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Oomi on the Green Mile (apologies to Stephen King)

A Thousand Tiny Cuts

It's hard to believe it has been four days since Oomi left. Each day brings me forward in time, toward healing, but I don't want that. I don’t want to heal. I don’t want to be comforted. I want to stay here in this protective bubble of pain. Here, I am still in that place where he is everywhere and even irrational moments, like not wanting to scoop the cat litter because his mark is still there, keep me insulated from his passing. Even though he is no longer here, I felt his presence so keenly. His reality is protected and still warm on my skin. It hurts, but I still have him so vibrantly in my head and my heart. Every step I take toward resuming my life takes me away from him. Getting in my car, I realize the last time I was in it was with him and I remember. The last time I sat on the couch, was when I was still holding him in my arms while he left this life. The last time I used this pan was to boil him chicken in the hopes he would eat something. And taking the car somewhere, sitting on the couch, washing the pan, washing his food dish, his washcloth that he adopted and liked to beat up…it all takes him away, bit by bit. Takes me forward into healing and my new life without him and I don’t want to go.

Each morning I wake up without him takes me further into the world. And in that world there are endless reminders, mail that arrives that was written when he was still here. Toys he last played with, still sitting in the places he left them, his mark still on them. Bedding that must be changed that was slept on by him. And each time I touch these things, it erases that feeling that he is still here. It carries me into that furture without him. Well meaning people who think they have my best interests will suggest, diplomatically or clumsily, that it’s time to move on, or that I did everything I could and that I gave him a good life and should be comforted by that. As if I could be, as if that will make this emptied out feeling go away. As if that would fill my arms with his soft warm fur or fill my senses with his wonderful sweet earthly smell.

I don’t want to be told I’ll get over it. That I’ll get better. That the pain will lessen in time. I know that and I don’t want it. I want my boy. I know I can’t have him, but my heart doesn’t care. My arms don’t care. I want to hold him again. I want him to make it better. That’s what he did, it was his gift.

In time, I know I will be able to appreciate that gift and that it was shared with me. But for now, I just wish it could still be mine.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

Oomi, my sweet gentle soul, passed peacefully around noon today in my arms. Our vet came by the house and gave him something to make him sleepy before the final shot. I rocked him in my arms and held him next to the window to see the sunshine. Just before he fell asleep, he saw a bird.

It was very peaceful and quick and I held him for a long, long time after, just telling him how much I loved him. I kissed him over and over to make up for all the years of kisses we will miss...he is still so soft and he loved getting kisses.

I am happy his pain is over, but I miss him so. I buried him in between two great pines, a spot he liked to visit. They will watch over his resting place. There's a plant called bleeding heart, it's delicate and comes up every spring. I planted some on his grave along with some wildflower seed.

I cannot begin to tell you what a comfort so many of you have been. To be in touch with people who understand what amazing creatures we have in our lives is a blessing.

Oomi was sweet and smart and funny, and always so impossibly loving. Like Nash, he was just always happy. It's hard to think that while I can still call out his name, he won't come running when I do it, I won't see that look he gave me when I said his name. That "Yes?! What's up? What are we doing?" look that spoke of how ready he was to have fun or be cuddled or embark on some adventure. Until I spoke it to him for the last time, I didn't realize the power it had, just saying it. He felt like so much a part of me, my buddy, that it would just be natural for us to have many years of adventures together. He's gone ahead now and wherever he is, a good time is being had because that's just who he is.

Still Here

The last couple of days have been tough on our intrepid hero. He has not been eating and he really does NOT appreciate having gobs of Nutra-Cal forced on him. Yet, yesterday he felt good enough to scratch the scratching post and at least look like he wanted to run up it. This morning I awoke to find him in the kitchen eating on his own, which was encouraging. (I've been sleeping on the living room couch to be closer to him and hear if he needs something. My bed is just too much trouble for him to get to.) He is now taking an appetite stimulant on top of his prednisone.

We went to the vet to have more fluid drained off. The techs said he did very well and was purring and giving them happy fists and seemed pretty relaxed. All his draws up to now were a cloudy, whitish color. Doc said the fluid this time was thicker and more yellow, which is the classic FIP fluid. We both know that means the clock is ticking. Still, for a guy who was supposed to be bridge bound four days ago, he is doing OK.

It's hard to see him so wasted, literally skin and bones (and a big belly), my little circus athlete who was so strong...but he perseveres. There are boxes everywhere now, make-shift stairs to help him get up and down the furniture. If only I could take his pain for him, I would take it in a heartbeat. Anything to keep him from hurting or being uncomfortable. But he obviously isn't ready to go anywhere, stubborn little bugger, he keeps going and as long as he continues to surprise me by doing this or that lively activity (like going out of the deck yesterday), I'll go along.

Purrs to all.