Magical Thinking Vs. Reality
The Lion Sleeps Tonight
Yesterday and today, I wrote and wrote, tried to tell you what happened, since
I wrote this piece, “Now For A Happy Story,” about Jack.
It turned into a trauma spiral. I’m extremely drained but in order to say why I’d have to reconstruct thousands of words I have discarded.
It has happened before. Trauma takes over and the writer is not present anymore.
Thousands of words—
Somebody help me!
I was knitting one very long arm of a sweater. Adding stars and circles and digging myself into a pit. Lost.
Weaving sections about journalism, elephants missing feet, thoughts on D. H. Lawrence, technocracy— Kanye West was in it. George Orwell. My great grandmother, Evelina.
Have you ever walked into one of those totally insane roadside diners where the owners are clearly traumatized and have adorned every square inch with weird doo dads and toys and circus detritus, jukeboxes, old soap containers, music boxes—ever been to that diner? This piece was like that. I had no idea how, or where, to stop.
Part of it, maybe valuable, was like Travels with Charlie.
How I took Jack—these last few weeks— on these road trips, to these hotels, where he got his appetite back, feasted on turkey, and everything was looking hopeful and miraculous.
All of you were there with me. Updates would have been even more reassuring, that we had turned it all around.
But that was not what was happening in reality.
The one armed sweater also had passages about “magical thinking,” as it relates to trauma.
All the little bottles containing tinctures—all my theories.
His every up and his every down, almost the entire history of Jack’s every bite, and breath, since Oct 14.
Then every detail about how I watched his breathing, and obsessed about it.
Every waking moment I wondered whether he was still alive.
I don’t know where all these thousands of words were coming from but the piece was actually beginning to endanger me, like an alien presence, a giant furry spider in the corner of the ceiling, coming for me.
Auto-trauma. Imposing trauma onto readers?
No.
In Spanish they have this word: Demasiado. (Too much.)
You may have experienced it as a kind of…confusing hail, even though it didn’t seem to be gibberish, I knew enough to know it only “made sense” to me, and you can’t be like that, as a writer. I want you to be able to trust me.
So, here’s what happened:
Jack died.
I was with him till the end. He will be cremated Monday.
His decline, no food at all, was about a week. Maybe that’s all there is to say. We’ve all been there.
He stopped eating, his death was slow and painful, I went through intense stress, but discovered so much love. I was not alone, my friends were carrying me, and nobody ever made me feel I was being too much.
His full name was Jack “the belly” Mackerel. He loved to smash glass, loved the sound of breaking glass (lamps, cups, glasses, bowls) and knew it got me out of bed at 5 am to feed him. I sometimes said “It was like living with Keith Moon.”
After his initial decline, he actually did this again—woke me to be fed— and I was so thrilled.
His nickname was “Grumpus.” I observed once that he is “Quadrophenia grey.”
I mean, was.
Jack, I’m so happy and relived that you’re finally free. I witnessed it all, as you know, and not being able to help you, was misery.
Lewis is howling and looking everywhere for you, even though we did as the internet said and he smelled you. That’s the last Jack and Lewis picture. Do you think I took too many?
We just miss you.
I’m very very grateful for the extra month we got, in the end.
Thank you for eating the turkey, and gaining the weight back, and buying us some time. I’m sorry about the whole Sweden debacle. There is no way I would have survived that one without you and Lewis.
I should have gotten you turkey more often.
But we did good, didn’t we?
Who did I ever trust more?
We carved out a space together in this utterly brutal world, that was perfect, as long as we were all together.
I am sorry I lost track of you since we first corresponded about our cats. Here is a poem I was sent from someone that I hope will help.
I will lend to you a kitten, God said,
for you to love while it lives, and mourn when it's dead.
Maybe for 12 or 14 years, or maybe 2 or 3,
but will you, 'till I call them back, take care of them for me?
They'll bring their charms to gladden you, and should their stay be brief,
you'll always have their memories as solace for your grief.
I cannot promise they will stay for all from Earth return,
but there are lessons taught below I want this kitten to learn.
I've looked the whole world over in search of teachers true,
and from the folk's that crowd life's land I have chosen you.
Now will you give it all your love, nor think the labor vain?
Nor hate me when I come to take my kitten home again?
My heart replied, "My Lord, Thy Will Be Done",
for all the joys this kitten brings the risk of grief I'll run.
We'll shelter it with tenderness, we'll love it while we may,
And for the happiness we've known, forever grateful stay.
But should you call it back much sooner than we planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes and try to understand.
If by our love we've managed your wishes to achieve,
Then in memory of it whom we loved, please help us while we grieve.
When our cherished kitten departs this world of strife,
Please send yet another needing soul for us to love all it's life.
Author Unknown
Oh Celia. I can hardly believe it, but a few hours ago you were in my dream at a party, in a kitchen. The atmosphere was that you were in serious emotional pain and needed help. Rupert was there. He gave you a big hug. Then I gave you a big hug. So two dream hugs from us, though one of us was a dream brother. Magical thinking reaching out into reality. I hope the hugs reach you.
Before Ember died, after the vet had told us he needs low-protein food to have a chance, I woke one morning, opened the front door and there he was. He had been out all night and come back with a rabbit that must have been 70% of his size, and he was a large cat. The head was off and Ember was eating the rabbit from the neck down, crunching through the spine. I thought, "No, that's too much protein!" I buried the rabbit in the garden. A few hours later, he was standing on the spot where the rabbit lay buried looking at us imploringly. But we did not relent. We had special low-protein food and he had to eat that.
After he died we learned new research showed that cats need bone when their kidneys are failing. He knew EXACTLY what he needed, and we deprived him of it. I still apologise to him to this day. The sadness around that is so redolent of technocracy and scientific 'knowing' versus organic knowing. My trust now is in our bodies, our inner knowings, and learning how to listen in humility and evolving wisdom. It's a long path, but one worth walking. With help I know you will heal. All of us here are part-carrying you through this luminous pain, the pain of a perfect friendship turned to memory.