I’m in India. I’m in Pune. I’m in IUCAA. I’m where Bagha was born, where I started to love him. It’s also the place where I spent a short year with Aleika, Somak and Akirno, and the Shindes, and all the other people and beasts who were part of my Indian world. That world is gone forever.
So as I grieve for my cat, I also grieve for these other pieces of my life which are lost and gone, never to return. Being here makes it all the more raw — also because I’m so happy to be here.
I’m still terribly sad about losing Bagha. I’ve been crying every day since he died. I didn’t have much time to myself between packing and traveling and arriving here, and it’s all been piling up, because I’ve been forgetting. Completely forgetting, because there has been so much positive excitement these last two days.
But now I’ve been remembering. Remembering that I miss Bagha not because I left him at home to go on a trip, but because he is gone, gone, gone. And it hurts like hell.
I don’t believe in any afterlife. I don’t believe in any spirit hanging around. There is no more Bagha, except in our photographs, our memories, and the changes he might have brought around in our lives. In mine, in any case.
I hinted that I would be telling you more about what I’m going through and learning these days. I actually started writing about what I was discovering about grief the other day, but got lost somewhere in the middle.
Grief is a weird state: it goes back and forth, up and down.
The first days after Bagha’s death, I would find myself going from a kind of numbness in which I’d “forgotten” he was dead to the horrible realization it was true even though I “couldn’t believe it”, and then devastating sadness in which my world seemed to have come to an end, and from which I had the feeling I would never emerge. And back out and back in again.
I would wake up crying in the morning and go to sleep crying at night. I had no trouble sleeping, however, to my surprise: I discovered that it is not sadness but anxiety which keeps one awake all night, mind spinning, too wired to slow down one’s thoughts enough to fade into sleep. For me, at least, grief seems to tire me out.
I put most of his things away over the first few days. Not in an attempt to make all traces of his presence disappear — more as a way to try and accept that these bowls, pieces of string and old expired meds would not be needed anymore. It took me a long time (until my imminent departure, actually) to touch his spot on my desk, though: I could still see the shape of his body on the pillow, and feel myself hanging on to this very physical trace of him.
Cleaning the flat was very hard. Tidying up. Removing the subtle remains of his presence in my life. The first time I hoovered without him trying to run out of the flat. The first time I changed the sheets without him trying to get under them. The first time I washed things in the bathtub without having to worry about him drinking the soapy water.
That cat was everywhere, all along my days. Watching TV: a break comes up, where’s the cat? I get up from what I’m doing, “to find the cat”. All these reflexes which are now meaningless.
My one consolation right now is that my grief is simple. I did everything right with this cat. He was a wonderful pet. I have no regrets. He lived a long life (14 years is not exceptional, but as Aleika put it, he probably outlived all of his litter-mates by at least 8 years) and even died pretty well (if one can die “well”). I don’t feel guilty, there’s nobody to be mad at, I knew he was going to die someday, and I treasured the time I had with him, specially these last few years.
It doesn’t make things easy, but it makes them simple. Even when it hurts as much as it does right now, I know that what I’m going through is normal, and that it will get better in time and tears, and that I will probably be ready at some point for new feline companionship.
So here it is: the one pain I’ve spent my whole life being so afraid of. I’m in it, it’s dreadful, but I’m still alive and happy to be. I have plans, I want to do things, I laugh and I smile. Life goes on, it really does, I know it for good now.
It hurts, but it goes on.
- Tears Do Heal — But Slowly [en] (2011)
- A Week Without My Cat [en] (2010)
- The Right to Grieve — And That Means Being Sad [en] (2015)
- Bye-Bye Bagha (1996-2010) [en] (2010)
- Bagha: One Year, Coming Up [en] (2011)
- Sorting Through Grief [en] (2011)
- Of Grief and Travel [en] (2011)
- Grieving My Little Feline Family [en] (2021)
- What Made Bagha Such a Special Cat For Me [en] (2011)
- The Bittersweet Freedom of Catlessness [en] (2011)
5 thoughts on “On Grief and Losing Bagha [en]”
Perdre un chat aimé, c’est perdre aussi le témoin d’un temps. Quand Cactus est mort c’est l’enfance de mon fils qui était vraiment derrière nous (pour lui et pour moi). Peut-être parce que c’est le seul animal qui vit sa vie à notre côté en parallèle. Je te souhaite de belles journées de voyage.
Oui, on a beau les trouver discrets, ces chats, ils sont toujours dans le coin. Ils nous observent. Ils prennent des notes 😉 — les chiens aussi, je suppose, mais… Une chose qui est propre au chat, il me semble, c’est la simplicité de la relation qu’on peut avoir avec. J’ai l’impression que ça nous rend d’autant plus facile de s’y attacher.
Je pense que les chiens sont/reflètent une partie de nous-même. Les chats cheminent avec nous et usent/participent à de libres choix. Tous deux nous “câlinent” la vie.
Très belle réflexion sur le deuil et la perte, Stéphanie, merci de partager.