It's hard to explain how alone I feel. I don't want to go on a poor me rant. I want to respect all the people in my life. Somehow I feel spun back to my late teens and early twenties feeling as though I had no voice and no right to use it. I just feel very alone and need to put that somewhere. Just as I started writing this, Mari’s Wedding came on the speakers and it felt like the loneliness settled into new little corners. I figured if I don't post I've written here, no one will read it, but I can still feel like I have a voice.

I thought I'd made so much progress. It’s hard to be back here.

Betty Jones

I always thought of Betty Jones as one of the three great Elizabeths. Betty White, Queen Elizabeth, and then our own Betty Jones. Tiny women who lived far longer than I think most of us were expecting.

The greatest Elizabeth in my own life died on Saturday. I specifically use the word died because I hate the softening blow of “passed away.” Because even though she was 100, I still think it was too soon. Isn't it always too soon when you leave behind people who love you?

Betty was deaf. When she was a little girl she got sick with scarlet fever and it took her hearing. It meant that she was always in need of a translator at the church where I grew up and where she attended faithfully. And before I would eventually become one of those translators, I knew her as the happy tiny woman who was exceedingly generous, sometimes offensively blunt, and loved her dog.

After her husband died, and I assume she received some sort of money, I remember she bought brand new chairs for the church. Before that, we were all stuck on the most uncomfortable wooden chairs. She generously donated comfortable chairs that are used to this day. I also heard rumblings of her additional generosity even though I never knew specifics. I just knew that I no longer hated the chairs at church. And every month or so, she would ask to treat us at Mother’s Place on East River Road or Mings downtown.

She also loved her dogs. First it was Cony, then Angel, and then Coco. Mrs. Jones adored her animals and they adored her. When I received the text that she was gone, my heart ached for Mary Jane, her caregiver, and then her tiny Coco.

She was known for not being very sensitive. I think it had more to do with being limited in how she communicated with us, and how we understood her, but she was known for saying some things that would bring some people to tears. I don’t think she meant to hurt anyone, she just simply said what she thought. In late years I would appreciate this more because I loathe trying to sort out undercurrents of emotion.

But my relationship with Mrs. Jones completely changed when my older sister moved away.

I was a part of a very tiny church that had just come out on the other side of a world wide division. Hurt and anger still ran in the currents, and there were limited translators. My mother’s wrists prevented her from signing for extended periods of time and other than Sundays, I was often the only other person who could even attempt to sign.

So at 16, I plunked down in the chair in the corner of the church, and attempted to sign services using only the alphabet. I had no choice and she was about to witness the good, bad, and the ugly of me learning while processing pain.

I was NOT talented. My older sister Melita had signed with expression and grace, my sister Bethany signed with precision—then there was me. The person who couldn’t learn a language to save my life. What I could do was dramatize.

So painfully, and slowly, I spelled words to Mrs. Jones and dramatized the rest. She would laugh at my attempts and taught me the signs over and over and over. She wasn't angry when I couldn't keep up.

I resented being forced into the role. I was angry about the division. I was scared of it happening again. And along with it, my mental illness was rearing its head, and I was intensely questioning my faith. I was grieving.

But there she was every single Thursday and Sunday. Sitting in the chair in the back corner. On Sunday mornings I would get a break because the other translator was there. To this day I'm so, so grateful for the relief he provided on Sundays. Especially as I wrestled with the meaning of closed communion. His quiet service to her did not go unnoticed. He gave me the reprieve and made sure my relationship with her didn't turn into 100% resentment.

Thursdays were the hard nights. Sometimes there would only be five or six of us. The room would be freezing cold, I'd be scared people were mad at each other, and during the Bible Study portion-- I was trying to decide if I agreed with things that were said. Mrs. Jones saw all these emotions cross my face. Sometimes I'd come rushing in after a shift at McDonald's. Smelly, sweaty, and stressed. She was there. Sometimes I'd blow in just as it began with my cup of coffee I knew some people disapproved of. She was there. Other nights I'd arrive in tears because of a fight with an ex boyfriend. She was there. Sometimes the boyfriends would visit and sit beside me. She was there. And later she'd give her opinion. That's the thing. She was always there. And I knew she always cared.

