No, I’m not okay yet, but trying to keep busy.

Next month I’m launching a Livi postcard story via Patreon–folks $5+ will get a postcard in the mail every month (for five or six months?) with a personalized note from Livi so you can follow her on an adventure.

For folks at $10+, you’ll also get a fun package at the end with your own little travel journal, a map, and a little gift in that box that will be a surprise.

I have a lot of postcards so if you want to join after the first round goes out, you’re welcome to join then, but an FYI that it’s starting soon.

Folks on Patreon got an update today about the new title of Livi #3 and what I’m currently working on.

The first thing you need to know is that my beloved cat Miss Dinah Fantastico died suddenly last night.

It was everything Sophie’s passing was not. Sophie was planned and peaceful, done at the right time when she was ready, surrounded by love and comfort.

Dinah’s death was horrific, filled with sudden terror and pain I couldn’t stop for her, and was so deeply traumatizing to witness I expect it to be scarred on me the rest of my life. I’ve slept for two hours in the past day and a half–it’s like I don’t remember how to sleep without her at my side.

Not to minimize Sophie’s death, but there were so many ways in which I could recognize I was lucky, and my gratitude tempered a lot of the pain. It was something I could cope with and have a sense of peace over.

There is no such thing now. I am holed up in my room and not planning to leave for at least three days. For a writer who generally enjoys describing pain in exquisite detail, I have no words for this. I waver between utter shock and feeling like I’ve been cleaved in two. This is a nightmare and I can’t wake up and I just want my baby back again. I have many cats I love very much, but Dinah was the one who was MY cat. My dæmon.

So I’ve once again reached a point where people are checking in on me to ensure I don’t spiral past the point of no return and kill myself (not going to lie, while in my opinion I am not at risk right now, the only thing I want in the world is to just be with my babies again–I only got those few hours of sleep this afternoon when I imagined joining them. Such thoughts can be a survival mechanism, so until you suspect i’m actively making plans, please leave me to them).

Despite my gratitude that folks check in and worry about me, and want to be there for me, I also know that their deep concern comes from awareness that I am mentally ill and have a long history of dangerous major depressive episodes.  I know the knot of worry I have with ill pets, how I am so afraid I’ll miss something, and it’s exhausting.

I tried to condense my thoughts into a Twitter thread and will once again try to describe a recent realization I had here in this format as well.

There’s a built in assumption that those acting as caregivers for a long period of time to someone who is deeply ill/in pain do have feelings of relief when the person they care for finally passes. Not that they didn’t love or care for them, but it’s a complicated situation and some relief (and guilt for it) would be natural. (Note: anyone who feels that way, your feelings are entirely valid and every situation is different).

When you’re mentally ill, that narrative plays in for you as well.

I think more non-depressed/non-suicidal people would understand the thought processes better if they realized we essentially feel like we’re terminally ill. We’re in constant pain, there is no hope of it getting better, and some of us just want that pain to stop the way someone with a terminal physical illness would.

So while yes, we may be surrounded by people who care and love us, we feel like we are a burden, and that while others would be sad if we died, ultimately they’d be relieved. Just think–they wouldn’t have to call and check in, they wouldn’t have to drop by for a wellness check, they wouldn’t have that persistent knot of worry that they might miss a sign. Knowing all people do to help ensure we stay well or don’t kill ourselves can make us feel burdensome.

I have operated under this assumption for years about myself.

When I described in my previous post of what it was like living after Sophie was gone, I said I was prepared to feel guilt for any relief at her passing…but there was none. Not an ounce of relief.

To the outside, she probably looked like a burden. My entire world revolved around her care–my time, my schedule, my finances. It left me homebound all of the time and limited in what I could do or where I could go; all of my money was tied up in vet bills; physically I was exhausted carrying her up and down the stairs, going out in the middle of the night with her, etc.

But none of that was a burden.

It was extremely difficult. It was taxing physically, mentally, and emotionally. But I would’ve gladly done it the rest of my life if she could’ve stayed. Nothing ever felt like I was making sacrifices–there was nothing I wanted more than to have her in my life.

So I have realized in the weeks since losing her…I am someone’s Sophie.

While caring for me as a friend or family member can be taxing and difficult, it doesn’t mean I’m a burden. That this is work some people will gladly do if it means I’m in their life. Not once is the weight of all the extra things done to ensure my wellness greater than my presence in this world.

I recognize that the concern people are showing me in the wake of Dinah’s sudden, devastating passing as my mental health takes such a violent blow is not a burden they bear; it’s the work they do without regret because I matter to them.

You are someone’s Sophie too.

She’s been gone almost seven days.

I now live in the after; there was the eighteen years I had a dog, and now the after when I don’t. I’m heartbroken.

I want to do a proper memorial post for Sophie, something positive and celebratory, but I’m still dragging myself through this swap of the after.

