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The Globe and Mail
Neki was my best friend. She was a cat.
When Neki died, I didn’t feel like I could take time to grieve.
Neki was only a cat, after all.
And yet, the ache I felt was real. As was the time I needed to process it. When she died, my supervisor made it clear that there was no room for delay with my project and that taking a few days off to cry over a cat was not an option.
I pushed myself at work for weeks to appear resilient but I felt weak. My body ached. Tears were on the verge of every phone conversation. My work suffered.
Unsurprisingly, my contract ended abruptly. My struggle through the pain had only ended in failure.
But being fired was a mixed blessing because it was in this stillness that my healing began.
I had met Neki by accident while living in Japan in my 20s. One cold, winter morning, a tiny, orange face poked through a bush near a pedestrian overpass next to a highway. A tiny kitten. She was shivering. I was lonely.
I picked her up and put her under my chin to warm her. It was only going to be for a moment.
Oh! She was so warm next to my heart. I let my hand move up and down her tiny back and she purred.
I was lost.
Since cats were not allowed at the middle school where I worked, I put the kitten down and started walking.
Seconds later, pin-like claws attached themselves to my ankle. Orange eyes peered up into mine.
I had no choice.
Somehow, with my broken Japanese, I convinced the principal to let me keep the kitten in a closet at the school for the day. Between classes, I ran to that closet to check on her. Each time I opened the door, she was waiting, her eyes following me.
When I took her home that night, she slept next to my face. This continued for the rest of her life.
At first, I thought I’d keep my cat long enough to spay and vaccinate her before giving her to a nice Japanese family.
But, when my contract ended, I no longer believed that I had rescued this cat. Before her, I was alone in a strange land. Her round eye was the first thing I saw when I woke up as she examined my face at breakfast time. Her tiny body had filled my apartment with warmth and made it a home.
Neki had saved me. I couldn’t go home without her.
In Canada, she was my touchstone. I chose my apartment to accommodate her. She had final approval on the man who would become my husband and she was there to witness the birth of my children.
Neki was my baby, too.
She started to get frail when she turned 17. At 18, she was diagnosed with the start of kidney failure. We put her on drugs and tried to medicate her pain but her time was getting close.
After Neki died I felt there was no space allowed for me to grieve.
When I texted my family and friends to let them know, their responses left me deflated. After a brief consoling phrase, conversations abruptly moved to the minutiae of life. There was no validation.
I thought that I had to hide the sorrow that debilitated me and forced me into isolation. It was only when I took time to talk about my grief and learned to share it openly, that my heart healed and I was stronger for it.
I cried with my children while they hugged me. I wrote a eulogy, presented it to my friends then felt relief when they acknowledged my pain with stories of their own. I gave away all of Neki’s treats and treasured objects. I granted myself the time to clear away the pieces of her that I was reluctant to lose.
After a few weeks the sharp pangs of loss reduced to a gentle hum that stayed with me for months. Our home felt barren as the expectation of Neki’s presence remained. All I could do was wait.
Slowly, as the seasons changed, the ache eased.
After nearly a year, I surprised myself one morning when I woke up and didn’t expect to see Neki’s nose next to mine. Neki was finally resting in my memory.
When an animal joins a family, they are knit into its fabric. When they pass, they leave holes that need time to repair.
Neki was a full member of my family and I needed time to grieve her loss. It was the choice to go public and the act of owning my grief without shame that brought me back.
Tracey Schaeffer lives in Port Moody, B.C.