Harold and Maude: Grief and New Beginning
She showed up on my doorstep within one week of my Grandma Gerry dying. I lived on the corner of Forbes and Douglas. It was next to the cemetery that my grandma was waiting to be buried at; the same cemetery that held the majority of my deceased ancestors. At that moment, I didn't think anything of it. That neighborhood hosts an army of stray cats in need of food and shelter. This one was likely running out of luck as the night got darker, colder, and just happened to try my door. Little did she know that my boyfriend at the time was severely allergic to cats, and had little to no chance of entering our apartment– yet.
As the weeks became months, this cat continued to visit our doorstep. Throughout this time, I continued to plead with my boyfriend to let her inside; "It's the dead of winter! She needs a home! I promise she won't sleep with us! Can't you take allergy meds?!" Nothing worked. I learned to settle with our occasional hangouts on my doorstep, knowing better than to start feeding her. I even learned to let go of those enduring meows that would follow me back into my apartment and persist until she gave up and found comfort elsewhere.
Little did I know that "elsewhere" was next door; the home of my ahead-of-her-time namesake, Great-Great-Aunt Maude. I discovered her seeking shelter here as I looked out my living room window, only to spot the cat looking back. The individuals living in this magnificent house had made shelter for her on their balcony; an insulated box that she chose to sit on as opposed to in. All the better to watch her future human, I suppose.
She made notice of me when I left my apartment. She noticed me when I got back to my apartment. Upon returning home after the holidays, she became my shadow; urgently, yet with a sense of feline delicacy, following my footsteps as I unloaded my car. She was adamant on entering my life one way or another; boyfriend's allergies be damned.
Having a musician as your boyfriend is not as glamorous as many believe it to be. In fact, it can be downright lonely. At this time, he was preparing for a two-month tour across the country. I was used to him being MIA, and I was swamped with work, as well as with school. In the grand scheme of things, these two months would make little to no difference in my day-to-day routine. Fortunately, though, my boyfriend felt otherwise.
Just weeks before he would be hitting the road, she appeared once again at our door; meowing to no end as the evening grew blacker and more bitter. This was the night we let her into our home. She paused before entering, looking up at me with her large green-tinted eyes as if to ask, "Is this really happening?" When I continued to encourage her inside, she went slowly up the staircase, fully taking in the moment she had long been waiting for. The moment she would become the Harold to my Maude.
Little did she (let alone myself) know the significance of her entering my life when she did. Not only was my four-year relationship crumbling at this time, but I was just entering the final (and most intimidating) phase of graduate school; internship. I was just one month into this eight-month venture before my relationship was called off and the apartment that belonged to the three of us now belonged to the two of us. The boyfriend wanted to go. Harold was here to stay.
Taking her into the hospital this week, I had no idea I would be leaving without her. She had lived with feline AIDS, asthma, and a lingering ear infection since the moment I let her into my home. This was enough for any animal to endure. She couldn't have more going on. X-rays proved me wrong, though. They showed fluid-filled lungs and a heart much, much too big. She wasn't only a cat with nine lives, she was a cat with nine illnesses.
As I stared at the doctor, shaking, but trying my hardest to keep it together, I had flashes of our story come into mind. The story of Harold & Maude. How could it end after only a few years? The story wasn't over yet. It couldn't be over already. She was only 8 for crying out loud; she was supposed to make it to at least 20. I pictured being 40-years-old when she finally departed. I was going to have a firm hold on my life then; I wouldn't need her anymore.
I needed her now. We were just one week into "Harold and Maude conquering the world!" AKA: I had just broken off my latest relationship in an effort to pursue my own interests/gain independence/see for once what it was like to be single/etc.etc.etc.
Losing my fellow conqueror was not a part of this plan.
