My Gay Adoption Day 109 :: Transitions

"One word frees us of all of the weight and pain of life; that word is love." - Sophocles

Yesterday, March 21, 2011, the first day of Spring, was a joyous day for Kevin and me; for we have completed our preparations for adoption and have gone "active" in the Friends in Adoption database. And today, March 22nd, has been a day of proportionate sadness, for we had to put our kitty, Harley, to sleep. The timing is ironic, and perhaps as ineludible as the paradox of sentience. Without the prescience of pain, there is no opportunity for real binding love; and if love must be evidenced periodically by the scathing pain of loss, its presence in our lives also makes the hard times bearable.

When I mentioned that today, of all days, I was going to write - and that I was moved to do so by the heartbreak I've suffered at the loss of Harley, Kevin asked if mourning a cat was an appropriate subject for this blog. It wasn't meant unkindly; but I'm a writer, and this is the best way I know to tell her, however silly it might seem, how I feel now that she's not here. Moreover, she's been as much a part of the story of our quest for a child as Kevin and I are; and as far as EDGE is concerned, she's been here the whole time, offering unconditional support even when the path seemed daunting and the promise of success dim. She's part of the whole of me; and for fifteen years, Harley had an extraordinary impact on my life.

To wit: fifteen years ago I was a kid, still in my first gay relationship, a skater on life's little lake unconscious of and unconcerned with the depth of the waters below. What did I know of love? Little. What pets I'd had previously were the owners of multiple humans, or passed so fleetingly through my life that their impact was slight. As for people, I'd learned neither about significant true loss nor about significant true love. Thursdays were for partying, Fridays for hooking up, and Saturdays about searching for something that meant more than did the previous two nights. I despaired of ever finding it.

Then Harley was placed in my arms; she was three years old, and bereft of a loving mother named Bette, who had to give her up as she moved in with an allergic relative. I was close with my biological clan yet still living on my own, and Harley became my immediate family. She was with me when my heart was broken over life's disappointments, for she always helped to mend it. She was vigilant when I was ill, staying steadfastly by my side when I suffered serious back injury and withdrawal from crippling pain medications. She made me laugh with her antics, playing with toys or decapitating a mouse and presenting it, triumphantly, on my bed at night. She lived with me in three homes, a constant companion through redecorating, furniture changeovers, and upward career mobility that brought to us both fun new digs. She watched more movies at home with me than I can count. She celebrated the seasons as only a cat can do: by chewing ribbons, pawing ornaments, knocking over holiday cards and occasionally wearing Santa hats. And she, like I, welcomed the spring each year, pressing her little nose to the window screens at the first sniff of new birth on the wind. She did that for the last time this weekend, when the temperature spiked, and she strolled her tired, cancer-stricken body to the open screen door and watched the birds frolic in our back yard. And I'm pretty sure that even though her body was crippled, her spirit still soared as it had every year at this time.

Harley was an impeccable judge of character, hissing at just about every boy I brought home... until Kevin... Kevin, who liked to play rough with her every morning and who chased her up the stairs. Who cleaned her litter box for her and helped me dress her wounds when she'd hurt herself. Who cried uncontrollably and hugged her fiercely when she reappeared after a three-day roof deck disappearance last August, surprising me with what clearly was a compromising attachment to the big-eyed, double-pawed girl who had years before stole my heart. And who administered her pain medication for the last three weeks without fail, day and night, as our hearts sighed for the degeneration of her little body.

I've read accounts online of people's experiences putting their pets to sleep. They're eloquent and erudite. But they don't prepare you for the reality of loss; they really couldn't, could they? This morning, when I came downstairs to eat breakfast before going to work, Harley tried to stand, and fell over. I lifted her up and deposited her in my lap, her little face on my chest; she had never been a lap kitty, but she contentedly purred there for twenty minutes while I pet her, my hands caressing around her numerous open sores like a tiny, furry slalom course. I felt then what I think Kevin had felt before: it was time to let her go. I called Kevin down and we decided to help her pass on. Two hours later we were at the Angell Memorial Pet Hospital, where the exceptional caretakers prepared her for her injection. And I felt time slipping away.

No account can prepare you for the last moment of a beloved companion's life, particularly if you opt to hold them and let your supportive, loving gaze be their last vision in this world. They will communicate with you, via their overlarge little eyes, that they are bewildered and scared - not unlike any other trip to the veterinarian. And they will also tell you that they trust you and love you unconditionally. And when their heart stops, and that trust and love is gone, nothing in life can help you prepare for the emptiness left in yours. I have lost a soulmate, a beloved friend, and a constant witness to the last fifteen years of my life.

Grieving for Harley on this day has been very difficult for me; I've asked myself a thousand times if I made the best decision - for I believe Kevin quietly let me take the lead, as she was my cat first. Was this the right time? Was it too early? Did Harley understand why we brought her there, and did she mind my deciding for her when it was time for her to move on? In short - was she ready? I've been told that we did the "right thing" for her, but to be honest, her last moments on earth will make me ponder these questions for the rest of my days. I did the best I could; I hope I did well. And I hope that Harley, wherever she is, can forgive me any of my shortcomings as her caretaker.

Of course, I will heal with time, and we have much to anticipate. But even as Spring arrives and the promise of new life dawns on my little family here in Dedham, Massachusetts, Kevin and I have lost much. Of all the solace offered to me today, perhaps the most competent comes from my 94-year-old grandmother, who cried on the phone and then posted to my Facebook wall, "Harley is grateful that you have released her from her pain and now wants her favorite people to go on with their lives and cater to a promising future with a darling little person." So it is true: our oldest loved ones have the most experience with love and loss, and in many ways the most to offer us in terms of learning how to live. We'll take a cue from her, and lift our eyes to the magical new adventures that now await us as we prepare for a new birth for our family.

But I will never forget. Harley, you have been the dearest companion of my life, and I miss you and love you - I can only hope that you knew how much, even at the very end.