But I know that the anger I displayed this morning is displaced. I know that the real reason I became upset is the fact that we had to put our cat, Aurora, down on Monday. She was nineteen years old. Yes, I know: she had a good life, we had a good run together, her quality of life was not what it was, she's in a better space--I know that all of those words are said from a good place. And I agree with them, at least, intellectually.
But I am mad. I am mad that I probably did not give Aurora all the attention she deserved. I am mad that we brought a dog into the house that probably upset her on some level. But most importantly, I am mad that I am reminded of our lives when we first got her.
We were living in a tiny studio on 90th and Park in the city. The four of us-- two humans and two cats. Then we moved to a larger apartment, collected another cat, and then to our first house where we added Maya, and then to a larger house where we added two goldfish and another car. And life slowly began to get more complex, more costly, more stressful. Oil bills, sump pumps, fallen trees, flooded basements, new gutters...
And so, as I mourn the loss of my buddy, I also mourn the loss of simplicity. When and how did we decide that bigger would make us happier? That more things would put wider smiles on our faces? I wrote earlier that one of the reasons we purchased this house was that we were at risk of losing Maya and that we could not imagine staying in a house where we would pass an empty bedroom that at one magical time housed her crib, a hand-painted dresser and the home-made drapes (yes, I make drapes). It would be too painful a life. So in a scared, panicked, seemingly preventive measure, we moved.
That constant connection of having a cat was a link to my past--the good and the not-so-good. But it connects me to a time that was just a little easier. A studio apartment; a new baby that was not yet affected by her parents fighting absent "relatives" for her right to stay in her new stable, loving home; a time that 911 was just an emergency call and not something more chaotic and sinister. And I want it back. And that is why I am mad--I am thinking right now of the "shouldas."
We should have stayed in the old house. I should have done things differently with my practice and my work. I should have made more progress in my writing. I should have worked harder at being a better dad and husband. I should have....
But what is that going to get me right now? Not a thing. Because when I am able to get out of my way, I know that we made choices. In the moment, we thought they were the best possible--and at the time, they probably were.
But those choices have expired. You know, the funny thing about being a therapist is that those around me think that I should always have my clinical hat on as I go through my life. I am always amazed at that. I have gotten so much grief over the years from certain circles complaining that I did not respond in a way that they would expect from a therapist. Really? If I had my therapist hat on 24/7, I would be in a home drooling, eating my toenails and knocking my head on the toilet.
Nope, I am a flawed, sometimes overly-emotional human being. But in this body is a heart and mind that wants to desperately hang on to some youthful innocence and pleasure. And that means to live more simply.
I used to be in retail when I first came to New York. After several years of doing this work and after several years of having a fairly chaotic and painful personal life, I decided that I needed to get out of my head (again--a recurring theme here) and begin volunteering. I found refuge at the Manhattan Center for Living, an organization dedicated to helping those living with HIV/AIDS and other life-challenging diseases. MCFL was founded by Marianne Williamson, who continues to be a source of strength and support for me. I will bastardize and summarize her message in one word: LOVE. It is that simple.
And that is the word I need to keep close to me today as I experience this deafening emptiness. I don't need to fill this void with a new TV, a new driveway, a new Mac, or even a cat. No, this needs to be filled with a greater appreciation for the two most important people in my life, who tolerate my over-emotional moments and my OCD as I sometimes put life aside to finish the laundry and organize a closet. It needs to be filled with an even greater appreciation for my mom who continues to be my biggest cheerleader. It means remembering and appreciating those members of my life who are no longer with me. It means paring down on what is not working, what is not adding value. It means getting in touch more frequently with the guy who is writing what you are now reading.
So, as I mourn for Aurora and I find myself tearing up and breaking down through these days that follow, I do need to thank her for reminding me that my life is full, and that I can reclaim that Jeff that lived for 5 years at 121 East 90th Street, NYC.
The framed needlepoint pictured was made for us by my stepmom, Barb. It as been with us for as long as I can remember. I cannot tell you today how I feel about that--is it true? Is it not? Right now, I don't know--the answer will eventually appear, I suppose. I want to fully believe that I can find my "home" again without a cat rubbing up against my legs. But that, my friends, is all part of the process.
And if I can do this, so can you.