The doctor went through the multitude of different options for us; surgery after surgery, not knowing which one would work, let alone which ones would kill her in the process. I knew the doctor was not supposed to offer advice on the matter, but I couldn't help but ask. "I know you can't tell me what to do, but I don't know what to do." She could sense my desperation. She looked at my pleading eyes and offered up what she would do in my situation. She confirmed what I was already thinking. "I think the only option is euthanasia," I said in response. I broke down then, apologizing for my emotions.
As I sat in the room where it would take place, music playing and a candle lit, I waited for the doctor to bring in exactly that: a dying cat. Except what she brought in was Harold, wide-eyed and perky-eared. Nothing about her embodied illness or death. The moment she laid eyes on me she immediately started purring; the classic Harold purr that could be heard a mile away.
I sat with her for a while, telling her how much I loved her, how thankful I was for her. She looked at me and around the room with a question of, "What are we doing here? Why are we here?" If only I could tell her what was happening. But I couldn't.
When I finally worked up the courage and told myself I was satisfied with our goodbye, I pressed that awful orange button to call in the doctor. I set her on my lap, purring to no end. The doctor injected the medicine, the first to make her sleepy, the second to stop her heart. The purring stopped. Her body went limp. I went numb.
It's been one week since she left and I still feel a sense of numbness. Coming home from work, I expect to see her in the window, watching me walk up the entrance to our apartment complex. She isn't there to listen about my stressful day at work, or to jump into bed with me when it's time for sleep. She isn't there when my alarm goes off and I roll over to ask for coffee. Normally that ridiculous question is answered with purrs and cuddles, but now it consists of silence.
How could a bond so strong end so weakly?
As I look back on my mysterious encounter with this four-legged creature, I can't help but wonder if our connection went even deeper than met the eye. Between coming into my life the week my Grandma Gerry died and utilizing Great-Great-Aunt-Maude's house to keep an eye on me, I have always questioned the bizarre circumstances that linked us together. Better yet, she entered a time in my life when almost every area of it was in the midst of change and new beginning. The difficulty is, she left it in the same fashion.
I am now 28-years-old, less than a year into my career, and less than a week single. I can't help but ask myself, "Was this sudden departure her way of telling me she's had enough?" Or is it her way of encouraging me to take charge and start anew. Part of me feels she'd been holding her illness back; hiding her leaky lungs and too-big-of heart until she knew I was in a good place.
Approaching 30, people tend to focus on the fact that I'm unmarried and without children. Puzzled facial expressions surface when I let them know I have no desire to do or have either. Family members joke that I am more similar to my namesake than they meant for me to be; an independent, if not eccentric woman, that to this day leaves people questioning. It's never been known why Aunt Maude and her husband, Dwight, chose travel over children. During a time when society revolved around men working and women raising a multitude of babies, Maude and Dwight traveled the world; bringing back exotic treasures from each country they visited and eventually designing a house directly around these artifacts. Looking through their photo albums, it is evident they had a love for travel, but also for animals. Pictures of their pets spanning anywhere between a few cats, a German Shepard they undeniably adored, a parrot that could speak, and even a zebra.
I'm not sure as to what life after death looks like, though I am certain it exists. I like to believe it involves our ancestors joining together, relaying experiences of their time on earth and stories of relatives still there. When Grandma Gerry passed away, did she share how I was doing? Where I was in life presently and which direction I was headed with my future? Did my Great-Great-Aunt Maude listen eagerly about her namesake? Did she express excitement for me or was there some level of concern over my well-being? Did she send that little stray my way on purpose? Could she sense I needed a companion in life? Did Aunt Maude tell her to be patient; to find food and shelter at her old house next door? To keep a steady eye on me from the balcony? Aunt Maude would've known these things.
To this day, we still don't know why my namesake chose the life that she did. We don't even know why she wore those green-tinted glasses until the day she died. In her final photographs, it is evident she spent her final years looking at the world with a green tint. But why?
Did my Aunt Maude send Harold my way or was Harold my Aunt Maude? No matter the answer, I look forward to meeting one and embracing the other in the afterlife.
Submitted September 07, 2017 at 05:38PM by turtlemud1989
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