Hello, Grief.
Cats that transcend this plane of existence via the route of old age show signs.
Almost overnight, they lose interest in everything around them — mainly food, water, movement — and gain interest in sleep and sleep only.
In a few days, they start losing visible mass. You begin to see their bones through their fur, their constantly dilated pupils regardless of the time of day, and every little movement, if they had to make any, is a struggle.
When I saw that in Chi Chi, I knew — we knew — that he didn’t have much life left in him.
Yet I didn’t feel much.
That seized me, and I started wondering why: Could it be that after going through the death of three cats, I’ve now gained some form of immunity? Could it be that not living under the same roof with Chi Chi for two years reduced my love for him?
After a week or so, we knew we had to help Chi Chi with his transition. He was fading but he couldn’t disappear.
I messaged Dr Forest; she called me. When she asked me to describe to her what’s happening to Chi Chi, I found words stuck in my throat, choking and breaking me down.
My wall of defense has been compromised.
Having to relive the moments through narrating to a third party broke the wall, and my heart with it.
It was a relief. I was relieved.
And when we released Chi Chi, I yielded to Grief.
16 years ago, I brought Chi Chi home after I lost my ちち. As a helpless kitten, he helped to moderate our family’s grief. He was a furball of joy in our darkest days. He reminded us that it’s still possible to laugh from the bottom of our broken hearts; he gave us the permission to laugh.
I always felt that when my ちち left, I didn’t grieve properly.
I didn’t know how to. I still don’t think I know how to. But over the years, I do find myself gravitating towards materials on the subject of grief. I’m not afraid of consuming them, and I’m not afraid of letting them take form on paper in ink and tears.
Here’s what I’ve learnt about Grief so far.
Grief doesn’t dance to any rhyme or rhythm. Grief follows its own rules and regulations.
Grief visits you when you’re walking amidst the Sunday crowd on Orchard Road; Grief grips you when you’re just trying to eat a plate of famous fried carrot cake at Tiong Bahru market; Grief penetrates you when a Spotify-shuffled song enters your ears on a bus ride to work.
Grief is not a time-limited edition – there’s no “while stocks last” and there’s no expiry date – Grief is not governed by time.
Grief can come like a wind, whenever, and strikes you from the wind scale of a light breeze to a strong typhoon. And then it leaves you, whenever, slightly shaken or terribly tipped over.
Grief has molded me into various forms. I’ve been rocked to the stone-cold floor; I’ve believed that I don’t deserve happiness; I’ve shed tears that morphed into migraines for days.
Grief is a great teacher.
What Grief taught me, is that I’m stronger than I think I am.
Yes, my body still contorts in ways choreographed by Grief. But no matter how many pieces I’ve been shattered into, I remember that I’ve the agency to pick and piece myself back into a functional form after Grief left.
I think I’ve learnt to befriend Grief.