Not only was she there on Thursday and Sunday nights, for the last ten years in Nova Scotia-- she was there for Sunday lunch. Mum and Dad had her over nine weeks out of ten. She would sit at the table and observe me and my younger sister. Often she would laugh and shake her head as we argued over whatever thing had us going that week.

I miss her laugh.

With absolutely no disrespect to my grandparents-- I never felt like I had "real" grandparents. They didn't know my name most of the time and when I went over I was to be very, very quiet and on my best behaviour. They lived a million miles away so I didn't blame them. But I did have a Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones didn't care how loud we were because she couldn't hear, and she most certainly remembered our names. I started wishing she would forget my exes names.

When I was granted permission to attend my grand march, I was excited to show Mrs. Jones. She was delighted to see the pretty dress. Mrs. Jones was one of the most consistent people in my life when it felt like many of them were coming and going.

When I left Nova Scotia-- I didn't know how to tell people about Mrs. Jones. It meant that I would have to explain the church I grew up in and why I only knew church jargon when I signed. I could easily sign a prayer and hymn a million times over-- but I couldn't sign the every day conversations nearly as well. It also would bring me right back to those days post division of trying to make sense of everything I believed. It would bring me back to not being able to explain the emotions I perceived to be in the room.

When I went back to Nova Scotia this past January. I went to see Mrs. Jones. She hugged me and cried. She asked me how I was over and over. And like those days back inside the church, I didn't know what to say or how to sign it.

Betty Jones was incredible. She learned how to use cell phones, facebook, and email. She loved and cared for people deeply even though she was a strange mixture of sometimes insensitive followed by sweet. Her stubborn nature was something I admired.

She is, in many ways, weaved into the fabric of the 130 MacKay I dream of most nights. She is weaved into the complicated story of my mental illness and church trauma centering around a division.

At the end, she was lovingly taken care of by a lady named Mary Jane. Mary Jane gave up everything to give her 24 hour care and avoid being put in a home. She looked after her meals, got angry at the people who never visited, and looked out for her to her last breath. Mary Jane was a gift that I wish everyone could have but few people get.

I was never able to properly explain to Mrs. Jones why I didn't have a big wedding or never moved back to Pictou. I was never able to explain why some weeks she would see me completely animated with movement as I signed, and why others I would sign in tears.

I hope she understands now.

I hope she knows how grateful I am that she was so consistent. That she recognized the emotion and always asked what it meant. That even in her scoldings, her love shone through. That her love of Smokey meant so much to me. That her open arms after years away showed her forgiveness.That being able to sign BOYS through the tears was so helpful. That I use sign language to this day to calm myself like I did in high school.

None of this is what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it. But I needed to tell the world that Betty Jones lived here for 100 years and some of us are so sad to see her gone.

I love you, Mrs. Jones. Thank you for being part of the safe corner of 32 in a room I was terrified.

the rectangle box of pain and love

This morning I logged onto my computer and do what I’ve done every week day for the last few years— checked realtor.ca for new listings in Pictou County. I was not prepared for what I saw.

My childhood home. Newly listed. A dollar value attached to it for the first time since 1970.

I burst into tears.

Is it okay to cry about a house you haven’t lived in for 10 years? Even as I cried, I felt guilty because I know there are people close by without any homes at all. Still, my body wracked with sobs as Calvin sat by uncertain about what to do.

In the words of Winnie the Pooh, “How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?”

In two weeks, I’m flying home to say goodbye to the only home I’ve ever known my parents to live in. The home with it’s secret room under the bunk beds, terrifying dirt walls in the basement, and carefully and artfully plastered ceilings that keep you mesmerized whether you’re depressed or in flying high in mania.

I promised myself that I would stay quiet as long as it was “home.” Understanding that the privacy of those who live there is important. But this morning, as I cried on the phone with my mother, I told her I needed to talk about it or I would never be able to move on from a place I love so much.

When I was back in January of 2023, I got it in my head that I wanted to capture the house exactly as I remember. I asked Mum and Dad for permission, and it was granted. I did an entire walk through of the house and carefully chose background music to reflect the hours of listening to some of the only music we were allowed to listen to during our growing up years.

