Last Night in the Office

Classes began in a staggered way this term. I have six, down from the exhausting schedule I had last fall but more than enough to keep me busy this term, and until today, enough to blunt the stream of melancholy anniversaries as we approach the end of our first full year without Bella. The sadness seemed to finally be dissipating, and though I hate the term, I finally though that I was letting go.

We made the difficult decision to euthanize Bella at the end of February after the palliative effects of the NSAID therapy diminished. When her lymph node burst a few days later, we knew she wouldn’t make it for much longer. We chose the 17th, after Valentine’s Day, to give us a week and not darken that joyful holiday. Cancer had disrupted every schedule, always pushing her death closer and closer, and there would be one final cruel stroke.

But on that night, fifty-two weeks ago today, Bella made her way up the stairs to visit me in my office. She sat by the bookshelf and cried just once, a grainy, throttled cry. The tumor was strangling her day by day.

I picked her up and put her in my lap. She immediately curled up, her purring made louder by the pressure on her larynx, and she pressed her back against my gaming table. It was a brief moment of normality against shadow of her impending death, a last sweet memory before we lost her even sooner than we feared.

For weeks before and months after her death, I would struggle to fight back tears in public places. A song, a sculpture of paws, a memory would have me struggling for composure. Those emotions seemed to be dwindling, but the memory of that last night brought back a flood of emotions tonight. I’m finally recovering, but my love for Bella remains strong, and the pain of her loss still stings a year later.