A Death in the family

Oliver, the beautiful cat to the right in this picture, has died. He was born on August 13, 2001 -- a Friday the thirteenth, which always amused me, because he had two strikes against him: he was all black, and born on Friday the 13th. Despite his color, he was half Siamese, and so, was very vocal, holding entire conversations with us at times. He was very sweet and affectionate, a cat who needed people. We found him dead in our basement today. We will miss you, buddy.

When we buried him tonight in the back of the backyard, Chris was crying, but I was just digging. Somehow, I can never grieve immediately. I was the same way about Kahlua, our dog, and about my grandmother dying. Two years later, I'm trudging through the cemetary looking for her grave, crying. And I think about Kahlua every day, and cry often for her now too. But in the immediacy, I'm frozen.

Working in hospitals for the last seven years has somehow taught me how to compartmentalize emotions. I've seen such sad things, working at Children's, and have only begun to get a glimpse of the sadness of the adult hospital I now work in. I've learned how not to react immediately, how to treat even horribly sad things as common place. It's not that I don't feel, that I don't react; eventually it comes out....usually here.