A Loving Farewell

This is an excerpt from the weekly News-Loveletter. If you would like it sent to your inbox directly (with all the other juicy bits, including a mini joy practice), you can add yourself to my mailing list here.

Harley, supervising our boys over a decade ago

Trigger warning: This story includes the details of what appeared to be a peaceful death.

Last week turned my heart inside out. My dear feline companion, Harley, readied herself to cross the rainbow bridge. She drew each breath with greater effort and had begun to look fearful at times. As I dialed my friend and fellow Joy Collective member, veterinarian Berta Boyden (Leach), I felt my heart breaking open. I wanted to help.

Life does not pause for these events, but we can. Amidst a day of teaching, deadlines, and private coaching sessions, I suddenly saw clearly that it was time to lay down with my girl. I turned a project I was working on over to another professional who kindly stepped in. I felt grateful for the inspiration to ask for help and more grateful still to find it easily.

In the two days prior, Sam, Seda, and I had enjoyed Harley’s purring warmth as we cuddled with her around the clock. With a sigh, I settled myself down beside our 17 year old calico lady-cat. She stepped onto my chest then lowered herself, resting her heart over mine. She no longer had energy to purr. Tears streamed from my eyes onto the pillow.

I grieved for her pain, and I grieved for my imminent loss. I felt grateful for the beauty and meaningful connection of these past few days. And I realized in a flash that this grief was not helping Harley. It was authentic … and it was centered on my experience, not hers.

I listened to Harley. I felt that she was scared and also ready, though uncertain about what that meant. My grief concerned her, but she was tired and had little energy for much more than her passing. I guessed that what she really wanted was companionship and reassurance.

Gathering my courage (“cour,” which comes from Old French, means heart), I told Harley that a time would come when I would help her by asking a dear veterinarian friend to join us to help ease her pain and parting. And when that time came, I told her I would align myself energetically with the part of me that aimed to assist her. I would not connect with my grieving parts, which would only bring confusion for us both. I told her that with this clarity and purpose, I would align with the parts of her that felt ready to go and wanted help. As I whispered this to Harley, her head dropped to my chest, and she began to rest deeply.

After awhile, I went to my other cat and shared my grief with him. He purred and gazed at me, quietly and deep. I felt grateful that he could hold space with my sadness. When a knock sounded at the door, I felt ready. After sharing a few stories and hugs with Bert, we went to find Harley. I paused at the door to align, as I’d told her I would. When we entered, my typically skittish cat-friend looked with curiosity at Bert and smelled her fingertips when offered.

Harley did not leave the bed as Dr. Bert began her work. Harley moved away at one point, then returned to us with very little guidance and laid down to rest quietly as the sedative slowly took affect. Sam joined us.

Harley, our brave kitty, let go of her full and beautiful life with Sam and I stroking her softly. Trinidad and Seda sent their love from afar. As her body came to rest, I surrounded her with a braid of sweet grass, long feathers, special stones, and two candles.

Seda and I held a wake after I’d finished teaching that night. Leo and Miru visited their friend with curiosity, concern, and finally acceptance. I did something I’d never done and slept beside her body through the night, waking to stroke her soft calico fur several times. Miru stayed with us.

Joy is not always sunny and light. At times like this, joy resounds in my heart like a foghorn, reminding me that death is a part of life. Joy guides me to stay in my lane, reminding me of my place. Honoring the deceased is a way of honoring all of life. To do this in community is utter sweetness. I feel grateful to have gathered around me that day the Joy Collective, as individuals and as a group. I accepted sweet support. And now it is my joy to tell you all that I release my friend Harley with a heart broken open. I feel your love with me. Thank you.

When has death brought poignant gifts? And when has its presence helped you to feel more alive?