The end, when it came, was quick – but not quick enough.
On Hogmanay last year I stood in the snowy car park of the Royal Dick School of Veterinary Studies in Edinburgh and listened as the vet told me my cat Simone had weeks, if not days, to live.
The terminal cancer that had initially been diagnosed as pancreatitis had spread so far around her body that no treatment could help.
I remember telling him I would pay for anything that might cure her, no matter what the cost. Everything I had was hers if only he could make her live.
He shook his head and said nothing could be done to help her.
I wanted him to be emotional and bereft like me but instead he was stoic and methodical as he ran through the pain relief I might administer when the end came close.
I looked at my cat lying on my driver’s seat inside the car, her body shaved, bandaged and raw, and I burst into tears.
We were in the middle of a pandemic that meant all human contact had to happen in this bleak car park, like some clandestine meeting or illegal handover.
As thick snow fell around us I felt a shroud of sorrow drop over me like an old cloak. Summer seemed a long, long way away.
The vet at the Royal Dick asked if he could take a photo of her as she looked so funny sitting in my seat, like she was about to drive.
I felt like punching him but of course I said he could.
I was already numb with pain and dumb with anger at the unfairness of it all.
We got home and I lit a fire and drank some wine and wondered what life would be like without her.
Locked down but life went on
The new year began with me holding her and laying out her medication as if our lives depended on it – which, in a very real way, they did.
2021 and the isolation of another lockdown stretched ahead like an indoor minefield which only she and I could navigate together.
Little did I know that this eventual bereavement would feel like I’d lost my soul mate, my little pal, someone who got me through whatever this mad world could throw my way.
She helped me through a global pandemic when I felt more alone and scared than I ever have before.
She had outlasted the vet’s prognosis and at times I had thought she would live forever
Simone died at 1.30am on Friday morning, lying on a stretcher in a grubby, strip-lit corridor of a 24- hour vet.
I held her and told her I loved her as she stared directly in my eyes as the morphine took effect and her pain started to ease.
I was determined not to let her see me cry so I stared right back into her wide eyes as her life drained away.
Finally, she was at peace.
My little cat had outlasted the vet’s prognosis by seven months and at times I had thought she would actually live forever.
At 2am I called a taxi and slipped out the back door of the vets, holding her empty carrying case.
The driver asked if I was ok and I said that my cat just died, and he drove me home.
We spoke about bad customers and life in the taxi business and how he would never have a pet because he couldn’t bear the loss.
I felt like I was in a film of someone else’s life, probably directed by Ingmar Bergman.
Adjusting to her absence
In the morning my friend David texted to ask how I’d got on at the vets and I replied that Simone was dead.
Despite this I still looked over expectantly to her chair by the balcony and I still went to check how much water she had drunk in the night and whether she’d been sick on the carpet.
Eventually I realised she wasn’t coming back.
I played The Pepper Tree by the Cocteau Twins and looked around the house and felt like nothing would ever be the same for me again.
Death is a fact of life.
We all know that one day we’re going to lose someone close to us – a cat, a pet, a person – and that we ourselves will die.
But grief is an emotion we can’t conquer, no matter how hard we try.
Booze can temporarily mask it and sleeping pills can put it on hold for a few hours but the thing about grief is that you need to ride it out, to let it take you when and where it wants to.
I’m currently on that journey, clinging on tight.
The cat who threw my life off course
Grief means your whole life can be thrown into imbalance.
In my case it’s made me question whether moving back to Scotland was the best idea for me and whether, at 62, I’m enjoying life as much as I want to.
Grief can throw your whole belief system into turmoil.
Friends can be there but really, you’re on your own.
My friend Vanessa, who lost her partner suddenly, says the context of death is everything and that lockdown actually helped her grief because everyone was joined together in their own sense of loss and isolation.
Like many things in life, loss and the accompanying grief are teaching me there’s always more to learn – another reason to thank my little pal.
RIP my wonderful warrior Simone.
I loved you very, very much.