Portrait of a Woman Becoming

     

   
       This may come as no surprise to some of you if you know my husband, or even me, at all. Two weekends ago I took a motorcycle safety course, which entailed a few hours of classroom teaching and several hours of putting those learned concepts into practice on the riding range (parking lot). The end goal of this course was to acquire my Class M license and therefore enable me to legally ride a motorcycle on the streets, ideally working up to riding with Joseph no longer on the passenger seat behind him but on my own bike beside him.
        While I know these two things aren't the same, I grew up loving to ride my bicycle, and that comfortable balance is probably the most important factor when riding a much, much heavier engine-powered bike, so I figured this would be to my advantage. It was; my instructors told me I took to riding incredibly well, especially considering that weekend was the first time ever in my life I was in the front seat, in addition to the fact that shifting with a clutch is still a new concept, too. All in all, a fantastic weekend in which I had boatloads of fun - along the way, however, there were some things I learned that I never could have anticipated.
        If you have been exposed to my character and personality at all in my life, then you know I work exceptionally hard at striking perfection on the first try. Of what? Well, everything. I am cripplingly averse to making mistakes and do not take failure well. I tend to get easily frustrated and have no problem crying as a result. Then, I am so adept at self-deprecation that I basically deter myself from ever again wanting to attempt whatever it was that frustrated me so badly, either out of fear of failing once more or pure stubbornness in the face of the fact that I already failed and the activity in question is suddenly utterly unappealing.
        Failure -> tears -> self-deprecation [resulting in a]= fuming, quiet, Negative Nancy.

        That Sunday after only 9 hours of riding (although truly most of that was spent sitting on the bike, stationary, waiting for next steps), it was test time. Me and 8 others had practiced everything that would be on this skills test over the course of the weekend, so there would be no surprises. To pass, there were five exercises and a points system to cater to - basically, don't run into anyone, don't drop the bike, and don't put your foot down too many times or go outside the lines and you'll be golden.
        By the time we were at exercise 3 I had done okay; I had accrued some points but was still on track to pass. Next was the quick stop after getting up to 15-18mph. I had done this numerous times in practice without fault, but until the test hadn't been concerned about the speedometer. This variable, tiny as it was, was enough to throw me off. Literally.

        When the instructor waved me on I stared down at the speedometer, which I had not yet grown accustomed to doing, and this misdirected focus banished all the muscle memory foundations I had laid for a safe, quick stop; I did the exact thing a panicked, unprepared amateur would do: I grabbed at the front brake lever, putting the bike into a dive, and tumbled to the asphalt.
        When I picked myself up the instructor asked me if I was all right, asked me to show him my hands; the gloves were chewed at the heels of my palms, but my skin was unperturbed. My right knee twinged where a new hole was torn, blood seeping into the beige fibers of my jeans. A streak of blue paint from the guidelines on the asphalt stained the upper lip of the tear.
        I walked 30 feet to the curb of the parking lot and sat, helmet off and hands between my bent knees. I was not trembling. I was not breathing hard. I wanted so badly to cry in defeat and frustration, but I tempered that easy reaction. Instead, as my fellow students lined up for the next exercise, I called out to them through cupped hands: "hey, just don't follow my example and you'll be fine!" It should have been thickly coated in bitterness, but I actually smiled as I said it.
        Two years ago, maybe even just last year, I would have cried in anger on that curb and tore myself apart as I sat there, jealously observing my colleagues' success. I may have even sworn off riding a motorcycle for a while out of pure spite for the sport entire. If I can't get it right - perfect - the first time, then what's the use of it? Clearly it's just not for me. I'm incapable and shouldn't waste any more of my time.
        Under the beating sun I should have felt the heat of shame creep into my face - historically, that is. As it was, I sat there, knee smarting and mind analyzing, and I was calm. No tears, no alter-ego shredding me down to nothing with weapons of words. I evaluated the scene and came to the conclusion that flying off the bike was not an indication of failure; it was a indication that I needed more practice. Simple and true, considering my exposure to riding solo was confined merely to that weekend.
        On the way inside to do paperwork, one instructor pulled me aside and told me she was impressed by my improvement over the last two days. It was incredibly genuine, especially since a kind word was a rare thing from her - her teaching style tended on the harsh side, which made this positive admission even sweeter. I smiled and said thanks, that I would be back to take my retest in a couple of weeks.

