This is the question I've been asking myself for the last month, ever since we had to make the agonizing decision to let Wanda move on to her next spirit form.
I know. I should have said something earlier. The truth is, I literally couldn't. It was really sad losing Mango--all the what-might-have-beens were very hard. It was devastating losing Elroy in January. That little chubby bundle of light and joy created a hole so big in our home that his absence was palpable. Losing Wanda, though? This has felt borderline insurmountable.
Anyone who has followed this blog for any period of time knows how much we love our buddies. Wanda and Otto, for better or for worse, have been right at the top of the list as our closest companions. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't met them, but they have always been different somehow. Like cats, but bigger. I would say "more human," but I don't think that even explains it. We just connect with them on a different level than we do with the other cats--not a better one, just a different one.
So losing Wanda, for us at least, has been more than just losing a feline companion. To me, she's been kind of like a child and a mother and a really good friend all in one. She has always been unselfish, and kind, and nurturing, even while she was obsessively kneading on my arm like a malnourished kitten. She has always been healthy, and youthful. I think part of me really believed she might be immortal. Or, if not immortal, destined to live for 25 years or more.
So when we moved back to the coast and Wanda started hiding and losing weight, we thought she was just adjusting to the move. We took her to the vet, just in case, and got all the blood work done, but found nothing. We called our pet communicator, who told us what was going on from Wanda's perspective, and we worked with that. Took her to another vet and got another thorough checkup. Still nothing turned up. Gave her a B-12 shot for appetite stimulation to try to put back on some of the weight she had lost. Brought her back home.
Until last month, when we decided to try one more time to diagnose what was going on with Wanda. To make a very long, torturous story a good bit shorter, Wanda ended up in the Specialty/Emergency vet in Savannah with an acute case of Pancreatitis. Thrown in just to make things complicated was a diabetic crisis and a liver that was probably twice its normal size. We called in our pet communicator again, who was fabulous and there for us through this entire process. After much consultation with Wanda and the vets, and days of unsuccessful treatment, we made the agonizing decision to let her go. It came down to this: her body was unlikely to keep fighting on its own over the next several days, and there were only 30 minutes of visiting time a day at the ER vet. If we hadn't decided to help her cross over, the odds were very, very good that she was going to pass on her own, most likely accompanied by a violent seizure, in the cold metallic cage at the vet, with nobody who loved her near.
I just couldn't let that happen to my baby girl.
So, with her sitting on my lap, and Sean and I talking to her softly and repeatedly, we let our beautiful Wanda girl go.
At least physically, we did. I haven't been able to let any other part of her go since. And maybe that's okay.
This may be controversial to some, but I firmly believe that animals have souls as real as any soul a human may have. At the very least, we all have energy that can't be created or destroyed. If you've been reading my blog, you probably have already figured this out about me, and may even share that belief.
Wanda isn't gone. Sure, physically she is. I put my arm out most nights, hoping to feel her there, her tiny paws working like a master concert pianist on the fleshy part of my forearm. I can still see her, lying tucked into my underarm, craning her head back so she could look directly into my eyes and smile. She really did that. It was one of the most unique and amazing parts of our relationship with her--the way she would look directly into your eyes with so much love. I even have photographic proof:
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| The look of love. See the little smile on her face? She's squinting in the sun, so you can't tell she's looking, but she is. |
I know she's still here with us--at least my brain does. It's my heart that still mourns the physical presence of her, too. The cuddles, the kneading. How, when she was a kitten, she used to like to sit on the porch railing during thunderstorms and just feel the wind on her face. It didn't even matter to her that she got a little wet. How she loved to do "horsey rides" on our knees, but only if we were wearing pants. The utter abandon with which she would play with her fluffy balls and fluffy brushes. And her heroic rescue of Mister when he accidentally swallowed part of a coat hanger (see the blog post entitled "Mister Tries to Eat a Coat Hanger" for details). Wanda was always so in her body, so much the master of it and reveling in it, even more than most cats are. So, while knowing she's still with us in spirit should be a comfort to me, I wish it could be more so.
In answer to my previous question--the one I opened this blog with--I think the answer is no. I don't think it's possible to love someone too much, at least when it's a healthy and not an obsessive kind of love. I just think that its possible to love someone so much that the pain sometimes feels like it will overwhelm you when you lose them. But, with time, you realize how lucky you were to have had that kind of love with someone. And how some people, as a wise person once told me, go their whole lives without being loved that much or loving someone else that much in return.
After she passed, we talked with her again on the other side. Our pet communicator said she specifically asked that we not "replace her." Absolutely no chance of that, Wandoo buddy.
There will always be a little soft nook in my heart, one where you are snuggled up, and gazing up at me, and we are looking at each other with so. Much. Love.
It's your spot, Wanda. The Wanda Spot. And it's yours alone, forever and ever, as long as I shall live.
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| In Loving Memory, Wanda Dennis, October 31, 1999 to October 17, 2015. |
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