The world is divided into two halves: those who thrill to the break of day, and others who thrive in the shadow of night.
So after collapsing into bed the evening we buried one of our beloved eighteen-year-old sister cats, my plan to begin crack-of-dawn walks the next morning was my only solace. As Loretta yowled in pain constantly during the last months, despite our daily struggle to administer intravenous fluids and stall the end stages of renal failure, I started to cast about for ways to rejuvenate myself. Those needles pained all of us deeply, as she wriggled further away from us in resistance.
I approached my fiftieth birthday with trepidation, as we tried to breathe life back into her. Ultimately, though, I hoped for the end of her suffering and tried to embrace the gift of her long life—the equivalent of nearly ninety human years.
Nonetheless, I’m filled with sorrow, lacing up my sneakers in the now eerily quiet house and snap them tighter along with my resolve. Since the passing of our longtime companion, her once-silent sister, Lucy, has surprisingly adopted her sibling’s loud protests as I head for the door. But I’ve learned from previous family illnesses that vigorous exercise is my only hope of weathering the grief.
During the first week of my new walking regime, heavy rainstorms scoff at my determination. But like joggers who once mystified me by pounding the pavement through every season, I’m hooked. I grab my umbrella and go.
Turning the corner down our street, my chest opens up as I inhale deeply. The interminable hours of thrashing, twisting and turning in bed during the blackness of night—when heartaches seem magnified without the benefit of light—are finally behind me. The first promise of day offers a glimmer of hope; in this quiet moment, when I feel the stillness of the streets, renewal seems remotely possible.
I pick up my pace, almost gleefully greeting the challenge of the steep bridge over the local train station. Swinging my arms hard, I push myself over the hill, looking skyward toward the muted blues and pinks. Despite my heavy heart, I’m propelled down to the opposite side, watching commuters board one of the first trains heading toward the city.
Looking at the clusters of people gathering on the platform, I think about a station regular, who took time to offer some comforting words. In the waiting room, I heard him tell a neighbor about his sick dog. Later, I asked him about tolerating the last dreadful decision to “put down” his pet—an astonishing euphemism to me.
“You don’t,” he said simply.
Then, he explained that during each of three previous experiences, those moments were clear. Nodding, I alluded to the absence of any pleasure in an ill pet’s day and the selfishness in our wanting to keep them here at that point.
“That’s right,” he said, giving me courage at the end to do the unthinkable.
Circling around the bend of the station, the birds bring me back to earth, serenading me along the next street. I pass two other regulars on my path: jogging partners, who smile, wave, and call, “Good morning.” My leaden heart lightens, as I take another breath and keep moving forward; so long as I remain in motion, I can dull the aching.
I pass a sturdy oak tree, with deeply knotted roots, and am entranced by its strength over time. Nearby, another neighbor pokes out of his house in slippers, bending down to pick up the newspaper. Looking up, he nods hello.
Further down the street, several other regulars walk their dogs. A tabby cat sits on a stoop, peering at me curiously as I swat away my tears. Maybe that’s Loretta’s way of greeting me this morning, I imagine, along with her talking through her previously quiet sister.
I ride the unpredictable waves of grief and fight my natural inclination to retreat under my protective armor.
Like myself, Loretta was initially wary of our attachment to each other and resisted my petting her at first. One night she surprised me, though, curling up on my lap, and purring with contentment. Our frequent ritual, even during the last months when she was in the most pain, was a continual source of comfort for both of us.
Her sister sat nearby, offering her lifetime gift of simple support. During our time together, both of these gentle creatures have taught me indispensable lessons about the art of play, trust without reservation, and unconditional love. Despite the heart-wrenching ending of Loretta’s life, I will particularly keep her feisty spirit with me and try to follow her lead in taking chances by jumping higher than appears comfortable.
As I pass others in the Mo(u)rning Club, I remind myself that we’ve all experienced our share of heartbreak. I’ve spent years dreading these inevitable losses and fearing how I would survive them. Astonishingly, I’m still standing and moving.
I take a deep breath, going back up the hill and then down over the train-station bridge. I think about the way Loretta kept losing her balance and falling, before rolling over and just getting back up.
I’m disoriented without those I have loved deeply and the increasingly swift passage of time. But by connecting with the Mo(u)rning Club—and experiencing the steady rhythms of our community as each day is set in motion—I’ve found my way back home.
