Ms. Day and I have been together for almost 59 years. You’d think some of our personal “styles” would have merged or, at least, compensated, after a lifetime together, but you’d be largely wrong. I don’t buy much art, since my house has been “decorated” by a compulsive and impulsive artist so that nearly every open spot on the floor or walls displays something. When I saw this ceramic tile at one of our favorite Wisconsin galleries, I had high (and foolish) hopes that it might be more than a hint, “a fun thing to do in the morning before I have my coffee is not talk to me.” Syntax aside, that seems like a simple request.
I wake up fully introverted. In a perfect world, I’d wake up in an unheated, un-electrified cabin at least 100’ from the main house. On cold mornings, I’d get out of bed about 9AM, toss some kindling and a couple of logs into a woodstove, put a coffee pot on the stove, and go back to bed until the room warms up to about 60oF. Once the coffee is percolating, I’d get dressed, make the bed, choke down my pile of pills with a cold glass of water, assemble a bowl of cereal with fruit, pour a cup of coffee, and sit near a window to write and eat breakfast. Sometime around 11AM, I’d leave the cabin and wander down to the house to start the rest of the day. Until I walked into the house, I wouldn’t have had a word of conversation with anyone.
In the morning, Ms. Day practically hits the floor talking. She wants to talk about her dreams, the last half-dozen things she watched on YouTube before going to bed the previous evening, and the living room television set starts blasting streamed cartoons, nonsense “documentaries” (usually about aliens or bullshit archeology), or last night’s talk show monologues. “Cacophony” best describes my usual morning soundtrack. I have a decent set of over-the-ear, noise-cancelling headphones that I’m usually wearing by 8:30AM. The phones take the television noise down about 30dB and, if I add some light ambient noise or music, it’s almost like I’m not living in a trashcan manufacturing factory. Even those large, black headphones are insufficient clues to Ms. Day that I’m trying to ease into the day.
Likewise, when it comes to emotional loss we have very different styles. Both of our mothers died, when we were young, in slow misery due to cancer. Ms. Day was 15 and I was 9. Without the strong guidance of her mother, Ms. Day was a lost child and her father was less-than-useless as the “adult in the room.” She was sent to live with hostile, rich relatives in New York while her father tried to drink his way to the next phase of his life. When my mother died, I was an angry boy who was forced to pretend to be grown up enough to manage myself and my little brother, while our father hid in his high school classroom “grading papers” until long after we’d fed ourselves, cleaned up, and put ourselves to bed. He tried shuffling us off to church and religion, which only confirmed (to me) that gods don’t exist and any belief in magic is a despicable and cowardly dependence. If you want to quickly terminate a conversation with me, all you have to do is toss in a couple of references to gods and magic and I’m “outta there.”
The past half-dozen years have been too often punctuated with loss. Too early in our first post-retirement trip, our eight-year-old cat, Spike, ran off from our Lake Texoma campground in late 2013. He was as close a friend as I’ve ever had in the animal world. Ms. Day immediately began to refill our home with animal life and her first adoption experiment was a freakin’ disaster. But she stuck with an unpredictable, sometimes-violent, always destructive black male cat until his 2nd hyper-expensive urinary tract infection when she finally “surrendered” him for adoption to a local vet (for a $120 fee). He’d tortured our dog, Gypsy, almost as much as Ms. Day. Gypsy was glad to see him disappear from the household. In the spring of 2022, our 15-year-old canine partner, Gypsy, died of old-age complications.
Soon afterwards, Ms. Day adopted a beautiful little shelter cat she named “Diva.” Diva quickly got close to both of us. I can’t lie that Diva took some of the sting out of losing Gypsy, but Diva was a fragile little girl and she barely lived with us for a year before some awful, slow disease killed her in the fall of 2023. Her death broke our hearts, again. Ms. Day has a, probably healthy and realistic, philosophy that these beautiful animals who live with us are like “flowers” with short, precious lives. She can move on, fairly quickly from that kind of loss with that viewpoint philosophy. I can’t.
Within a few months, Ms. Day adopted a huge black cat we called “Luci” (short for Lucifer, named after a cartoon character not the demon, although the cartoon character is a cat-like demon) . Luci was insufficiently “friendly” for Ms. Day and, after too short a time for that poor guy to acclimate himself, she adopted a 2nd cat (I, by the way, had no input in any of those decisions.) who promptly made Luci feel even more out-of-place. Luci, like me, was an introvert who couldn’t have been quieter or less demanding. He and I bonded, eventually, and then he died (after a series of urinary tract infections and blockages). Ms. Day had her cat and I was left to deal with Luci’s last days and, as always, burying him. A year later, I was still missing Luci and hurting from his loss.
I’m almost 80 and, having seen how long, and unhappily, some older pets languish in the local shelter, I’m not convinced we’re doing them a favor, bringing an animal into a home that is not likely to survive their “short, precious lives.” Regardless of all that, Ms. Day insisted on adopting a 2nd cat who she named “Felix.” Felix and I did not start off well at all, mostly because I was unwilling to let go of Luci’s memory, even after a year. I found things wrong with him that were all me. He was, and is, fine.
Ms. Day is also right in her “moving on” attitude. Dwelling in the past, in “what ifs,” in sadness and bereavement just results in prolonging the pain. The healthy way to get through pain and loss is to move on as quickly as possible. That doesn’t mean forgetting, it just means finding something or someone to fill the vacuum left by loss. Easy to say, but harder to do for some of us.