This was a the result:

I wanted Mum at the computer playing online games and Dad in his chair probably upset about something on he saw on his tablet— but most of all I wanted my mother waving good bye at the end as she so often waved as we went off to school each day.

People may wonder why, I, the person who has struggled the most with my upbringing, would be so heartbroken and attached to the tall house on the street that was run down. Why I would be so devastated about a home that I often felt out of place in.

There is one thing I know for certain about it—- there was love there. There were years of unbroken hearts and countless games. A half pipe in the back yard, followed by a trampoline— a place where all the neighbourhood kids were welcome. (except on Sundays, because we couldn’t play on Sunday.) There was manhunt, seven times around the house, chestnut fights, wood forts, and capture the flag.

The house had a lot of secrets too. Secrets that were written into diaries and cried about years later in therapy. It’s where every single one of us brought at least one boyfriend or girlfriend and they had to try Mum’s cooking. If lucky— her famous roast beef dinner.

And speaking of dinners. It’s where we sat down to eat every single day. It’s where we piled into the living room to sleepily to read our Bibles first thing in the morning.

It’s where there were hymn sings for hundreds of youth. A stop over for travelling preachers. A place my parents strongly believed wasn’t theirs— but rather a place to be hospitable— much to my annoyance when travelling preachers came and had deep and serious conversations that sometimes involved talking about us being awful.

But forget about all that. It was there, in the room that used to be the junk room, I could breathe. When school became too much and I had nightmares about the bus, I could run to my room. When the division absolutely rocked the church, and destroyed any semblance of a happy gathering— I could run to my room. When I was bewildered about certain manic symptoms that threatened to overflow, I could run to my room. There was always the light green ivy filled room with stars on the ceiling.

My ivy green room was a refuge.

And when it caught fire in early 2010, I will never forget the pit in my stomach about the thought of losing it.

I have very few memories of having older siblings who lived in the same home as me. But any I do have are of that house.

Of #6 dancing in the living room and letting loose. Of bringing his high school friends to jump from the barn roof onto the trampoline.

Of # 7 and #8 screaming at each other about clothes and the slam of the door as they swore to never speak to each other again, only to make up minutes later.

#8 weeping after a heartbreak and then putting herself back together again by playing the huge piano in the toy room.

#5 painting our giant grey van with it’s dark blue stripe and then later buying a trampoline for #9. The time #5 came up the driveway with his snowboard and Mum ran to give him a hug because he had hitchhiked back to surprise her.

#7’s secret collection of make up that I can still smell to this day.

#3 telling me very earnestly in the kitchen after I’d woken up that he was going to get married.

#2 buying Tom and Jerry Slapsticks and stocking the fridge with treats for us because they were normally too expensive. Being SO excited when she came home and being confused when she was content just to sit and be in the big house.

#1 coming back and wanting to do all the picnics and berry picking and a trip to PEI.

There were nights there was absolutely nothing in the cupboards and we would eagerly wait for Dad’s pay day where he would take #8 to get groceries with him and and for one night only, it would be exciting to have stocked shelves.

There was navigating life with #9 & #11. The youngest of the kids and having the privilege of choosing our own rooms. #9 with her pretty purple wallpaper and #11 getting the coveted big bunk bed.

The shouts of “I’M COMING THROUGH, PULL THE CURTAIN!!” as we raced through the hallway bathroom while someone was in the bath. Or even worse. Begging to pull the curtain so it could be used. “IT"S AN EMERGENCY!” echoing through the house.

Memories of Mum making plaster molds in the basement or fighting the the huge freezer they couldn’t afford to replace.

The stories about the possible buried person in the walls.

The blanket with the blue stripe and brown stripe where me and #9 would dream about our farm and river we wanted to have later in life.

The laundry chute we would toss clothes and land in the endless mountain for Mum on the first floor.

The kitchen where so many meals were cooked and where many family fights and debates came to a boiling point.

The living room I would give anything in the world to sit and talk with #11 again on the million years old couches that have been reupholstered many times.

