Saying Goodbye
Thoughts on writing about death and banshees
On December 18, I had to say goodbye to my soul cat, Eustace Clarence Scrubb. I don’t exaggerate when I say it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the worst day of my forty-nine years of life.
Yes, I’ve had goodbyes in the past. None of my grandparents are still living, and I have lost friends, in high school to a car accident, to a dorm shooting while I was a student at Purdue, and in the years since.
I’m not a parent and have never wanted to be one, so I fully admit I’m one of those people who claims her cats as her children. I’ve said goodbye to cats before, too. In 2011 I lost my 18-year-old cat Merlin to kidney failure; I’d had him since I was 16, so over half my life.
It’s always hard. But Eustace was my soul cat. My familiar, if you will. He was the one who always wanted to be where I was, the most tolerant, amiable, thoughtful, loving cat I’ve ever met.
My other two cats, Eowyn and Strider, have both been adjusting to losing Eustace, as well as trying to help me deal with my own grief. Eowyn and Eustace never got along, yet you could often find them sharing the bed, sleeping at opposite ends. Strider and Eustace were playmates who occasionally slapped each other.
We’re all adjusting, but it’s slow.
I had a good day on Boxing Day. I went hiking with friends, saw some great birds, got a lot done, and just generally enjoyed my day…
…only to go to bed and have no Eustace there to curl up against my hip. He was a solid 13 pounds, always a comforting and reassuring pressure against my hip or the small of my back, and he loved to lie on my chest first thing in the mornings.
I’ve been thinking about death a lot over the course of the past year. Not in a gruesome way, but in the knowledge that it’s coming for all of us one day, and for some people in my family sooner rather than later.
