:: I did not give my kids platitudes. My job was to hold their hands as they traversed that tunnel. I encouraged them to feel their pain (just as I allowed myself to feel my own), and I ensured that they received all of the support they needed.

Dear Friends,

In August, both of our cats died in one weekend. It was horrible.

One died suddenly of cancer. On a Friday, we took our sick cat, Richard, to the vet because she’d gone downhill fast the week before. We scheduled her to be put to sleep on Monday morning so we could have the weekend with her to say good-bye. I thought, at the time, at least we have Goldie.

Goldie, our other cat, was eaten by a coyote on Sunday, the day before Richard’s appointment.

Both boys were devastated beyond imagining that both cats could die so close together. One on a Sunday. One on a Monday.

To me, it didn’t make any sense. How can our house be full of beloved cats one day, and empty the next? My logical brain was, and still is, completely confounded.

My two teen sons grew up wtih Richard. She came to us after a neighbor found a bag of kittens in her backyard. (My reaction to that at the time: People still DO THIS?) We had her for 12 years.

The other cat was a massive long-hair, Goldie, half Maine Coon and half ginger boy. My older son picked out on Goldie on his 8th birthday—that son is 16 now. There’s a semi-famous story published by Catapult Magazine about how Goldie came to be a part of our familly. You can read it in Catapult Magazine here. Goldie was 11 when he died.

The grief of my children, ages 14 and 16, overwhelmed our home. All I could do was hold them while their shoulders shook.

Why? I asked the universe. Why can’t I take away their pain?

The answer is one that people who have experienced deep grief know well: The only way to deal with grief is to just go through it, like a dark tunnel.

I did not give my kids platitudes. My job was to hold their hands as they traversed that tunnel. I encouraged them to feel their pain (just as I allowed myself to feel my own), and I ensured that they received all of the support they needed.

I also ensured that we had a lovely funeral for both Richie and Goldie. And in the same grave we also buried the ashes of our dog Corey, who died earlier this year of cancer.

If you’re keeping count, all three of our furry household pets died within six months of each other.

After I refilled the grave with dirt, the kids gathered rocks to put on top of it. They started with stone pavers left over from a house project a few weeks before. But then, as a team, they lifted an enormous granite rock from an untamed area of our yard, and together carried it over to put on top, a monument.

Watching them pick out the rock, carry it together (without bickering), and looking so proud of their work once it was complete healed something inside of me.

I think it healed something inside of them, too.

(My husband later told me the rock weighs no less than a hundred pounds.)

I believe that we, as human creatures—and other creatures as well—have an innate desire to take care of each other when we’re suffering. That care heals others, and it heals ourselves.

My boys took care of one other. I took care of them. That care has gotten us through the grief tunnel and out the other side.

We did not wait long to adopt new cats. The advice to do so was given to me by a friend who lost her cat just before we lost ours. “Don’t wait,” she said. “You need new cats in your house.” She is wise, so I listened.

I went to the shelter and asked for a bonded pair, ideally a boy and a girl, ideally not kittens.

“PLEASE take kittens,” they told me. Apparently, in August, the shelters are overrun with adorable baby fluffs.

The boys named the new kittens Morgan (the boy, white with splotches) and Pixie (the girl, gray). Pixie and Morgan gave us more creatures to care for—and another way to show our love.

Caring for the kittens, loving on them and napping with them, has finished the work of healing.

Now, only a few months after our cats died, we can talk about the silly things they used to do without anyone choking up. We have a Lego statue of Richard that 16 made, and it is on display next to the wedding crystal. (Richard would think that is appropriate, since she was a princess.)

Grief comes, and you can’t escape it. You can’t make it less awful. You can only go through it. 

But you don’t have to go through it alone. 

Love,

Katie