        I walked off the range with the bright side on my shoulders. Normally I would have spent the entire ride home glaring off into the distance and internally berating myself for pulling such an amateur stunt. There wasn't even an ounce of shame in my thoughts and I wasn't pretending to be positive. This mode of reaction was brand new to me, and was therefore shocking in the best way. I must say, it feels great not thinking of yourself as a failure, honestly and doubtlessly.
        If for nothing else, falling off the bike gave me a chance to see myself as a portrait of what I've steadily become over the past couple of years. I had long since convinced myself that perfection-focused failure-aversion was an immutable part of my character, but alas, I am so grateful to be proven wrong. After all, what sort of gaunt, sallow character must you have if you get everything perfectly right the first time, with no chance to make mistakes and adjust accordingly? With no chance to become better and do better?
        This weekend I had Joseph ride my bike (see headline photo) to a nearby empty parking lot so I could practice whatever I wanted at my own pace. And guess what? I took the retest this past Sunday and aced it - all my marks were zeroes, which means I didn't put a foot down or go outside the lines - or come close to dropping the bike again. I learned very acutely what not to do, and adjusted for it.

     
        I earned the passing grade this time around, through and through. The first time, even if I hadn't dropped the bike, it wouldn't have felt nearly as satisfying or deserved.
        It takes suffering through trials to see who we really are. If you're consistently taking the easy way out, then you're refusing to look in the mirror. If you're content where you sit, you will remain there in mediocrity and stagnation. Growth takes risk, takes doing and suffering and doing again. Learn from mistakes and continue onward. It is the best we can do for ourselves as well as those we hold closest. Do better, be better, and so on.
        "Hay que seguir adelante." - One must continue onward.

Sophie

“For one so small, you seem so strong.”

~ You’ll Be in My Heart by Phil Collins

My family growing up were unashamedly dog lovers. There was a stint or two when I was too young to care much where my mother conned my father into getting a cat. I don’t remember a lot besides the day we tried bringing her home, which was a catastrophe inside the car.

It may not be honest that I tell people I didn’t grow up with cats, but fundamentally it is true in my mind – cats were never in my house long enough to leave an impact. I’d love on my relatives’ cats, but at the end of the day always went home to my dog. It didn’t bother me not to have a cat growing up; I had an assortment of odd animals pass through my life as pets, including a ferret, chinchillas, dwarf frogs, and a hermit crab, to say the least; I was not neglected by my parents in the realm of family critters. For the last 11 years or so, our dog Maxx has been the solitary family pet. All this is to say if I ever did decide to welcome a cat into my life that I could call “mine”, it would be special.

And it was.

On September 12^th of last year, a mere ten days after marrying the love of my life and moving to Baltimore, Joseph and I rescued two kittens. They were cousins – the girl, an orangey-brown tabby, we named Sophie; the boy, my silver prince, we named Emmerich.

They were 8 weeks old at the time. Little did I know how hard I would fall for them. I never could have prepared myself for the love and joy that these two babies brought me; and, by extension, the tremendous, breathless sorrow of loss that permeated our house just this week.

We celebrated their first birthday’s in mid-July and were approaching our first rescue anniversary. Unfortunately, our babygirl Sophie would not be able to celebrate with us.

Last Thursday I received some lilies for my birthday – lovely flowers with a lovely scent, and creamy orange petals. I immediately put them in a vase of water on the dining room table for all to see. Sophie, the one notorious for eating things she shouldn’t, took this as an opportunity to nibble on the new addition to the house. She swallowed a petal and regurgitated it shortly thereafter.

For those of you who are already shaking your heads in horror, I know it seems such a simple and obvious piece of knowledge. For those of you who are like us and have no idea, please pass this message along to anyone you know who owns a cat or is thinking about getting a cat: lilies are one of the most toxic things a cat can ingest. Even the water in the vase or the pollen or the stalks of the flowers are highly poisonous – all it takes it one little bite, one little sniff, and kidneys begin to fail.

