One week ago today I helped Havana Brown Carlotta pass over. The presenting cause was a large internal mass that was making her fur stand up a little. The vet also told me she had a serious heart condition. After all, she was 16.5 years old. Of course I was in denial. I told the vet that there were cats which lived until 21. She gently told me the average age is 17.
We don't get to over-50 without staggering loss. Among them are probably our parents, some siblings, financial security, a career or two, and trust in the majority of the human race. So, we are convinced that the next loss which comes along we should be handling well. How naive. Today I was driving to pitch to a prospect. Along the way Carlotta's face flashed through my mind. I thought, at least for 20 seconds, that I couldn't go on.
I have been considering making myself a black armband to indicate to the world that I am in mourning. A woman I attended college with freshman year Rebecca Mitchell actually wore one when her sister had died. She told me she received tremendous support from strangers like store clerks and folks walking their dogs.
My resentment about the grieving process? It drains my energy. Maybe because I am working so hard not letting go of Carlotta. Yeah, my unconscious is still bargaining with some imaginary power-that-be that reality is not at all what it seems.