D and I, with the help of a caring vet, helped Shanks pass this morning. I felt his last breath; it was quick and peaceful. I am sad and relieved and all sorts of other contradictory feelings.
The basement door is open, and I keep thinking I need to shut it so Shanks doesn't come up. I keep thinking that a chunk of my and D's marriage is now different. I associate getting the cats with the start of our life together.
Last night, we told the kids, which was a mix of all kinds of contradictory reactions.
As soon as I said "Shanks," N began crying. Full-on ugly cry that bordered on ridiculous. High drama. I struggle with high drama.
G and M were in a fit of stupid until we went downstairs to visit with Shanks for a bit, at which point G understood the weight of what we were saying. M danced around, jumped on the trampoline and when I said he wouldn't see Shanks again after Thursday, he said, "Ok" (in the same way he would if I asked him if he wanted some chips).
I anticipated that G would extrapolate outwards, and he did at bedtime.
"Why aren't you crying? Don't you care?"
"Who will be my mom when you die?"
"Will I ever see you again when you die?"
This morning was much the same.
I am emotionally exhausted both from being a part of Shanks' passing and from trying to guide the kids through their own grief processes. I know we did the best, most merciful thing. It was time. I think often, probably too often, about how I will face death when it comes, at least if I am sick or grow old.
I am bathing in the heaviness of afterwards.
The basement door is open, and I keep thinking I need to shut it so Shanks doesn't come up. I keep thinking that a chunk of my and D's marriage is now different. I associate getting the cats with the start of our life together.
Last night, we told the kids, which was a mix of all kinds of contradictory reactions.
As soon as I said "Shanks," N began crying. Full-on ugly cry that bordered on ridiculous. High drama. I struggle with high drama.
G and M were in a fit of stupid until we went downstairs to visit with Shanks for a bit, at which point G understood the weight of what we were saying. M danced around, jumped on the trampoline and when I said he wouldn't see Shanks again after Thursday, he said, "Ok" (in the same way he would if I asked him if he wanted some chips).
I anticipated that G would extrapolate outwards, and he did at bedtime.
"Why aren't you crying? Don't you care?"
"Who will be my mom when you die?"
"Will I ever see you again when you die?"
This morning was much the same.
I am emotionally exhausted both from being a part of Shanks' passing and from trying to guide the kids through their own grief processes. I know we did the best, most merciful thing. It was time. I think often, probably too often, about how I will face death when it comes, at least if I am sick or grow old.
I am bathing in the heaviness of afterwards.
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