The light at the top of the stairs that is definitely out of code but I will hear in my dreams forever.

The sound of the town bells and the train when you lay in bed at night.

The ancient wood furnace that Dad continues to use even though I’m scared he will fall.

The skates hanging on the nails— ready for us when #3, #4, #5, and #6 made a rink in the backyard.

The two rooms that were built because my parents couldn’t stop having kids and there was nowhere to put us.

The cursed Murphy bed that injured my mother and took away all of this.

I always dreamed of bringing kids back to see it. Showing the room where I kissed a boy with such passion I was convinced we’d get married. Only to be so heartbroken it’s still painful to go in that room.

Bringing kids back to see the built in shelves, spooky attic, and where to find the board games at the top of the toy cupboard.

Showing them the table leaves that made a slide. Teaching them hotels that I played with Shelby and Stephanie.

Explaining who Anna and Shelby were and why there are pictures of them in the stars stuck to my wall.

Explain how the papers were delivered out front, all stacked, and ready for us to deliver all over town.

Show them the creepy stuffed lion and smelly mittens box.

Walk with them to Sobeys and share how I would meet Caroline there so often and then later work at the building across the street.

Most of it is packed up now. And until it’s sold, I won’t tell anyone about the 3 ways I know how to break in.

The home where Smokey the kitty lived for ten years. Keeping it mice free and providing unending loyalty.

This isn’t the beautiful eulogy for a building it should be. I’m wrapped up in the pain of knowing I will never walk to Kirk Avenue with #9 & #11 again.

All I want to do is call #11 and ask if we can meet there one more time. Argue there one more time. Run down the stairs one more time. Snuggle Smokey one more time.

In all of this, I just want to meet #11 at 130 MacKay.

But time is slipping by. It’s on the market. There’s been three showings already and two more tomorrow.And soon it won’t be there for me to know I can go back to. My family is splintered, and every day with my parents feels like a rare gift.

This isn’t me pretending things weren’t painful or were perfect. I could also talk about knowing our house was run down and there were people who looked down on it, or trying to navigate the currents of many different things within those walls. There was a lot of darkness, but it’s now that I’m choosing to remember the light.

For the first time, I feel bitter about not having money. Bitter I can’t buy it and make sure it’s loved forever.

But in two weeks I go back to pick the dandelions I would gather each spring for Mum. Because when dandelions die, they spread around. The closest picture of love I know.

I’m not ready to say goodbye. But I know I have to.

John Kay Martin

I don’t know how to start this. The thing is that I’m in Maddox Cove right now with an ocean between me and Stellarton. Just a few minutes ago, I realized that getting back to Stellarton in time to pay my respects to John wouldn’t be able to work.

Nobody here knows him. I wish they did. All I want to do is tell people about him. To let them know how much he meant to me.

His beautiful obituary talks about the wonderful man he was. A family man, someone who loved hockey, and one of the most devoted grandfathers I ever met. I knew and witnessed all these things about John. but I saw a side of him very few people knew— John as a boss.

John was my boss on paper.

You know how they talk about people at work being your family? There is great discussion about whether this is true. I know it’s not actually real for many, but it was true for me. For three years we worked in the little office on Foord Street and I got to know John as a boss. But through those years, he also grew to be like a second father to me.

It was a tiny office. When I started, I was working with John and Alexka, his daughter. We were a great team. John would come in every morning with my coffee and lay it on my desk at reception. His bright smile and and tap of his hand as he walked by into the office. A few minutes later, I would walk in with my faxes or start the filing. If I remembered a leafs game was on the night before, I’d ask him about it— or if there was a particular bit of interesting news, I would ask his opinion. I respected him so much. But sometimes I would file in silence as he got things ready for the bank. We were comfortable in the early morning quiet and I found it relaxing as we worked with ease.

He had a big family. His son and daughters were all married with happy families of their own and would often pop in the office. By all accounts he shouldn’t have had time to take interest in my life— but in John I found a cheerleader. An unwavering support even when I would tell him I was wrong.

