Charlie has left the building

Originally published at neevita.net. Pictures don't crosspost correctly - if the entry looks like it's blank or doesn't make sense, check the original neevita post to view.

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Not two days after I made him a term to categorize his entries, it was time to put charlie down. His colon issues were resolving, but yesterday something else went wrong, that made him sick enough to be vomiting. He aspirated some of it, meaning he inhaled it into his lungs. I got home from work to find him trembling, curled in on himself, pressed into the corner of my apartment. When I moved him to get him into the carrier, he threw up violently out his nose, and continued to do that until I left him at the ER around 8pm.

They did everything we could for him there, under my level and firm direction, got his 105 fever down and brought him home this morning. When I returned from work at 2:15, he had the glaze. The "something broke mama, I’m done now" glaze. he was crying, and forced breathing, hadn’t eaten, and went limp when I held him.

Charlie always had so much going on behind his eyes. As my friend Kim says, "I like Charlie. Charlie understands.". By the second week of giving him his medication for his megacolon, which had returned to completely normal size as of his xray yesterday, he knew to relax his mouth when I gave him his pills, and that I had to do that before I fed him. He understood why, too. I know he knew it was part of why he felt better. It was working.

God damnit. It was working.

When I pet him, he would lazily lay his head back and watch me, with more love and depth in his eyes than I see from most people, and I could tell that he trusted me and knew he finally had someone in his life who was committed to taking care of him. Our personalities were so similar, I’d find myself describing Charlie to my friends and having to stop to laugh at how I was also describing myself. He was one in a million, a total trooper, wicked smart, and knew the score. Just like his mama. When I told them I was ready to put him down, my words choked me. It felt like someone else was forcing them through my throat.

I bent over him as he laid on his side and whispered how much I loved him, how I was so glad he’d come to me, how thankful I was to have him. I love you. I love you. Thank you. I’m so glad. I’m so happy I’ve had you Charlie. You’re such a treasure. I love you. My sweet boy.

I love you.

I buried my face in his fuzzy belly and cupped his head in my hand while he went. I cried softly and quietly as I listened to his heart stop, a strange yet fitting calm lingering like a fog in the room, then went to LRS to perform (after losing my wallet, and getting in a minor scooter accident trying to finagle his cat carrier home, but that's neither here nor there). It was good to get out and have some distraction, a job to do, a reason to put on a face, and I had a decent time. My friends offered their support, and for some moments tonight, I was living what I know in my cells - I will be ok. Of course I will be ok. Sometimes, I am still surprised that I have finally learned that.

It’s been waves of everything since the moment I got in the truck with an empty cat carrier and a heavy box, still warm, with charlies body in it. He was 11 months old. Aside from my history of being drawn to sick and needy creatures, I had no indication that there was anything wrong with him when I got him. It feels so unfair, a waste, a tragedy, but I know it’s none of these things. Waves of clarity, of numbness, of relief, of sadness, of longing, of grief. They crush against the inside of my face like tides of universal truth, lapping at my lens and coloring the whole fucking world for as long as they wash over me. And then another one. And another one. In all different colors. I understand and then I don’t understand. I’m exhausted.

I miss him horribly. When I got home just now, the food he hadn’t eaten while I was at work was still in the middle of my floor. His stuff all over my tiny house. His smell still here, his litter pans, his scratching post, the stain on my floor from his vomit yesterday. I did everything I could, I spared no expense, I gave him every chance I was able to. I was willing to keep him on $90 meds every month until the day he died if it meant he had a fighting chance in hell of really living. All I wanted was for him to be ok. I committed to nurturing and protecting this animal and I loved him with my whole heart and with my whole heart now I ache and wretch and sob and fall to my knees wailing into my clutching hands and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

I wonder, in split seconds here and there, with a sickening juvenile hope, if I had just waited another hour, or a day, in some fantasy, or some dream lofting in with the breeze through a sunny kitchen window...

Even with all that. Even with almost $4000 in vet bills over the last 3 months, even with Cerebellar hypoplasia, megacolon, being called a hero by the ER doctor, and eventually organ failure, I still fucking sit here actually questioning if I could have done more, if maybe he got into something here that poisoned him and it was my fault, if somehow I was bad to him. I tried so hard, I gave him everything I had, all my knowledge and all my strength and all my focus and all my patience. I wanted him to be safe. He was so afraid before he came to me. I gave him his space, even when I wanted closeness, and I can't remember ever taking it personally, which I find damn impressive actually.

When I knew I was going to do it, I held him, which he rarely tolerated for more than a few seconds, while sitting on the floor of the exam room. Whenever he would try to squirm away eventually, I would quietly whisper "No. I get what I want, now. It's my turn." 9 times out of 10, he relaxed back into me, his huge glassy eyes burning behind mine, his poor little body twitching with each open-mouthed labored breath. Even when he couldn't breathe as well in my arms as he could huddled on the floor, he gave me that. It was really amazing.

I feel so fucking small right now, so god damn fucking alone in the world, so utterly futile, that if I just pulled myself into a slightly tighter ball, I might just disappear entirely. I didn’t want to play god with him. In my soul I know it’s not my place, to murder him like that. I didn’t want to make this decision. It’s horrible. But I couldn’t let him suffer through when I knew I had the power to make things go differently for him. I know what it looks like, I know what it feels like. He was dying. Something broke. He could tell. We could tell.

My life is so full land vibrant, and I also I feel like I’ve had so many losses lately. I only got to have him 4 trying months. On my way to take his remains to our old vet in west seattle, I found myself crying when I realized that Rob wasn’t down the street anymore to commiserate with. My boss, the man who helped me continue changing my life around, who’s been my main supporter through school, is leaving in a week. Hell. I’ve been considering leaving.

It’s almost like I can see things I’m opening myself up to, wanting so desperately, so fully, to keep near me, peeling away from me like paint chips on an abandoned asylum wall. I’m looking around and things are so fucking disorganized and jagged and untidy and it’s hard. It’s hard not getting what you want sometimes.

But that’s the best part. This is what it’s about. Being messy is what it’s about. One of the first things I came to truly know in my life, is that to master living and having a truly open heart you must understand the value of suffering, and not avoid the discomfort of it, or blame others for it. The key to the art of connecting and truly growing is to make use of it when it comes and allow it to run its course and wash through you. Always. To look straight at it and acknowledge it and honor it. Always. Sometimes that means letting go and walking away from something that isn’t working. Sometimes that means losing a friend. And sometimes love isn’t enough.

Charlie was wonderful to me. He never once lashed out at me, never one hissed or became aggressive, no matter how much pain he was in or how sick and scared he was. He was so sweet and glorious and had so much wisdom from his short little life and how much he'd gone through. He was thoughtful, purposeful. All he asked of me was my patience and my love and I gave it gladly.

The last two weeks have been the most meaningful for me with him. He was so happy, vibrant, playful, alive, so loving, engaging, while he finally lived without pain and toxicity. It was worth it. Every tear and every red cent was worth that. I’m so glad I was brave enough to see things through and be able to witness that.

I’m tired. My poor body is hurting so much right now. I’m aching. Everything aches. It all aches. I’m weeping, lamenting, mourning, shaking with it all while hunching over to slowly, systematically clean his cat food bowls. Pack up his food and meds to be donated back to his vet. Tomorrow I will do more of the same, with his litter boxes, sweeping the floor, and, eventually.. while cleaning his sick stains off my carpet and off my floors.

I feel. I feel, I see, I love him, and I miss him, and it’s fucking beautiful. I want to honor all of it.