Keeping Carlos Comfortable

On care, love, and grieving in advance

Friends,

This is the last thing I thought I’d be writing for July, Disability Pride Month. I have multiple drafts, and so much to say about where I’ve been, and where I am now — with acceptance, with shame, with self-compassion, with love. There are many excellent, resonant pieces I want to share. Not only to elevate amazing people and voices, but to express my gratitude.

And then…this weekend, after taking Carlos 🐈‍⬛ to the vet, and landing at the family beach house, he, my mom, and I wound up spending the night at the ER vet for some troubling symptoms. The 20-something-year-old veterinarian thought it might be stress related, but couldn’t get close enough to him to take urine or blood. So we went home with meds, and many questions. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

After taking time to rest and recover for the majority of the day yesterday, a poem flowed out of me before tucking into bed (well, couch) next to my buddy. Poetry helps me process and takes nothing from me, only gives. Carlos is very much the same.

If this isn’t your jam, I understand. I’ll be back to writing reflections on dynamic chronic illness as soon as my energy capacity allows. If you choose to read on, thank you for being with me in this uncertainty and grief.

With love,
Lisa

Carlos is dying
in the way that we all are
and another way that is a bit
more urgent, I think.
At nearly 14, I can smell his fur
and see his bones.
I’ve been grieving him and
treating this possibility for months,
so I swallow the fear and the
despair ripping at my chest and I
do the little things to make him
comfortable
which are really the biggest things
in the end.
I crush his favorite flower-shaped treats
into a powder and roll his wet food
into tasty little truffles
around the bitter medication
that makes him sedated and calm.
I lay a heating pad on the couch
so he can melt into sleep.
I take the old dog brush
out of its special spot in the cabinet
and I soak it in boiling water and soap
until the dead cells and dirt release
and the tool is sterile
and new.
As I watch debris and memory
swirl around the white Ikea pasta bowl
I think about the things we leave behind.
I lightly brush my cat’s nearly lifeless form
and his tail twitches in pleasure or annoyance
and I don’t know if I’m hurting him, so I stop.
I care for him, not to save him, for the first time
in 11 years, but to honor him
and thank him for taking care of me.
I’ve feared recovery, in whatever capacity
is available to me, in case he would imagine
I didn’t need him anymore.
I wonder if I’ve done too good a job
of convincing him I’m okay lately
but I know that’s impossible and
he’s just given me all that he can —
choosing me at the animal shelter
in a way that made me choose
an animal who was surrendered
for being too expensive, too sick, at 3;
stepping gingerly into my lap
when I collapsed at the front door
unable to contain my ripping sobs
the way I try to now,
filling the space of an unspeakable loss,
and hole.
Why couldn’t he be my child,
when he so clearly has a soul?
And my soul mate too —
when the one who promised me everything
forgot to mention it was just a loan
that would take almost everything
from me. He, Carlos, chose me
for a reason, so I could feel this
kind of love while breaking open
and break open while feeling this love.
I don’t want him to be mortal
in the way that we all are
and a way that is more urgent, now.
I want to give him years from my life
so that we can meet in the middle
and never be apart. ♡

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