Didier Strijdonk

Olive – The Passing of a Pet

Every morning, our cat Olive would come to us as we were waking up, making sure to greet us and to lie on top of us to keep us from starting the day immediately. In those first few minutes of waking up, you know you are loved and know that there is love in the world.

No matter how the rest of the day was going to unfold, you had that to look back on. Coming home, Olive wouldn’t be at ease until I would sit down in the couch, so she could sit on my lap. Going to sleep, she would follow us to the bedroom (or oftentimes even lead us there), where she would sleep under the blanket with us, rest on a pillow above Stephanie’s head, or squeeze herself on our pillow right by our heads. Sometimes, she would even be partially on our heads.

That comfort is gone and it seemed to all happen suddenly. At the age of 17, she seemed to slow down. Old age, we suspected, but another week and a half later we saw her vomit a little bit of yellow. She had done that before years ago after finding a piece of cheesecake crust with lemon in it. Since we had cheesecake around now too, we hoped maybe she just found a crumb. Two days later, she threw up a bit of yellow again. That same day, her appetite lessened.

Naturally, Stephanie took Olive to our local vet, who noticed an enlarged spleen and displaced organs on the X-rays they took. The accompanying blood work was indicative of possible cancer, but nobody locally was able to perform the ultrasound necessary to come to a definitive conclusion. It was clear after several phone calls Stephanie made that we would have to go to Greenville. The night before, Olive had gotten noticeably weaker in her legs. This being a Friday evening, there was no time to lose. The only obstacle being the financial portion, it was clear we had to go. Waiting until Tuesday for an ultrasound was obviously going to be too late.

From the vet we briefly went home. Within minutes, Olive went to her water fountain again to drink and meowed in distress – something she had started doing the previous day. As we ourselves were preparing to go, Olive retreated to her cat carrier. It’s the last place you expect your pet to go, especially knowing that it’s so strongly connected to a visit to the vet. We took it as another sign of how serious things were.

So on we went to Greenville, South Carolina. Clear skies and the open road ahead – a stark contrast with what lay ahead. Exit 35, Woodruff Road.  The first time we arrive here, we arrive in the hope that maybe it isn’t cancer. The specialist who will be performing the ultrasound won’t be in until the next day, but the vet we talk to is kind enough to do one anyway. We hear there is some fluid involved and we hope for the best possible scenario. We both get to hold Olive one more time as she finds the strength to hang over Stephanie’s shoulder and lie in my arms one last time. Truth be told, at this stage I’m in denial. We drive home and I myself in particular with false hope.

As we wake up to start the next day, the phone rings and I put it on speaker. Advanced-stage lymphoma, we’re told, as well as what to expect depending on what we decide to do. It’s clear that the outlook is bleak at best. We get ready and both have our moments of grief. I rarely cry and I didn’t expect to. When I think I have my moment of solitude while washing my hair, I break apart. A random thought interrupts me from crying. I start wondering why I am this way. I wonder why I can’t keep crying. I tell myself it’s okay to cry and tears flow out once again. I let it out until it feels more natural to get up and get going. I let Stephanie into the bathroom and I retreat to the bedroom. I start wondering again why in the world I would be so insensitive. Why am I not feeling grief? But I notice that I’m trembling. I notice the carpet looks to be vibrating due to the extra fluid covering my eyes. I tell myself that my grieving process is just different and that it’s okay. Before we leave, I clean out the wet cat food from Olive’s bowl. It feels insensitive, but I know it needs to be done. The recyclables that I’m usually careful about keeping separate, I throw into the trash bag too. I go to her litter box and scoop up the final deposits. I throw out my collection of resealable plastic bags I always use for our cat’s poop. It’s a collection of shredded cheese bags, Ziploc bags that used to contain leftovers, and empty bread bags. They have to go, and I know I’ll never look at them the same again. I stop myself and realize that I’m cleaning as a way to grieve. I don’t yet want to throw anything out. It’s too soon. I see a bag of Olive’s favorite snacks and even though I hesitate because she might not eat any, I decide it’s important for my own grieving process, so I take it anyway.

