Grief is not a discrete moment. It is a persistent weight. At the beginning, grief feels too heavy to bear. Over time, it lightens. And, at Tabby’s Place, grief is punctuated by love that continues forever.
Annually and typically just after Memorial Day, Tabby’s Place staff and volunteers come together to remember and honor those who have crossed the veil in the prior 12 months. Some years, the number is relatively few. Some years, the list of the newly forever loved seems unending. Some years, as with this one, there is so much – not necessarily by numbers alone – that it is almost impossible to breathe.
One way we bear it is by carrying the weight together. That is the point of the memorial. We gather, we toss rose petals, we remember, we cry, we hug, and, hopefully, we laugh. But, we know that this annual tradition does not erase the feelings of loss. Mourning may ease, but it does not disappear.
This year, as with all years, follows in the wake of last year. Last year, we had to say goodbye to many beloved feline friends like Grecca and Boobalah, who so endeared themselves to all that visitors still ask after them. This year, we said goodbye to cats like Silver, who were only with us for a short time, but glittered themselves so firmly into our flesh that it doesn’t seem possible that they are gone. Every year, we say goodbye to tiny kittens who were too fragile to be known to any but the vet team and those who fostered them. Many years, we have said goodbye to fellow volunteers, and this year, sadly, is not an exception.
In the face of the grief that seems to pile on endlessly, the question is often posed, “How can you do it?” Those who are not integrated into the Tabby’s Place family might feel that mourning is solitary. They might think that it can/should/does overwhelm all other feelings.
It is not. It does not. It can not. We can not, do not allow it to.
When our hearts are broken into pointed shards, it can seem that nothing will repair the damage. But, then, one day while sitting on the lobby floor, a black kitten with paraplegia decides to pull himself into your lap. Staff and other volunteers come by to chat and coo at little Ilya, whose special magic is that of love and trust beyond bounds. On a different day, it is a Girl Scout who is so smitten with the way a recently-adopted FeLV+ cat snuggled into her lap that she started dreaming about adopting a cat as soon as possible. And, then there are the many days when a long-time sponsor comes in to visit elderly and majestic Tux, brushing him and gently wiping any sticky fur (Hey, when you’re a 22-year-old cat, sticky happens) until he positively glows from her ministrations.
With such attentions as these, we all can glow and grow. Yes, grief lingers. Yes, grief persists. But love is stronger still. Our hearts expand when Gigi decides that today is a day when she wants to play. Our love grows when a cat newly introduced to Suite E finds Juel and his welcoming belly. Our hearts soften when Harrison can be encouraged to slow blink from his elevated position in the Suite B tube. We laugh together at Luna’s ferocity with a wand and sweetness with people. We celebrate when our beloved donors ever so generously Cherish the Kittens and Remember the Seniors. We celebrate when cats like Kitty Purry and Leonardo Di Catrio are declared FIP-free. We celebrate every time Olive hustles at high-speed to welcome a visitor. We celebrate first pets, finished meals, and new introductions.
With so much celebrating going on every day, grief is forced to take its place backstage to joy. It never leaves us completely, but we are strong together. Our soft hearts that melt at a mewl are resilient and powerful. Titanium is nothing in the face of our robust mettle. Yes, we break. We collapse. We cry. We mourn. Then, we rise up. We take care of our feline friends and each other. We meet new friends of multiple species. We become more than what we were the year, the month, the day, the moment before. Yes, grief persists. But, love conquers all.