I’m trying to focus on the many ways in which I am lucky: I had those eighteen years. Her health was excellent for most of them and we managed the months it was not. And she was ready–it was the right decision. Since I made the call and started counting down our last two weeks, she rapidly began to deteriorate in a way even I wasn’t expecting; by the time last Tuesday rolled around, she didn’t even want to get out of bed and we moved up the home vet visit by a few hours so she didn’t have to wait any longer. She knew, she was ready. She went peacefully surrounded by those who love her–even her two cats sat on either side of her and watched. It was a good life lived, a good death. I am lucky.

The final veterinary and cremation costs were well over $500, plus two weeks of all her favourite (fucking $4/can) foods and freshly cooked chicken that cost god knows how much total–I am lucky I didn’t have to even think about it, from generous donations sent my way by friends and family. There was no scrambling to figure things out, and I got to spend her last days without taking time from her to worry about work. I am lucky.

Not a single person suggested to me she was “just a dog” or that my grief was/is misplaced; I am lucky (that I am not in jail for having to kill anyone for saying something stupid like that).

I have so many someones who care about me to check in and help out, chief among them a someone who would cross timezones and spend a small fortune to fly here last minute, rent a car, and ensure I didn’t fall into the black hole of depression and be unable to climb out again. I am lucky.

I am lucky. I am grateful. But I am still so wounded it’s hard to breathe.

The apartment is quiet now in a way I tried to prepare for but couldn’t. My life is quiet in a way I couldn’t anticipate. Everything about my entire day has always been about her: I got up because she had a food/meds/pee schedule, I dressed because she had to go out, I knew I took my meds because I had them after I gave hers. These last few weeks, I only slept when she did.

I expected to feel guilt for the fact that I’d be relieved I can now sleep the entire night through without stumbling down the stairs with her in my arms for a pee break, that I can sleep in, that I don’t need to climb over baby gates (meant to keep her from the kitchen floor where she could slip), that I don’t need to scramble to figure out how I would pay for her hundreds in medication this month, that I can leave the apartment for more than four hours at a time and don’t have to schedule it around her bathroom breaks, that I don’t have that constant knot of anxiety in my gut worrying about something happening to her.

But I don’t. There is no guilt because there’s no relief. I would happily spend the rest of my life with those sacrifices if it meant she could be here forever. The only relief to be found is that she’s free from any pain or discomfort.

Her two cats know something happened. What they understand, I can’t say, but they’re somber. I’m glad they were there to witness, that I didn’t just leave with her and have her not come back, although I’ve still found Doombuggy crying inside the door when she hears me come up the stairs, and Mo sits and looks at me with some sort of knowing in her eyes.

Tomorrow I have to ease back into work, to keep up the cleaning Dina did while she was here, to keep breathing (with the chemical assistance) even when I want to stop. Another tool for my coping toolbox: to not forget how so many rallied around me during this, and to not let myself slip over the edge when Dina and others were so willing to sacrifice (and spend) to keep me standing. That the value I can’t see in myself could not only be glimpsed in Sophie’s eyes but the eyes of those around me–if I pay attention and look.

It was three years ago today that I was dealt such a crushing blow, it still steals my breath and my will to live–and if you’d told me three years ago today that I’d still be standing, I wouldn’t’ve believed you. I’m here, in no small part, because Sophie needed me. Now she doesn’t, and I have to find a way to be here for myself.

When she was a puppy, she was a holy terror. Smart and energetic with a terrible attention span, she was hard to train and constantly in trouble.

The year before I got her Disney’s Tarzan released, and that first summer with her, the theme music was still on heavy rotation. I used to walk around with her cuddled to my chest singing that song, because I knew she might be a brat, but I knew no matter what anyone thought or said, she’d always be in my heart.

That wasn’t entirely accurate, though–she was my heart. And now it’s gone.

Still, I am lucky I recognized how special she was, that we had that bond right away. I am grateful.

This played while she took her last breath.

My dog is scheduled to die on April 24th.

I dislike the euphemisms people use for death, but particularly the animal ones. “Put down” is vile to me. “Put to sleep”, while I understand is meant to spare feelings, is distancing to the point of disconnecting–I think it makes it too easy for people to justify decisions that are often selfish. The cat is old and requiring a lot of care–it’s okay, it’s been “put to sleep”. That surgery is expensive–the dog can be “put to sleep”. The animal is inconvenient–we’ll have it “put to sleep”.

While I tend to prefer clinical terms (yes, I am that client at the vet office who says “defecate” instead of “poop”) and usually use euthanasia for that reason, I have veered toward much harsher language.

Kill. The word is kill. When you take a life, regardless of the reason or method, it is killing.

And I use that word deliberately to always keep at the forefront of my mind why that choice is the last choice; to not soften it for myself, to not make it easy, and to always feel the weight of it and not take it lightly.

Once she is gone, she’ll be gone. I will never see her again. I will never hold her again. I will never be comforted by her or walk her or chuckle as she chases Miss Dinah across the room. Guardianship of a life is a scared duty; choosing to end that life, not something to be done lightly.

So that’s what will happen: her life will be taken. She will be killed. I made the call to her longtime vet on the weekend, because she’s the only person I trust to tell me if it’s the wrong decision, and the person I’d want to be there for Sophie’s last moments even though she no longer works at the clinic in town. We discussed it, batted around some dates, and when I saw April 24th on the calendar, I knew that was the date.

