Just before the start of this year, I learned that my meme had advanced Alzheimer's. I spent the night before New Year's Eve in my bed with my snuggliest cat and felt the shit out of my feelings.
The new year brought love. I told myself that was the universe's way of protecting, supporting me, showing me that it was all worth it. But by July the love had gone and I learned I needed to have stuff that was making me sick removed from my body.
As I moved into September, I felt like I was healing. I started making peace with the failed relationship and forgiving the boy who broke my heart (though he'd disappeared into thin air so he'd never know). I started making inroads into a new potential career that I felt passionate about. The tides were turning.
Until my 19-year-old cat started exhibiting subtle signs of illness. Loud purring which soon turned into labored breathing, eventually leading to a diagnosis of a lung mass.
I've spent this evening sobbing and worrying and wondering how much time we have left. Ironically, the last person who left me didn't give me this luxury. But my baby Nico and I will have at least 24 hours, if not more, to make peace and say goodbye. As terrible as it is, I feel grateful. Because love.
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