Eight Weeks

If February was the month of tragic lasts, March was the month of unpleasant firsts: The first month to start without Bella in our lives and home, the first 30 days without her, the start of the first spring with the emptiness wrought by her death.

We visited an animal sanctuary on March 31 to visit with several cats. Each was sweet in her own way, but we left without a new companion. I held back my tears until the trip home. Traci could tell that I wasn’t ready.

The pain seemed to diminish just a bit a few weeks after we lost Bella, but her death is hitting me particularly hard as the days warm into Spring. I’ve tried to focus on the years of happiness she brought to us, her quirks and friendliness, her perfect blend of playful calm, her chasing her mouse, tossing her head, cuddling for hours without overwhelming us.

She really was the perfect cat for us. And when I can look at her photos and remember her beauty and sweet nature without bursting into tears, I’ll know that I’m finally starting to recover. But I’m not there yet. It’s the cruel thing about my grief; the cancer was a cruel blend of slow-growing dread until it blossomed lethally in late January, emaciating her body and draining her vitality in just over three weeks. Her death and decline will always haunt me. Better to focus on her in better days, but these memories often serve to remind me of just how much we lost when she died.

I want to remember her in happier times without feeling heartsick, but I’m not there yet, and I don’t anticipate that changing any time soon.