Saying Good-Bye (Part Two of a Three-Part Cat Series)
Saying good-bye is never easy and it certainly is never fair.
When it was time to put our second cat down, I noticed how seriously my veterinarian was taking part in my loss. Gizmo was a sweet old guy and just ran out of steam. He had a great cat life — licking his paws, sleeping on our comforter, and cuddling with his cat siblings. It was his time. It was that simple.
My cat received a compassionate death. He was cremated and placed in a cedar box with his name engraved on the top. It was given to us with empathy from the veterinary staff. We were given a gift bag full of mementos — two poems, one about a rainbow and the other about saying good-bye, a tuft of his hair (kind of gross if you ask me), a stamped paw print and an ornament with his name etched on it. Our veterinarian made a donation to an animal shelter in our cat’s name. The animal shelter sent us a thank you card. It was an overwhelming assortment of pet love – one could argue a ridiculous amount of pet love. But, they covered their bases. There was something for everyone in that gift bag of cat memorabilia. It was not requested. I didn’t ask for any of those things. It was standard procedure. Putting Gizmo down, cremating him, receiving his ashes, the fancy wooden box, the poems, the ornament, the fur, the donation, the paw print, the time and the kindness cost us $175.
In recognizing the time and care the veterinary team took to handle the loss of my cat, I began reflecting on another loss and how we, as a society, handle human death. I haven’t been to many funerals in my life. But, the biggest loss I’ve ever experienced took me years to learn to cope with. In anxious anticipation of the birth of our first child we received horrible news. Unlike Gizmo, our unborn baby would never get to live a long lazy life cuddling with me on the sun drenched comforter of our bed. He didn’t have a chance. An incurable, untreatable heart defect left him lifeless and us childless.
At the time I was so consumed with grief and struggling to cope that I could hardly think straight. My five-month check-up wasn’t supposed to be a laundry list of tasks. We were told his defects. We were asked to make a choice. We were told to pay the co-pay. After he was cremated, he was given back to us in a small flimsy white plastic box that had a piece of Xerox paper taped to the front, with the funeral home logo on it. Written in black marker: “baby Chennamchetty”, his ashes resting in a baggie inside. There was no follow up, no donation, no poem, no mementos. I only had hope for good therapy and time … lots and lots of time to heal and grieve. Our loss of him cost our insurance company and us thousands of dollars.
How can the death of a cat be treated with so much more compassion than the loss of this child? Is it because his death isn’t recognized openly in society? Is it because it should be hidden or denied? I believe the fetal cardiologist, the ObGyn, and the surgeon had as much compassion for our loss as our veterinarian. But then, why is it that a human loss is so much more sterile – desensitized? How is it that a veterinarian can recognize a loss and take compassionate steps to follow up and health care professionals don’t in these instances?
I ended up switching all my doctors because I wanted a new perspective. But I don’t know that it would be different if I were to experience the same fate again. I don’t know that any busy medical office with a full patient load has a mechanism to handle that kind of loss. Why is the healthcare industry so busy yet desensitized to human life while trying to save it, or fix it? In our case, there was a problem that couldn’t be fixed. Regardless of how you want to categorize it, the grief is the same. The loss exists for the person experiencing it.
I’m not suggesting that doctors start sending tufts of hair or hand prints to grieving parents. But, I do think there is a way to meet somewhere in the middle, to remember the people left behind who are trying to navigate the complex and lonely road of grief. Patching our broken hearts over the loss of our son should not feel less compassionate than the loss of our pet.
Beautifully written Lizzy. I wonder how I didnt know of your loss? I wonder how you always seem to glow, pregnant or not. I am happy for the little time i was able to be your neighbor, watching you is like watching love catch a sun ray. Condolences on the loss of your baby, you should have his handprint, a tuft hair. Congratulations on moving forward, finding a way to be a parent, and the gift of time has brought you.
Thank you very much Shelley! Very kind words. I too enjoy knowing you.
Strange world we live in! Thanks for broadening my awareness.