A single bird began singing

For 27 hours, I cradled her nine-pound body in my arms, or between my legs, or guided her as tenderly as I could while she careened like a desperate drunk from one side of the cushioned shower floor to the other.

The sun moved across the sky, east to west, slipped below the horizon and returned again, all while her tricolor torso lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered, lifted – paused – and lowered. When she needed warmth, the slight action of her inhalations and exhalations became nearly imperceptible beneath the thick weave of the blanket. But, if I held my own breath and watched very carefully, I could still see the tiny movements.

For more than a day, my gentle, unassuming cat became my meditation, her breath my drishte, a point of focus anchoring me to the present. Just this. Only this. It was all I could do.

Her health was above average for a 16-year-old cat. She’d recently been seen by her vet, who identified a hyperactive thyroid as the cause of her insatiable appetite. Having managed the same problem in another feline friend, the diagnosis felt approachable. Unlike her former housemate, Nutmeg’s weight was not in free fall. In fact, she’d gained a little. I had been feeding her half-a-zillion times a day, and her doctor made a wisecrack about how well-trained I was. All in all, it was a good report. We were pretty sure our little companion had one or two of her nine lives left to live.

Two weeks later, she fell completely apart. First, she needed assistance getting up to her preferred sleeping spots. Understandable, I thought. My legs aren’t what they used to be either. She took a zigzag path up the stairs, presumably for the same reason. When she didn’t finish her dinner and appeared to be wandering aimlessly through the house, red flags flew, but I plopped her into a favorite basket and went to bed, hoping for the best.

I found her face down the next morning, unable to stand. I scooped her up, threw together a make-shift hospital ward and tried, in vain, to make her comfortable.

Sunday

It was Sunday. Of course, it was Sunday. Our animal-care clinic does not keep weekend hours, not even for emergencies. Accessing treatment from a 24-hour veterinary service would mean at least an hour’s drive. This cat is a frayed nerve on an ordinary day. I was sure the stress of the trip would do her in. And so, my vigil began, my day of meditation.

All morning, I prayed she might somehow find her way back to strength. By afternoon, I began praying for a peaceful passage. Through the night, I whispered words of comfort. I sent calming energy from my hands, past the extraordinary softness of her tortoiseshell fur, into her exhausted body, willing her to her relax into the tension of her torment. I cried tears filled with the heartache of losing her and the misery of being unable to do more to help. I prepared us both, as best I could, for what was to come. I sang songs of affirmation. And, just before 5:00 AM, when everything outside was still very dark, a single bird began singing with me.

I told Nutmeg it was okay to leave, and I watched her breathe, hour after hour. More than once, when she appeared to stop, I felt the rise of woeful relief that her ordeal was finally over. Then, she inhaled again.

My husband and I were first to arrive at the veterinary office Monday morning, and our furry patient was even more fretful than we’d anticipated. We were ready to bid our farewells. She was using up the last of her strength to be anywhere but there.

Our vet is affable, curious, skilled, pragmatic - a self-identified obsessive-compulsive. Always engaged and attentive, there is no going through the motions with him. He has earned our trust. We unloaded Nutmeg’s sad backstory, more tears, and answers to a few of his questions. He listened, respectfully, looked the cat over, then stepped back from the exam table.

“Low potassium,” he said. “Hypokalemia. Her symptoms point to it. I could be wrong, but I have a hunch I’m not, and I’d like to do some blood work to prove it.”

It was a statement, but the look on his face read differently. He wanted our permission, and he was prepared to defend his notion.

“What if you’re right?” I asked.

“If I’m right, we give her what she needs,” he said, “And she’ll be well enough to go home by the end of the day.”

Bananas. He made a joke about how she should be eating more bananas before he and his assistant disappeared into the treatment area with our sick, geriatric cat.

This is not a fairy tale, nor is it an epic, so I’ll not burden you with even more details. The road ahead has acquired a few new ruts. We will move through them one by one. What matters most is that, as predicted, I was able to bring Nutmeg home at the end of the very same day we’d thought would be her last.

Five minutes before our depleted kitty was bundled into the car that morning, a friend who knew of the trouble asked how things were going. In response, I wrote: She's still with us, bless her sweet heart. We're going to the vet momentarily. I don't think there is any hope of anything other than euthanasia, but darned if my attached heart isn't crafting all sorts of miracles.

The first time she walked toward me with nary a wobble, the tips of her ears pointing skyward, and her voice - that charming chirp of a voice - restored, my lungs finally let go of the air they’d been holding for nearly three days. I didn’t even realize it was there until I felt it leave. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I wept yet again.

Most times, our teachers flow between the pages of our narrative without so much hullabaloo. If we’re paying attention, we notice their lessons. But, rushing as we do from one activity to the next, we are apt to miss them. On occasion, however, we are held firm, encircled by bands of undetectable angels, to ensure we see what is there with us, there in us. Not avoiding, not discounting, but noticing: grounded, focused, present.

Our stories are being written as we live them. Conclusions are not forgone. We are surrounded by sadness, but also by guardians and guides to help us heal our brokenness and manifest the miraculous. This moment. This now. These breaths.

~Elizabeth

Tuesday