By Brenda Shoss

Surviving Loss: Excerpts From A Life

As a twentysomething "serial girlfriend" with a penchant for destructive men, I could barely care for myself much less a houseplant. So when my cousins found a homeless cat, I seemed the least likely candidate for feline foster mom.

Still, I went to check out the orphan. I figured two lost souls ought to meet. At our first meeting an orange throbbing bundle leapt into my arms. Before I could say, "How do you hold a cat?" he ambitiously straddled one shoulder to let his bushy face peek through my long hair.

He was undeniably gorgeous, with deep rust rings looping through flaxen fur. An apricot-colored "M" marked the soft spot between his ears. He adopted me immediately. We returned home with my then four-year-old cousin Lindsey, who proceeded to give me a crash course in cat.

I had just turned 30 and was studying to become an adult bat mitzvah. I asked my instructor, Esther Klevens, to tell me the Hebrew word for hope. "Tikvah," she said.

And so he became. Alive. Vibrating. Golden deep eyes. Tikvah. My hope.

As I dug Tikvah's grave the week of February 10, 2003 I let my anger and shock maneuver the shovel. Tikvah would have turned 13 in a few months.

In early December he was diagnosed with low-grade gastrointestinal lymphoma, a feline cancer that emanates from intestinal bowel disorder (IBD). Over the weeks that Tikvah's body wasted from 10 to five pounds, I wrapped him in towels to syringe-feed him every two hours. I tenderly massaged and cleaned his chapped paws. I poked needles into his back to drip IV fluids into his dehydrated body. I combed food specks from the beloved orange fur that barely masked protruding bones. And I accumulated doctors--primary veterinarians, an oncologist, a holistic vet, a homeopathic practitioner.

During feedings, Tikvah peered over the rim of his terrycloth papoose. I grew to admire his spirit. We confronted each obstacle as a team. When Tikvah's red blood cell count plummeted, I raced him to the emergency clinic for a blood transfusion. I could decipher labwork as if I'd gone to veterinary school. But in less than one month, the cancer traveled from stomach to nose to brain.

Tikvah's first seizure began with moans that amplified into screams. I carried him to the litterbox, assuming the IBD's wretched diarrhea was on its way. Instead, he fell over. His front legs stiffened into wooden pegs and his eyes dilated into black pools.

Within seconds, his body softened and he turned toward me with a look of "Why?" One doctor thought low blood sugar caused the seizure. So I sped back to the emergency clinic. When his sugar level came back high, I realized I had run out of "What nexts?" The oncologist confirmed lymphoma in the central nervous system. I took him home to die. At Tikvah's euthanasia, my husband and friend Janet cried as I read a farewell letter. But after a few days, no one knew where to file my sorrow. Business clients nervously asked "Are you okay?" and my dance students listened reticently as I dedicated our concert piece to Tikvah.

Tikvah passed away on January 24, 2003. Months later, I wander from room to room to marvel at the quiet where he used to be. I stare into photos, as if to animate their stillness.

"If you are grieving for an animal that is sick, dying or has died you are not alone. Such a loss can be one of the most devastating as well as physically and emotionally traumatic events you will ever experience," writes Harriet J. Cuddy, Certified Pet Bereavement Counselor and facilitator for the St. Louis Pet Loss Support Group that I now attend.

Society doesn't embrace grief or "out-of-control" emotions. When the heartache is over a companion animal, the portals to grieving become all the more narrow. Many don't recognize the depth of the bond. "They fail to understand that the death of a pet is sometimes more painful than the death of a person who played a part in your life," Mary Montgomery explains in Good-bye My Friend, Grieving the Loss of a Pet.

For 12 years Tikvah rode atop my shoulders to escort me on dog walks or household chores. Sometimes he swatted my hair with an oversized floppy paw. My lap was his floor, my hair his playground. He was a warm fluid hug. I called him Little Buddha, for his gracious, accepting nature. As my family grew to include two dogs, another cat, a husband, three stepchildren, and my own child--Tikvah remained its central heartbeat, wise, cool-headed and kind. He was unquestionably the "good kid" in my brood.

I am haunted by the emptiness after his death. Yet I have to authenticate my grief with metaphor: "Imagine if your child died. This feels the same way." Secretly, I resent the need to qualify love. Why must I ration devotion--this much for a husband, this much for a son and this much for a "pet?" Granted, the expression of love may differ but its dimensions are the same.

Today, I no longer require approval to mourn. "You alone know how much you have lost. No wonder your heart is heavy and your spirit bleak," Montgomery says. "But if you allow yourself to be sad and to grieve...the bleakness will eventually pass and so will the pain."

Grieving is a continuum with perceptible stages: Shock, Denial, Anger, Depression and Acceptance. The stages don't unravel sequentially. They ricochet unpredictably, sparked by an unforeseen dream, memory or event.