Although it’s taken me a long time to realize, I do believe in miracles. And maybe there will be one. But that feels like the date, so it’s the one we’re planning for. My vet will come here for a home euthanasia, and Sophie can go with me and her kitties around her.

April 24th. Two weeks.

I know that I am lucky–I’ve had her for over half my life, since she was seven weeks old and I was seventeen. She’s had an amazingly long life and she’s not been in pain. She can go peacefully and loved. I’m incredibly grateful in many ways.

But I’m not ready. I’m not okay. I cry so hard it’s like my body forgets how to breathe then I have a panic attack because I can’t get any oxygen in. I can already see the Sophie-shaped hole in the apartment and my life and it’s like I’ve lost my heart.

She’s always been my heart and I don’t want to be in a world without her.

If you consider all of the horrible things that can happen to a person in eighteen years, realize the only constant has been her. Every loss, every trauma, every time I went through something I normally wouldn’t survive, she was there. She got me out of bed in the morning. She kept me breathing. She was there for me, the only place I could be truly vulnerable and raw, without having to be guarded against someone saying the wrong thing or hurting me. My entire world revolves around her–she is the more integral to my life than anyone. And now I’m losing the one I love most in this world, the one who has gotten me through every other terrible thing I’ve experienced in nearly two decades. I’m losing my heart and I will be alone.

To quote a friend’s tweets the other day, if you care about someone with mental illness, you have to love their pet. That animal is often the reason why they’re still alive–and I can tell you with all certainty that I wouldn’t be here today without Sophie as my companion.

I’ve already been self-isolating since last week and I’m retreating further because I just don’t have the energy to talk or reassure or breathe around others. It requires too much energy to hold it together and I’m tired. All I want to do is be with my dog, and finish some work so I can pay for the end of her life. I’ve thrown the news out on Twitter (and now my blog) which is impersonal but the best I can do right now, to let people know without having to have the same conversations over and over.

If you feel compelled to reach out, the kind words are appreciated, but understand I’m struggling to cope and can’t respond much right now. Here is a quick summary:

• How am I? Not okay. Devastated. Broken. Probably dehydrated because I can’t go more than five minutes without crying.
• You want to share your thoughts/opinions on my decision? Please don’t, unless it’s to say “You know what’s best and you’re doing the right thing.” Unless I’ve invited discussion, or you’re my veterinarian, my choices are not up for discussion.
• Sympathy/condolences: much appreciated, considering so few understand how devastating this is or even recognize this loss on the same level of human friends/family (if you imply, in any way, that she is “just a dog”, or my grief is somehow misplaced, you are dead to me and we will never speak again).
• Rainbow Bridge–no, just fuck off. I find the poem dismissive and saccharine and I truly hate it. If it brings you comfort, great, but it does not help me and I’m at the center of this ring so my comfort is more important than yours.
• I don’t want to talk about getting another dog. I’ve made the decision that I will reevaluate my life when (if?) I turn forty and decide then if I’m ready.
• Is there anything I need? First, I need my dog to not die until I do. Barring that, I need Ativan, but I’m out and it would take me three weeks to see my doctor who is a dick and would tell me to eat kale for my anxiety. I will accept booze (LCBO delivers–address is PO Box 1833/Campbellford ON/K0L 1L0, I like hard liquor and red wine). I will take money so toss a ten in the tip jar because I’m getting a $100+ urn, individual cremation, euthanasia, and hopefully soon a tattoo of her paw print, and I’m taking off the last couple of weeks of this month to be with her and grieve afterward, so Kenny is poor.

(Oh, I’m sorry, I’m supposed to say “No, I’m fine” or smile reassuringly because people just want to feel better and like they’ve at least tried–well, nope, I don’t do that. Those are the things I need: more time with my dog, Ativan or liquor, and cash since I have to pay someone to take my dog away from me forever and that’s surprisingly expensive for something so awful.)

Yes, my sharp edges are out in full-force; grief flicks a switch in me in which I lose empathy for others, and I am not safe to be around when that happens. To better understand, realize that when I lost my beloved cat I was incredibly bonded with in 2005, Peri from Lineage was born from that grief. So. It’s not pretty. It’s best to back away.

While I question over and over if this is right, I know there is no real answer to that. No way of knowing. I’ll never be certain if it’s right. But I look at her and the words from the last verse in a song play in my mind, and I think it’s maybe as close to right as we’re going to get.

You and me, we’ve seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary…and the soles of your shoes
Are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
But it’s nothing to cry about
‘Cause we’ll hold each other soon in the blackest of rooms

It probably won’t be soon, but I’ve asked Aunt Judy to come for her so she’s not alone.

Sophie has always gotten upset when I’m upset–thankfully she’s deaf now so doesn’t hear me crying, but she watches my expression. I’m trying to smile for her, praise her, love on her, celebrate her. Daily on Twitter I’ll post a picture–either from that day or a past one–to continue celebrating her life, under the hashtag #dailySophie if you’d like to follow along.

Two weeks. Eighteen years wasn’t enough, and two more weeks is nowhere near enough either.