As ready as anyone can be, we drove off to Greenville. Skies are clear and it looks to be a sunny day. Nothing about the surroundings feels that way. I start wondering why even though it doesn’t feel that way, why at least it can’t look lush, green, and beautiful. It’s like there’s a gray film over my eyes. I know what’s coming. While I have a moment of fair clarity, I ask Stephanie if she’s okay with picking up some food for the next few days. I feel as though maybe I’m being insensitive and I make it a point to communicate it this time. We agree that even though it’s seemingly irrelevant in the moment, that’s probably a good idea.

Thoughts come and go, but Exit 35 comes up again. This time around, there’s a minutes-long slowdown. It’s a stop-and-go type of situation, but we arrive at the front office where I let them know that we have made the tough decision to opt for euthanasia. We’re led into a room and are both asked if we’ve had to go through something like this before. Growing up, I have been there before several times; Stephanie hasn’t. We’re told to ring the bell when we’re ready, but that there’s no pressure. We’re presented with options, and we choose cremation. We take our time to prepare emotionally and I wonder again what’s wrong with me for not crying. I do eventually, though no more than a minute this time. I wait patiently until Stephanie says to press the button. When I do, I hear it click, but nobody comes. It’s for the better, because we’re not really ready yet. Minutes later, I press the button again, this time making sure it’s fully depressed.

We finally get to see Olive again and it’s obvious enough what state she’s in. Though not visibly in pain, I notice a moment in which she’s got a vomiting reflex, but her body doesn’t seem to have the strength to commit to throwing up. It’s hard for her to move, but she stretches her paws a few times and tries to make a few biscuits. I take out Olive’s snacks and she perks up as she hears the crinkling of plastic. I present her with some treats, but all she does is sniff. I put the snacks back in the bag, but I try to get as much dust on my hand in the hopes that maybe Olive will lick it. She doesn’t and I take it as another sign that she doesn’t have the strength required for chemo. Eventually, she crawls to the front of the slipper-shaped bed she’s in. We had discussed previously that since Olive loved to come sit on my lap the very moment I would sit down at home, maybe we should let her sit there one final time. As I try to pick her up, she falls backwards into the bed. Her head now on its side, we can see she has no strength left. It’s heartbreaking to see her this way and we decide that as hard as it may be, now is the time for the final injections. The vet reassures us that we’re making the most humane decision. Both of us agree that we didn’t want Olive to be by herself, surrounded by strangers, confused, weak and nauseated for however many days or weeks she would have otherwise have left. At least in these final moments, we are there.

The grief comes and goes, but never have I ever truly experienced anything like this. Family members have passed on before. Maybe it’s because I’m an ocean away from my family. Maybe with previous pets, it was because it felt more like they really belonged to my parents. Either way, Olive never knocked anything over from any counters. The worst she’d do is bite into paper or soft plastic to manage her stress from past trauma. We may only have had her for no more than 6 or 7 years, but she felt like our daughter. All she ever wanted was constant affection. She was loveable, her fur just as soft as full as she was of love. It’s the sweetness of her soul that makes it all the more painful. No human being can ever be this innocent. As humans, we can express our annoyances clearly. And even if Olive could have done that in words we’d understand, it would probably just be that we should have called in sick more often, so we could have spent ALL the time in the world with her. Olive could’ve never understood why we left home. She’d make bark-like sounds every time I’d leave. Pure panic. I cannot fathom us not being there in her final moments. I do not know where pets or any souls go after they pass away. I do not know if we go anywhere. I just know that we gave her as much love as we could. In the end, that’s the only thing that matters.

One may say, “it’s only a cat”, and that you couldn’t possibly feel real grief. As someone who doesn’t usually seriously and fully grieve the passing of other human beings, I must say this time is the only time I have ever experienced grief like I feel I should. I have often wondered what in the world is wrong with me and why I didn’t break apart before. But I have now. I still feel my moments of pain and sadness are inadequate. Nothing can replace the sweetness Olive brought. Nothing can bring her back. All in all, the memories will remain. I hope you too (will) experience as pure and as unconditional a love as Olive brought us. As painful as it is to see her go, I will forever cherish her life with us.