This time last week, I told my sweet baby Basil that I loved her and that I would be back in the morning to see her. I could have said goodbye, but I couldn't. I wanted to believe that in the morning, she would be okay; she would come home with me and live. That seven weeks would become eight, and eight, nine. It breaks my heart that I will never see Basil grow up.
I feel the loss of her presence so fully. I look around my room, see her in my mind's eye, and remember what it felt like to hold her in my arms while she purred and slept. I feel like the world is playing some cruel joke that I don't understand. I oscillate between feeling horrible or nothing at all. The memories are like those little butterflies preserved in amber; I can pick them up and look at them. Sometimes it feels like her death didn't happen to me but someone else. Other times, I can't breathe. I stand under the shower and cry, but nothing comes in. It's like my lungs no longer hold enough air the same way.
I feel like I was given this incredible gift just for it to be taken away. Bringing Basil into my life opened up this love and joy I didn't know I could feel. Now that she's gone, I don't know what to do with all my love for her. I look for her, but all I have are my memories. It's hard. I wish I had more memories of her as the healthy, playful kitten she was the first day I brought her home. When she started throwing up and not eating hard or soft food, I knew something was wrong. When I came back from picking up milk replacer and saw her accidentally fall into her water bowl, it hit me like a weight. I put her in her new sling, called a car, and took her to the emergency vet hospital.
As scared as I was, I hold that time with her in the car so close to my heart; it was the last bit of time I truly had with her. I held her close to me; I kissed her little head; I promised her it would all be okay, that we would figure out what was wrong soon, and then we'd go home.
The doctor told me she had feline panleukopenia (FPV) within the hour. Given statistics and her age, she most likely wouldn't survive, and my options were supportive care or euthanasia. It was awful. I could not understand how she, so young and so full of life, could be dying. After seeing her white blood cell count (low but not nonexistent) and her sassy behavior on the table (she did not like the clip monitor), the vet told me that if she were his, he would treat her. Even though she was so small, I believed that with such a compassionate team of vets caring for her, she would be able to fight it. In the middle of the night, her heart stopped beating.
When I told a close friend later what happened, she texted me, "the saddest day in the world / when a kitten goes to heaven." It's stuck with me because it feels so true. I know one day I'll be able to welcome another baby into my life, but I can't imagine it not being her. I wish I could go back and hold her one more time—kiss her little pink nose, look into her blue eyes, and tell her she will always be my baby. I wish I could say to her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry we did not have more time together, I did not see the signs earlier, and I wasn't there to say goodbye.
A vet assistant told me, "we are lucky because we get to have multiple pets in our lives, but for each of them, all they have is us." I will always cherish the time we spent together, and I feel blessed that I'm the one to remember her.
When I discovered this forum on FaceTime with my Mom last week, I felt less alone in such a painfully lonely time. Reading the love, compassion, and generosity in every post and comment has given me so much hope. My heart is with you all.
I feel the loss of her presence so fully. I look around my room, see her in my mind's eye, and remember what it felt like to hold her in my arms while she purred and slept. I feel like the world is playing some cruel joke that I don't understand. I oscillate between feeling horrible or nothing at all. The memories are like those little butterflies preserved in amber; I can pick them up and look at them. Sometimes it feels like her death didn't happen to me but someone else. Other times, I can't breathe. I stand under the shower and cry, but nothing comes in. It's like my lungs no longer hold enough air the same way.
I feel like I was given this incredible gift just for it to be taken away. Bringing Basil into my life opened up this love and joy I didn't know I could feel. Now that she's gone, I don't know what to do with all my love for her. I look for her, but all I have are my memories. It's hard. I wish I had more memories of her as the healthy, playful kitten she was the first day I brought her home. When she started throwing up and not eating hard or soft food, I knew something was wrong. When I came back from picking up milk replacer and saw her accidentally fall into her water bowl, it hit me like a weight. I put her in her new sling, called a car, and took her to the emergency vet hospital.
As scared as I was, I hold that time with her in the car so close to my heart; it was the last bit of time I truly had with her. I held her close to me; I kissed her little head; I promised her it would all be okay, that we would figure out what was wrong soon, and then we'd go home.
The doctor told me she had feline panleukopenia (FPV) within the hour. Given statistics and her age, she most likely wouldn't survive, and my options were supportive care or euthanasia. It was awful. I could not understand how she, so young and so full of life, could be dying. After seeing her white blood cell count (low but not nonexistent) and her sassy behavior on the table (she did not like the clip monitor), the vet told me that if she were his, he would treat her. Even though she was so small, I believed that with such a compassionate team of vets caring for her, she would be able to fight it. In the middle of the night, her heart stopped beating.
When I told a close friend later what happened, she texted me, "the saddest day in the world / when a kitten goes to heaven." It's stuck with me because it feels so true. I know one day I'll be able to welcome another baby into my life, but I can't imagine it not being her. I wish I could go back and hold her one more time—kiss her little pink nose, look into her blue eyes, and tell her she will always be my baby. I wish I could say to her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry we did not have more time together, I did not see the signs earlier, and I wasn't there to say goodbye.
A vet assistant told me, "we are lucky because we get to have multiple pets in our lives, but for each of them, all they have is us." I will always cherish the time we spent together, and I feel blessed that I'm the one to remember her.
When I discovered this forum on FaceTime with my Mom last week, I felt less alone in such a painfully lonely time. Reading the love, compassion, and generosity in every post and comment has given me so much hope. My heart is with you all.
