06-04-2013, 11:05 AM
Hi folks. To my eyes, this beautiful forum has seemed a shade darker than usual lately. Many of you (myself included) seem to be in pain. The world seems a bit darker lately, too.
Perhaps because of this, I feel compelled this morning to share a painful story with you. It is about limitation and impossibility and love. It happened to me way back in 1991, when I was eleven years old.
I had a cat. I should really say: I had a cat for a best friend. He was a magnificent black persian, a loving glutton named Mookie. He'd been with us since he was a kitten, about a year and a half, before he fell ill.
It was his kidneys, they were failing. Bless my parents, they paid for an expensive surgery to try and save him but he remained ill, very, very ill. He lost most of his weight. He stopped eating, then he stopped drinking water. Further tests showed he had, aside from his original condition, a disease called feline infectious peritonitis, an incurable, fatal disease. If he were in a healthy state, he may have had a few more months but having just had a traumatic surgery, this was a death sentence.
My parents, bless them, decided not to tell me until they put him down. In the last year and a half, I'd nearly lost my father to compound medical problems and I'd found solace with my cat after the hospital stays at my father's bedside. They knew it would crush me to lose the cat and they couldn't live that scene. There was nothing the vet could do, so they appointed him to be euthanised.
Unaware of this, I was still trying everything to get him to eat again, not knowing the true nature of his illness. I wouldn't leave his side. School had ended and it was summer, but I was inside with him day and night.
The day came, me still unknowing. Some ruse was concocted to separate me from him, some chore or other, but I saw through it, or rather felt through it. Somehow I knew my friend was in trouble. I ran inside and saw him inside his carrier and I knew what it meant.
The scene that followed was ugly. I pushed my parents aside and covered the carrier with my body, bawling. I told them I'd die first before I let him go. My father told me sternly how selfish I was, how I was only causing him more terrible suffering. He was already in pain and it was only going to get worse. I can still hear the tone of his words. They told me about his terminal illness. They told me the percentages - 3% chance of survival of a few months. 100% chance it would kill him eventually. 100%. There was no cure.
"He's not going to die."
This wasn't something I merely said, it was something I knew. No part of the thought of his death found room in my mind.
My parents begged me, I refused. Finally I offered a bargain - give me two weeks with him, if he shows no improvement, then I will take him myself. What could my parents do?
I couldn't see reason. I couldn't face the impossibility of his recovery. And I wouldn't let them take him. They cancelled the appointment and gave me my two weeks.
We were together the entire two weeks. I had to force feed him, letting him know each time through my tears and his pain how I hated to hurt him but this was the only way he could live. Almost every time, he vomited and I would start again. It was awful. We were alone, since none of the family could bear to watch.
The two weeks passed. He wasn't eating on his own, but he wasn't vomiting as much. He started drinking water on his own again, started moving around. It was enough for a second stay.
Two months passed. Two months of gut wrenching force feeding and tears, vomit, and diarrhea. The summer had ended.
Then something happened. One morning before school, he walked over to our other cat's bowl and ate. He had come back to life. He began to gain weight. Soon he began demanding food once again. He was healthy?
After six months it was as if he'd never been sick. We took him back to the vet for blood tests. Not only was he healthy, but in the words of the vet, 'a miracle had taken place'. The peritonitis, which would always be with him and should have been detectable, was completely gone. The vet had never heard of this happening. From that day forward, he was known in the vet's office as Miracle Cat.
He went on to live a long and healthy life. When he fell ill for the second and last time, he let me know he was ready. I was as good as the word I gave as a boy.
So what is this darkness that befalls us? Why this pain and suffering? Ra says that trauma is an efficient catalyst. It seems so cruel, but how else are we to discover that limitation is a word, not a truth. If you can find your truth in love, then impossibility will become just another word too.
Imagine if we could love people the way we do our pets. Just imagine that. Would you give up on anyone? Would you begin to embrace the dark and painful things for what they point you towards? Would you give up on yourself?
Perhaps because of this, I feel compelled this morning to share a painful story with you. It is about limitation and impossibility and love. It happened to me way back in 1991, when I was eleven years old.
I had a cat. I should really say: I had a cat for a best friend. He was a magnificent black persian, a loving glutton named Mookie. He'd been with us since he was a kitten, about a year and a half, before he fell ill.
It was his kidneys, they were failing. Bless my parents, they paid for an expensive surgery to try and save him but he remained ill, very, very ill. He lost most of his weight. He stopped eating, then he stopped drinking water. Further tests showed he had, aside from his original condition, a disease called feline infectious peritonitis, an incurable, fatal disease. If he were in a healthy state, he may have had a few more months but having just had a traumatic surgery, this was a death sentence.
My parents, bless them, decided not to tell me until they put him down. In the last year and a half, I'd nearly lost my father to compound medical problems and I'd found solace with my cat after the hospital stays at my father's bedside. They knew it would crush me to lose the cat and they couldn't live that scene. There was nothing the vet could do, so they appointed him to be euthanised.
Unaware of this, I was still trying everything to get him to eat again, not knowing the true nature of his illness. I wouldn't leave his side. School had ended and it was summer, but I was inside with him day and night.
The day came, me still unknowing. Some ruse was concocted to separate me from him, some chore or other, but I saw through it, or rather felt through it. Somehow I knew my friend was in trouble. I ran inside and saw him inside his carrier and I knew what it meant.
The scene that followed was ugly. I pushed my parents aside and covered the carrier with my body, bawling. I told them I'd die first before I let him go. My father told me sternly how selfish I was, how I was only causing him more terrible suffering. He was already in pain and it was only going to get worse. I can still hear the tone of his words. They told me about his terminal illness. They told me the percentages - 3% chance of survival of a few months. 100% chance it would kill him eventually. 100%. There was no cure.
"He's not going to die."
This wasn't something I merely said, it was something I knew. No part of the thought of his death found room in my mind.
My parents begged me, I refused. Finally I offered a bargain - give me two weeks with him, if he shows no improvement, then I will take him myself. What could my parents do?
I couldn't see reason. I couldn't face the impossibility of his recovery. And I wouldn't let them take him. They cancelled the appointment and gave me my two weeks.
We were together the entire two weeks. I had to force feed him, letting him know each time through my tears and his pain how I hated to hurt him but this was the only way he could live. Almost every time, he vomited and I would start again. It was awful. We were alone, since none of the family could bear to watch.
The two weeks passed. He wasn't eating on his own, but he wasn't vomiting as much. He started drinking water on his own again, started moving around. It was enough for a second stay.
Two months passed. Two months of gut wrenching force feeding and tears, vomit, and diarrhea. The summer had ended.
Then something happened. One morning before school, he walked over to our other cat's bowl and ate. He had come back to life. He began to gain weight. Soon he began demanding food once again. He was healthy?
After six months it was as if he'd never been sick. We took him back to the vet for blood tests. Not only was he healthy, but in the words of the vet, 'a miracle had taken place'. The peritonitis, which would always be with him and should have been detectable, was completely gone. The vet had never heard of this happening. From that day forward, he was known in the vet's office as Miracle Cat.
He went on to live a long and healthy life. When he fell ill for the second and last time, he let me know he was ready. I was as good as the word I gave as a boy.
So what is this darkness that befalls us? Why this pain and suffering? Ra says that trauma is an efficient catalyst. It seems so cruel, but how else are we to discover that limitation is a word, not a truth. If you can find your truth in love, then impossibility will become just another word too.
Imagine if we could love people the way we do our pets. Just imagine that. Would you give up on anyone? Would you begin to embrace the dark and painful things for what they point you towards? Would you give up on yourself?
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