During those years I was dating long distance. It was an up and down relationship. No matter where it was, John supported me. When Red showed up to the office as a surprise, John was delighted and let me go home early. He’d tease me about marriage and talk about me leaving them to move away to the States. When Red and I were on the rocks. John would loudly proclaim that he was a jerk and even though I’d protest and say it was my fault, he’d insist I was a keeper and that all men were terrible. I wasn’t used to the unwavering support. The truth was, I WAS a piece of work, and people knew it. John knew it too, but he never let on. Instead, he would repeat that I was keeper and if a man didn’t see that, it was his loss. When I look back on that time of my life, I think of John with a grateful heart. Very few people would be so understanding of a messy romance and heartbreak.

But it didn’t stop there. During that time, I battled long dizzy spells. John was patient. When I started my blog featuring people of Pictou County, he was fine with me chattering about it, and even interviewing customers. When my book came out, he displayed it on the magazine table proudly. It stayed there even after I left.

I wasn’t supposed to get paid time off, but every time my week off would come— John would write out the cheque and slip it to me anyway.

From John I learned to read messy handwriting, and from John I learned a little bit about the kind of person I wanted to be at work. He was the exact opposite of most people when it came to customers, and I respected how much he cared about them. When their insurance was going to lapse for non-pay. He would get the numbers of each person and call them right until closing time on the lapse date.. Not because of the money, but because he knew many of them by name and that they needed a reminder. It would become my job to call those customers, and there were many times he’d cover the payment for customers for a day or two so they would make it in. He bent over backwards to make sure his customers were treated right. Often going to bat for them on the phone to underwriters and making phone calls that he really didn’t have to do. He answered my endless questions and showed patience when I made mistakes.

I took great delight in trying to find him tickets to a sold out games or coupons for an upcoming trips. He was appreciative, and I had fun doing it.

I also loved hearing him talk to Alexka and watching him slowly leave the work to her. She carried the business with him on her shoulders. As he got older he would duck out to go take photos, or watch his grand kids play hockey, and she would stay back, slowly taking over the files that had always been his. His son Joseph started working there and together him and Alexka began taking on more and more. John deserved the break.

When I packed up my life and moved to St. John’s. I felt so guilty for leaving. I was worried he wouldn’t know how much he meant to me. I remember awkwardly standing in the office trying to tell him, but feeling as though I’d failed miserably. As well as we got along, he didn’t show a lot of emotion, and I knew that. But the thing is that I never doubted John loved me. I doubt so many people’s love for me, but I never doubted that John cared. It’s very rare to feel secure in how someone feels, but I felt secure there. A few years later I would write him to try and explain more clearly.

I’ve been working in St. John’s for six years and even though I’m incredibly grateful for my current job, I still miss that little office. I miss John coming in each morning with coffee, I miss bringing one back from lunch for him. I miss watching him take his tums from behind his desk. I miss him looking out the window as he passed by my desk on the way to Alexka’s office. I miss him hearing him say “It’s another day above ground, buddy” to his friends that would stop in for a chat. I miss the days between Christmas and New Year’s Day that we would work alone. The town felt homey and magical and we would be some of the only ones working. I didn’t mind. I miss so many things about him that seem tiny and insignificant. I miss him tapping the desk on the way out with his “Good bye, hunny” as he closed the door. Nothing about it was condescending when he called me that.

All but one of my photos with him are on a broken laptop that suddenly needs to make an urgent visit to the computer shop. I feel a desperation to see those few shots he allowed me to take. He hated the spotlight. But as I was hunting through it all, I came across one from a long ago blog post. Him sitting at his desk, just as I remember— sorting the filing for another day.

This blog post is shared under the tab called ‘Matters of the Heart.’

That term came from John. I was in the office one day and was upset about something. I didn’t really want to talk about it, but John had an idea what it was about. We didn’t have emotional conversations,. but he knew something was up. He just looked at me quietly and said— “It’s all matters of the heart.” with a knowing and comforting tone.

The matter of my heart today is that I miss a man who helped me through three rollarcoaster years. A man who was a steady rock in my life when I was undiagnosed and very unsteady.

I love you, John Kay. Thanks for finding room to make me feel loved even though you had a giant family of your own.

