My sister Melissa died over a decade ago. She was 23 when she died in a plane crash; I was 21.
After Melissa died, I began writing Adventures with Vrah. One of the first comics I wrote depicts a conversation with a friend.
In the early days after Melissa’s death, I felt a huge amount of jealousy toward people who got to say goodbye to people they love.
I had wanted to hold my sister; protect her body; tell her it was going to be OK, even though that makes no sense. Melissa died thousands of miles away from me. I never saw her body. I couldn’t say goodbye.
Before Melissa died, she adopted a cat named Snibbles. Snibbles lived with Melissa for around three years, then with my parents for the next fifteen.
We put Snibbles down a few months ago.
Snibbles had been near the end for a while. She weighed 3 pounds. She stopped eating, including her favorite snack, whipped cream. Snibbles wouldn’t take her kidney or thyroid medication. She was often agitated and confused.
Between these weak moments, Snibbles would display sparks of determination—sticking her head under running water in the sink (but not drinking). When I opened the freezer, she put her head in. When I loaded the dishwasher, she crawled in, hurrying to the back, willing me to close the door.
I said to my husband, “The cat’s looking for creative ways to kill herself.”
At the end of life, is the ability to scream and cry, to hold someone you love, a gift? Or is it just something that haunts you? With Snibbles, I watched her decline for years, then watched her die. I watched her get grey hair and cataracts. With my sister, it was BOOM—dead.
Weirdly, is it a good thing that I never saw Melissa dying or dead?
In writer and journalist Dina Gachman’s memoir, “So Sorry for Your Loss”, she talks about helpful and unhelpful condolences. When someone old dies, Gachman suggests that the words: “They lived a long life” are unhelpful.
I’ve used those words before. Logically, everything dies. It feels lucky—is lucky—to have a long life. As survivors, we find a way to feel gratitude for time together. We find gratitude for the life of the people and things we love. We endure, perhaps even accept, their absence. But, as a person who loved a cat who enjoyed a long life, I can understand why the condolence may hurt:
I don’t feel grateful for Snibbles’s long life right now. Right now, it feels intolerable to say goodbye. I really miss her. I wish she hadn’t died. Right now, I’d much rather hear a funny story or talk about her fluffiness.
The morning we went in to put Snibbles down, the vet sat us comfortably in a back room. We had time to wait for my husband to come from work. The vet lit a candle and gave us a green blanket to put on our laps. We each took a turn holding Snibbles. When my turn came, she didn’t want to be held. She got up and splayed out on the cold floor. My dad got down on the floor with her.
I kept trying out words to say to Snibbles; my big, sweeping goodbye:
“Thank you for taking care of Melissa.”
“Thank you for taking care of my parents.”
“It’s going to be OK, Pequita.” (One of her many nicknames).
The words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. How could I possibly summarize what she means to me, right this second? Snibbles used to respond to me by flicking her tail or saying marcow (her version of meow) or nodding her head. This time, nothing. This is it; this is goodbye?
As my dad held Snibbles’s paw, the vet gave the shot.
Another beautiful story, honey. And, as always, it brought me to tears…..
Thank you, Mom!! I love you. You made me laugh with your name!! Well done. <3
Many years ago I put my cat Wally down. He had some kind of wasting disease, probably cancer. I held Wally in my arms as the Vet delivered the shot and left the room. I cried softly and murmured to Wally that it was OK to leave me.
The Vet returned and checked for a heartbeat. Not dead yet. Five more minutes, still not dead. Five more minutes and another shot. Still not dead. Damn it Wally, die already! The third shot finally did it.
Julie, I read this and felt connected to you, then I laughed and wondered if it was OK to laugh, which is my favorite type of humor. “Damn it Wally, die already!” That’s so funny and sad and what an ending!! You’re a great storyteller. Thank you for taking the time to write. Made my day. <3
I’m so sorry, Sarah. Your words are beautiful. They brought tears to my eyes for so many reasons. I miss Melissa. I’ll never forget her and the memories of her summer in Santa Cruz. I can see her bright smile and her upbeat approach to life.
She was such a treasure.
Please give your Mom my best.
No
Big hugs and love,
Jules
Hi Julie, thank you so much for writing and for sharing your memories of Melissa. It makes me happy knowing there are others out there thinking of her, too. All my best to you, from me and my family
Hi, Sarah. When our Michael died, I, too, often found myself envious of people who had been able to say their goodbyes to their departing loved ones. If I think about it longer, though, I’m not certain there is a “better” way to say goodbye to someone you planned to have around like, ” forever.” Michael died 7 years ago. 2 years ago, when we lost our adopted cat ( which we did not want to take in) after 15 years, both my husband and I bawled uncontrollably. We think we were somehow saying goodbye to our son, as we held our cat and caressed him in the flesh.
Hi Berte, I agree. Animals can hold so much meaning. It was tough for my parents to take in Snibbles at the beginning (they didn’t know anything about cats!). She became a joy of their lives and an unbelievable comfort. My mom said having Snibbles on her lap was like a hug from my sister. My parents and I also experienced what you described with your cat and Michael at the end. I think “an” answer is that goodbyes, no matter how or when they happen, are just really hard.
Thank you Sarah. Your stories and empathy are greatly appreciated. And that nagging question…why didn’t get to say good-bye, is with many of us.
Thank you, Roxy. I appreciate you saying that.