SHOCK & REFUSAL TO BELIEVE
After Tikvah's diagnosis I sought advice from members of Kinship Circle, my animal advocacy group. Responses poured in from around the world. Among them, Cleo's story stood out as a beacon of hope. The little cat in California had nearly succumbed to IBD/lymphoma. One year later she was alive, with her weight up and diarrhea under control. I consulted with Cleo's guardian and doctor via phone and mail. I switched to organic food and cat litter. I tweaked dosages for pills and powders. The one thing that never occurred to me was that Tikvah would actually die.

When he did, I did not know how to stop saving him. Hours before his euthanasia, I administered IV fluids and homeopathic drops. Leftover medications are stashed on a shelf. I continue to rescue Tikvah in my dreams. I worry about missed meds or insufficient calorie intake.

"At this stage, we do not yet accept the reality of death," Cuddy cautions. "There is a loss of awareness and sense of numbness. 'I can't believe...' is a common response." For some people, the sorrow is physical. It shows up as pain, a trembling stomach, or pressure in the chest. Others sleep incessantly or experience insomnia.

ANGER, ESTRANGEMENT, ISOLATION
I detest the vicious cancer that ravaged my otherwise perfect cat. I resent my original veterinarian, who did not stress the serious nature of IBD or advise an earlier biopsy. When I envision Tikvah barely able to breathe or balance, I revile God. My husband's inability to offer empathy or support also infuriates me.

Anger stems from feelings of powerlessness. Most caregivers commit their time and heart to an animal's well-being. After a beloved companion dies, the guardian's capacity to protect and heal disintegrates. If anger seeps inward, it can evolve into guilt and depression. Thus it's crucial to purge anger through affirmative outlets such as exercise or other physical exertion.

Ultimately, anger dissipates when a person can "unload" feelings to another. Immediate family members are not ideal listeners. They tend to pass judgment or offer unsympathetic advice to "get over it" or "get another animal." Some are dealing with their own despair over the death. To vent feelings in a supportive setting, a person may need the unconditional ear of a pet bereavement counselor or companion animal loss support group.

DENIAL
Denial is a last-ditch effort to negate death. At times, I cling to the fantasy of a revised prognosis: "We were wrong. Tikvah doesn't have brain cancer. If we follow this treatment, he'll be fine."

"Denial is rooted in fantasy and a deep desire for wish fulfillment," Cuddy says. "We may engage in bargaining with God, the veterinarian or Clergy. Comments like, 'I promise I will be a better person if only my pet will come back to me' are common."

GUILT
After Tikvah died, I focused on details about his burial and headstone. I asked my vet to wrap his body in favorite blankets, surrounded by letters, prayers and photos. When the wintry soil thawed enough to permit burial, I gathered family and friends in a circle around Tikvah's photos. I felt serene as I told Tikvah he was as big as the sky and as intimate as the beat of my heart.

But days after the memorial, I berated myself with "what if?" and "should have." Why had I accepted the vet's initial antibiotic-and-we'll-see-what-happens prescription? If only I'd researched IBD and begun treatment months earlier. Now Tikvah was gone forever.

Guilt is a typical reflex after the death of a companion animal. When caregivers can no longer nurture an animal family member, they are plagued with regret and self-blame. Intellectually, I know I fully devoted myself to Tikvah's recovery. Emotionally, I must forgive myself for failing.

DEPRESSION
Sometimes the misery worsens before it gets better. Companion animals occupy the nooks and crannies of everyday life, from a computer-side perch and shared nap to an ebullient greeting and familiar kiss. Ordinary places appear lifeless without the animal that distinguished them.

As I drift back into the rhythm of work and family, I sense Tikvah's familiar presence. A glimpse of orange fur tangled in an old brush triggers a rush of tears. I ache to feel the weight of him over my shoulder and to hear his nighttime purr.

I have begun to accept nightmares, panic, insomnia and lethargy as pathways. I can't accelerate the grieving process or ignore it. I simply have to journey down each corridor, no matter how dark or painful, before I can accept Tikvah's passing and cherish his memory.

WHEN TEARS FINALLY COME: RESOLUTION AND ACCEPTANCE
Today I stand at the edge of acceptance. I realize that images of cancer will fade beneath memories of my mini-lion, with his studly strut and confident smile. I imagine renewal as a time when Tikvah's absence no longer monopolizes my thoughts.

"Although six months is an average length of time to mourn, avoid comparing your grief with that of others," Montgomery advises. "Often it takes a year of seeing the seasons change and of celebrating holidays and birthdays without your pet before the hollow ache disappears.

Several weeks ago my father and I recalled Tikvah's wrestling matches with my Lhasa Apsa Stanley. The inseparable playmates rolled around my apartment like orange and white tumbleweed. Tikvah stalked Stanley with the stealth of a puma, until he moved in for The Pounce. Then he jumped so enthusiastically he landed on top of Stanley piggyback style. He bopped Stanley on the head before tumbling off with a Garfield grin.

For the first time in months, I remembered Tikvah with laughter instead of tears. One bit of solace lies just beyond the horrible sadness and void: I cherished a special animal who returned that love every day of his life.

NEXT: Tikvah, you are all that is within me

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