Losing Leonard Love

They tell you how much it will hurt to lose a person—but they never warn you how much it will hurt to lose your heart animal.

Len was rescued from the side of the road by my neighbor. Shelley saw her sitting there and stopped her car. Len came to her without hesitation and together they made their way to Shore Lane.

Len was so malnourished that it was scary to pick her up. You could feel all her bones and she hissed many who came close to her.

When I went to Shelley’s to meet her for the first time, I was smitten.

I think Len was too. She leaned in towards me and even though I didn’t know her name or that I would adopt her, she won my heart over in a minute.

At that time in my life, I was going through a lot. I’d just been diagnosed with bipolar II disorder and was grieving the loss of Jean. I also had just moved into the shoe and even though it’s a beautiful home, the memories of Jean haunted me and I locked myself in the bedroom on most nights.

But on a night in December, Shelley and Bernard invited me up for supper. They wanted to share some news—they thought I should adopt the malnourished black kitty from the side of the road.

At that point I had no plans to buy The Shoe and planned to move back to town. After some checking with my roommates on Victoria Street, I decided to adopt her.

Len came home with me a few days before Christmas in a little yellow carrier Shelley loaned me. My life would never be the same.

The first night in The Shoe—the hissing cat from up the hill snuggled next to me and went to sleep. Her soft fur brushed against my cheeks and I felt less alone with my grief and broken brain.

Len was perfect company. She loved the shoe, and bit by bit I left the bedroom and would sit with her in front of the windows or on the couch. Each night when I came home she would be waiting on the table for me with eager anticipation.

I loved her and I loved her company.

The next few years brought major life changes—buying the shoe unexpectedly, dating, then swearing off dating, roommates, and leaving the church I was raised in. Len was there through it all. And at the end of every workday, she was there to welcome me home. When I went to bed, she was there with a purr and a snuggle.

But she did more than that. Len could sense my panic attacks. I remember once, I was standing in the shoe with a guy I’d just started dating and I had an attack. Len was in the other room and the minute it started, she came running to my side. The guy couldn’t believe it.

“HOW did she know what is happening?” He asked.

I couldn’t tell him. But I did know that she sensed them often and would always rush to my side. She also stayed by my side when I was actively suicidal and hypo-manic in the worst way. When I was irritable and angry. When I was a wreck behind closed doors--Len was there.

Len was always there with unconditional love. I don’t mean the kind of unconditional love where there’s annoyance and fights and then love again. I mean Len loved me no matter what state I was in. Len made me feel needed and important. When I wanted to die, I would look at her and knew without a doubt that she would miss me. I knew I made her life better. I had no confidence I made anyone’s life better, except hers. When in the depths of planning to take my life, there at the top of the list of reasons not to was Len’s name.

I wasn’t the perfect cat mom. In fact, I would say I was average at best. I’d never had an indoor cat before and the responsibility was a lot. I know how often I failed her.

But Len didn’t seem to mind. When I climbed into bed, she was there right beside me. Whenever I called her name, she was there.

She became my best friend.

At times it felt like she was all I had. Not for lack of friends or family, but because my brain was so broken she was all I could see and understand.

I remember sitting on the floor one day and looking at her. I loved her so much. I was feeling bitter and scared about losing people in my life. I looked at Len and thought to myself that she was seven. I have pretty bad luck, so I told myself I couldn’t guarantee perfect health for 16 years like my family cat, but I would give her ten.

Weeks later, Len got sick.

She’d always thrown up a lot—much more than any other cat I knew, but I thought it was okay. I’d taken her to the vet the year before and they said she seemed in good health. I trusted that.

But in July, Len stopped eating. I couldn’t coax her to eat even her favourite foods. After days of reading on the internet, I took her in for what I thought was a broken tooth.

It wasn’t.

She went from the regular vet to the VSC where I was told she had a tumor. At first I thought she was going to be put down, but after discussing it with the vet tech, I decided to treat her pancreatitis and save up for a surgery to remove her tumor. Foolishly, I’d never thought pet insurance was needed.

I knew she might die, but I wanted whatever time was left with her. I thought it would be weeks, but those weeks slipped into months. She needed pills twice a day, every day. I planned my schedule around it and couldn’t travel—but it was all worth it for more time.