We didn’t find this out until it was too late. 

A couple of days passed without much incident since she vomited the petal. On Monday morning, Joseph noticed she was moving stiffly and acting incredibly lethargic; I raced home from my errands and beat my way through traffic to take her to a local animal hospital. At this point we still didn’t know what was going on. If I read back through my texts from that day, I am still heavily under the impression that this is something she will recover from and we’ll be back home in no time. Still, the doctors checked her in and kept her overnight for some analyses. Nothing was certain yet, although I’m sure the doctors had their suspicions.

By the next day at 2pm, the doctors informed us that her kidneys had failed beyond recovery, and that it would be the best course of action to put her to sleep as soon as possible. Fluid had built up in her bladder, unable to succeed through the natural urination process, and if this was prolonged it would end up flooding her lungs. Joseph got the call while he was at work, and he called me during a break at the library. We rushed to Sophie’s side, spending her last few moments on earth petting her silky fur and calling her sweet names. She was a little uncomfortable, though thankfully not in pain. I think we bore all the pain she could have possibly felt, and much, much more.

The suddenness is what cuts the deepest. It’s one thing to see the death of a pet gradually coming when they’re approaching 10, 15, 20 years of age, but when you go from one day imagining those long years with the precious animal growing up with your kids to the next day where they no longer exist in your arms, where you will never again call them by name and have them trot toward you with sounds of pleasure and recognition…the brutal suddenness changes everything about the grief that rushes in.

We were not prepared for this. She was only a year old. She, and Emmerich, were our babies, the first additions to our newly bonded family. To lose her only a year later and so rapidly all-at-once is utterly devastating. The last time I lost a loved one (person or animal) was my grandfather 10 years ago, and I have never lost a pet in my adult years. This grief, as one so conscious and feeling, tears me apart, sends tremors deep into my bones. I loved Sophie so freely, so thoroughly, and she loved us unconditionally – I suppose it’s only fair that the gaping hole she left behind would ache so acutely.

This past Wednesday was the first full day without her in our lives. I couldn’t stand coming home from work without her fluffiness greeting me at the door that I collapsed onto the couch in hysterics. Joseph held me tightly to him, our bitter tears mingling. It hurts. My God, oh it hurts like hell. Her absence even after such a short bright time is absolutely unbearable. Every little thing reminds us of her, and the grief that follows floods my stomach and my lungs, rendering my appetite entirely absent and making it hard to breathe.

She was the most brilliant little light of my life. As John Smith says in the Disney movie Pocahontas: “I’d rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you.” If I could travel back in time and warn myself on September 12^th of 2017 that this tragedy would inevitably happen, that it was a fixed point that I couldn’t change, I would still have bundled her in my arms and taken her home. As much as this pain is all-consuming, I am thankful for the year I was able to spend with her. She taught me that cats can be more than grouchy balls of fur. We passed many hours with her napping on me while I wrote or read or slept. She nuzzled her way into my heart and before I even knew it, I was wholeheartedly in love.

Something that makes me feel more at peace is imagining this visual: God sits at his desk, checking prayer emails, and Sophie jumps up onto his lap like she did to us on a regular basis when we were at our computers. She snuggles into him and dreams of chasing flies while he pets her softly with one hand, typing with the other.

She went without pain to the giant windowsill in the sky, where there is eternal sunshine and an infinite supply of birds to chatter at. We did the right thing with the knowledge we had. Still, this wave of grief will lap at our heels for a while, and we will never forget our first kitty – our first baby.

Rest in peace, Sophie. You were the best little kitten anyone could ask for. Your heart was too pure for this world.

Friends, I now ask two things of you: first, pass along the knowledge that lilies are lethal to cats – don’t assume longtime cat lovers know. As soon as cats come up, lay that fact down. Be aggressive about it if you have to. Sharing that little tid-bit of knowledge now might save a life later. Second, we would appreciate it if you could share photos or memories of Sophie in the comments section. Her legacy is one of love and softness, and we know that we aren’t the only ones who will remember her with fondness.

In Memory of Sophie

7/15/17 – 8/28/18