than I could ever hope to pay up front but since I was a rescue I could make payments.
I prayed and cried (sobbed from fatigue and sadness) and felt peace that I should go ahead with the surgery for which there was a 90% survival rate. I called my husband and after hearing my breaking heart he said we would find a way to pay for Lola's surgery. The surgery was a success. Lola healed very quickly and her zest for life was miraculous.
Six months after Lola's surgery, and on the Friday before Christmas I received a phone call from the clinic telling me someone, a person I'd never met, had paid Lola's entire vet bill off. I cried tears of joy and thankfulness to God.
Lola became fearless, climbing everywhere as she got older and I called her my flying monkey--continually knocking things over in the wake of her never ending search for just the right place to perch at least for a few moments.
After her heart surgery, Lola had never been sick a day in her 5- year-life. Until recently. She was just diagnosed with Diabetes yesterday and I administered her first unit of insulin in the afternoon. I was glad to have a diagnosis and a way to help Lola once again.
All day I had an uneasy feeling and checked on her constantly. I hugged her and snuggled her more than usual and told her how much I loved her, her beautiful sea green trusting eyes cutting me to the bone--the same trusting eyes of the 9-week-old kitten that knew everything would be okay as long as we were together.
Finally, I had to do evening chores and left Lola for 20 minutes. When I came to check on her she was breathing her last. I tried to revive her, told her I loved her--pleaded with her to breathe--to hold on--but this time she could not. And so I held her with her face turned up and as our eyes met she knew she was loved, she was safe. We were together.
And I have cried, unashamedly sobbed. I am not a crier, perhaps because I rescue and see so much sadness. I see so much death. Perhaps the tears I am shedding for Lola are intermingled with the tears not shed for others over the years--the tears I swallowed until I could not any more--the sorrow left unspoken when a light is extinguished.
I am no stranger to these kinds of tears. I have shed them before when my son died after watching him leave me inch by inch--a terminal illness taking his life. I have shed them when my nephew, grandpa, grandma, dad and other loved ones have left. The intensity of grief is at times different--at times the same--when you lose an everyday part of your life be it human or otherwise. When you lose unconditional love.
To those who think it's absurd to grieve over the loss of an animal as you would a person, to those who think people who love their animals care "too much", to those who have never loved an animal deeply I say--I feel truly sad that you've never given even a part of your heart to an animal. You have missed much in your life and don't even know it.
Why was Lola so special? Quite simply, God made her that way and He gave her to me at a time I needed hope that if a little furry 9-week-old very sick kitten could survive against all odds--to get through this life regardless of any obstacle--then I could too.
And I have and I will and I am thankful for memories of my Lola: her monkey-like ways, her snuggles, her independence, her soft meow, her laying in the bathroom sink so I would pet her, her trusting sea-green eyes, Lola fur everywhere, her never-ending appetite--my attempts to keep her and her food bowl full.
Yes, I think that will be the hardest to bear, the emptiness of a full bowl. Lola's bowl.
Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2018
Jackie Deems
