Dealing with the end

Sim died.

Simba was my mom's 16-year-old cat, a dark tabby with sweet eyes. She had not a mean bone in her body and would hurt no one, even if provoked. Each time I saw her, I was reminded anew of her trusting and sunny good nature, and it always made me grin.

Sim was just your good old cat, a great companion and a sweet creature. She was diabetic and in the last few months battled kidney disease. Throughout her fight, all the way to the end, she was the same cat she always was. She never changed, never grew mean, never bit back against the many ministrations, medicines, and needle pricks that sustained her each day.

But the sadness that I feel transcends her. It cuts to the bone, to caretaking, to worrying about someone else, to the loss of control we all have. I'm just letting myself feel it. I'm glad Adam's home today with me.