Months passed and she continued to live. There were moments of terror, but she was still there. In November I took her in and they told me they were surprised the tumor hadn’t grown as much as they expected—it was still there, but I still had time to save up more for the surgery.

I was ecstatic about the slow growth. My heart was bursting. And in that moment, I decided that she was going to live. The surgery was going to save her. I would save the money and it would be removed. Len was going to get through it.

Of course the surgery was going to be risky, but I felt like she had a fighting chance. I knew the recovery would be hard, but I told work I needed to stay home with her while she got better. I trusted the vets to do it.

In February, someone I knew had a complete blockage in their intestines. I went to visit them in the hospital and witnessed the pain they were in. Coincidentally, it was what would happen to Len if I let the tumor get too big. I sat beside the person in the hospital and told myself I would never, ever let my cat experience the pain one of the strongest people I knew was going through.

I went home from the hospital and booked the surgery. A few days later, Len threw up. With the memory of the hospital fresh in my mind, I called the vet in a panic. They decided to move the surgery up.

I told work what was happening, and prepared for the surgery.

I didn’t think she was going to die. I was scared she was going to, but I thought I was irrational and over reactive. I knew people were probably sick of hearing about my cat and my illness has a way of making me more emotional than regular people.

The morning of the surgery, I was scared—but told myself to be rational. I didn’t spend more time in bed. I didn’t spend too much extra time on the couch. I went in early.

She was in the carrier she hated so much and I could hardly bare to see her fear. I felt so, so awful but promised her I would be back. I promised her I would take her home.

I will never forget the look of fear in her eyes when I walked away. I almost rushed back to her, but thought I was over reacting. I thought she was going to die once— I wanted to trust she wouldn’t this time..

When the call came in that the tumor couldn’t be removed, my world stopped. I was sitting in Chapters waiting for news about how it went. The vet told me it would be kinder to let her go instead of bringing her home. I rushed back to see her.

The sobs that wracked my body will likely never happen again. She was still on the table as I petted her soft fur and thanked her for being there for me – unable to hardly breathe through the sobs. I couldn’t give them permission to inject it. I just told them to do it because I couldn’t give them permission. I looked away with my hands on her.

Then she was gone. And I won’t go into why, but I still blame myself for never getting one last ultrasound.

My best friend. My Leonard Love. My precious pet that had loved me through some of the worst and best moments of my life. Gone. I failed her. I loved her more than anyone else could have, but in the end I failed her. The screams that echoed throughout the shoe that afternoon were louder than every other scream that has left my lips.

They don’t tell you how hard it will be.

You have to go back to work after a day or two. Some can’t even take that. You have to talk to people who don’t understand what it’s like. You have to pretend it’s easier to get over than a person. You have to go home and look at the spot where they would be waiting for you. You have to look at their food dish and litter box. You have to clean the up the fur around the house. You know some people will think you’re over reaction. You have to move on.

Many expect you to be fine. There’s no flowers. There’s no funeral with an eulogy or celebration of life. No songs or memories from people who loved them the same way. For the most part there is silence.

Because a pet isn’t supposed to hurt as much as a person. People are offended if you say it is. Some will talk about how silly it is to act like you’re grieving a human.

Len saw parts of me I’d been afraid to show anyone. Len loved me when I woke up in the middle of the night screaming. Len loved me when I talked to the walls. Len loved me when I was broke. Len loved me when I left the church. Len loved me when I was depressed and hypo-manic.

Len gave me a reason to live. Len made me WANT to live. When I had nothing left inside of me, I lived for Len.

When she left this world on February 27, most of the world expected to me to keep on as though the grief wasn’t valid enough because she was an animal. Whether or not they understand, I grieve her every single day.

All throughout my house are paintings and photos of her. People ask me if I hate having them there. I don’t. They remind me that unconditional love is real and that I was loved at my worst.

I have so much more to say about her, but this is all I can get out.

For some people, losing a pet can be just as hard as losing a human.

I wish someone had warned me about that.

Leonard Love
February 27, 2020