When one door closes

Yesterday I said goodbye to one life and hello to another. My cat Oscar has been with me for the past two years, ever since I saw his cute little face in a Craiglist ad. I was all alone in Massachusetts, would soon lose my closest friend there in an ugly "breakup," and Oscar with his sweet nature and constant purring filled the kitty void that I'd been feeling for quite some time. Because he was elderly and had FIV I knew our time together would be temporary, and yesterday as I held his head in the crook of my wrist he got the shot that passed him on to the everlasting.

I don't believe in God or fate, but I've always felt that the Universe gave Oscar to me so that he and I could be sick companions together. The first time I took him to the emergency vet, six weeks ago, I received feedback from my own doctor that I may have a seizure disorder. That emergency visit revealed that Oscar had an extreme and recurrent case of constipation that might not be treatable. As the month progressed I cherished every moment with him, and coinciding with his apparent resurgence in health due to an extremely regulated diet filled with prescriptions, results came back that I did not in fact have a seizure disorder. Oscar and I were once again biding time together waiting to see whether we would get worse or better.

Night before last Oscar got worse. I'll spare my readers the gory details, but he was completely backed up, was vomiting profusely, and needed an enema. Even as my roommate and I drove to the vet I knew that this might be it for Oscar, and as I drove back with the x-ray in hand proving that he was in fact just as ill as he was six weeks ago, I knew my time with him was down to a matter of hours.

While I was sleeping waiting for the vet appointment where he would draw his last breaths, I received an email from my neurologist stating that last week's MRI showed a congenital abnormality of my cerebellum. Now, it seems selfish to say that Oscar's work was done, for of course I would have liked to have had him for many years to come. But the uncanniness of his and my diagnoses on the exact same day made me feel that the universe was ready to take him back and get him ready for his next appointment as a companion for a sickly cat lover.

I don't know yet what it means to have an abnormal cerebellum, only that the diagnoses fits perfectly and that I cannot express my relief to finally have concrete evidence as to why I'm not well. My relief was mixed with sadness as Oscar died before my eyes, but I draw comfort from the memory of my roommate's family animals being present at Oscar's wake as her father buried him on their beautifully bucolic property. One big dog, one little dog, and a huge cat trotted down the driveway with us as we carried the Xerox box with Oscar's lifeless body. My roommate's father dug the hole, placed him in it, and covered it back up. I placed a little yellow flower on the grave and returned home with empty hands and a full heart. Oscar, wherever you are, I'm thinking of you.