I really love the movie Arrival.

I saw it at just the right time for me, when I really needed it, and bawled in the theatre. I have seen it a couple of times since and it always leaves me with that duality of ache and comfort only truth can bring.

If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?

It’s something I think about a lot. So it was the movie I watched last night when I came home from the vet without little Gus.

He was fine Friday night. And I swear if any other foster said that a kitten was fine the day before he went into heart failure, I would’ve called them a liar (and a few other choice words). But I have videos and photos of him wrestling and playing that night, and we FaceTimed with Auntie Dina and spouse. I put him to bed around 2:30am and seven hours later he was dying.

Congenital heart problems. Nothing I did. Nothing that could be done.

That is very hard for me to admit because I’m always looking for how something could be my fault. Most people want to escape culpability; I’m always trying to find how I am responsible so I can learn and do better next time. But I’ve been over it from every angle and I can, for once, confidently say I did everything right.

He was fine and then he wasn’t.

I thought we were past that point–I was expecting to see congenital problems around 5-6 weeks, not at 8. He was seen by a vet two days earlier who listened to his heart and lungs (with kittens being so small, it can be hard to tell without an xray, though). He never showed signs of tiring more easily than his brother. I’ve been on the edge every moment of these kittens’ lives, searching for every hint of a problem, and yet I did not see this coming.

He should not have lived this long. This is why he struggled to eat and latch–if his mother had lived, he would’ve died in those first few days (and been kicked out of the litter as soon as she sensed something was wrong). I am still baffled how I kept him alive this long.

Only living eight weeks (and three days) does not change the fact that he was a literal miracle kitten–this just confirms it.

Exactly two months before he died, when he was three days old, I thought I was going to have to tube-feed him because he struggled to latch and wouldn’t eat much–he actually lost two grams in the first twelve hours I’d had him. So I went to pick up supplies at the only local vet that was open.

As detailed here, that vet–with a history in shelter medicine–said the only reasons not to euthanize orphaned neonates was that it was hard on staff and optics with the public. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing” he tried to assure me, but then said “there’s nothing wrong with the other choice as well.” (The other choice being to kill them without giving them a chance.)

So I’m thinking about Arrival and that moment. A lot.

I’m thinking about whether I would’ve made a different choice if I knew then what I know now. If you’d told me his little heart isn’t normal and that he’ll only live for eight weeks, whether I would’ve chosen euthanasia then or not.

Here’s what it comes down to: if you’d said those eight weeks would be filled with pain and suffering? Yes, yes I would’ve chosen not to put him through that.

But eight weeks of joy? Eight weeks of getting to grow and play and bonding with his brother? Eight weeks of comfort and laughter and love? Eight weeks of having people all over the world cheering every milestone while I clung to ever moment he thrived? Eight weeks of him being a little devil child getting into mischief and being a normal kitten?

There is no choice to make.

People from all over the planet watched his journey with his brother. They witnessed every milestone and every anxiety I had. After a rough day–and I don’t know people’s circumstances except the universal truth that this world is garbage–folks could log on and see my boys playing and hear of their antics. Gus brightened the lives of people he never met just by living and thriving for those eight weeks.

Though their milestones were late, Gus was the first to purr. The first to open his eyes. The first to walk. The first to groom himself. The first to play. The first to figure out how to get off the bed. He helped his brother along and taught him how to cat. Although cautious when it came to exploring, he loved to climb up high on pillows and tease his brother Shawn, who could not figure out how he got up there. Friday night he tried darting out the bedroom door every time it opened so he could explore the kitchen.

Gus was the one who always wanted to come up and snuggle on my chest and purr in my ear (and eat my hair). When I had Shawn on my lap, Gus would let out a little cry and give me the sad “everyone’s hanging out without me” face and come trundling over, or come to the edge of the bed and holler for me to pick him up.

In new situations or when meeting new people, he wanted to come right back to me and cuddle in my arms. When his brother cried, he was there to comfort him (and vice versa).

Gus was the instigator of trouble–although Shawn is a wild child, it was Gus who would pick on him and get him to wrestle, even when his brother just wanted to sleep. He still nuzzled and looked for his bottle with me when he was sleepy, and he loved cuddling in with my old kidney cat Reuben.

I have never been happier in my entire life than when taking care of these kittens. Part of it is the way trauma has structured my brain, probably, but as terrifying as the first few weeks were, that hyper vigilance when they were my whole world was almost meditative.

Shawn and Gus helped me believe in miracles and brought me hope. I think they’ve done that for a lot of people. And losing Gus now doesn’t take away from what he gave to the world, as much as this hurts now.

No kitten was loved more than him. So is his impact in the world any less because his life was so short? I don’t think so. Is he somehow worth less than a cat who has lived to eighteen years instead of eight weeks? No. Does his death undo any of the love everyone had for him or how hard I worked to help him survive? Absolutely not.

And for everyone taking his death personally, I think that’s the right thing to do–it IS personal.

There are no regrets here, and I maintain that vet’s assessment of these tiny lives only being worth saving for “optics” is wrong. The lack of permanence life has does not make it worth any less. The fragility of it does not take away joy.

If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?

No, I would not. I would go back and embrace those eight weeks again and again despite the pain now.

Because a thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts.

Because a life isn’t worth any less because it’s brief.

Because Gus mattered and had an impact on the world, and that would be true even if the only person who ever knew his story had been me.

I wouldn’t change a thing.