Welcome back to a new season of the Road to Self podcast!

I am Laura Vlaicu, Life & Career Change Strategist. A year ago, I launched The Road to Self Podcast with the intention to offer you information, materials, techniques and inspiration to support you in your personal journey to your inner, authentic self. There were 7 episodes in the first season that I hope offered you useful perspectives. Today I pick up the process. I have prepared myself to talk to you about change, to explore not only the ways we can handle change, but also how we can approach it as an opportunity for growth and evolution, no matter in which area of our life it appears. In my notes, I was noticing that most of the time we change when we experience hurt, when the suffering turns into the alarm signal for acting. I have postponed the publishing of the episode on change because of totally unexpected personal reasons. Today, one year after the beginning of this podcast, I felt the need to talk about another situation which, unwantedly, brings upon change. I admit I never thought that through my own personal experience, I will end up describing the stages of grief, especially so soon after losing two beautiful souls. Therapeutically, sharing may offer comfort and may help shortening the healing time, but this aspect is a strict individual process. Similarly to the change stages, alternating or coming back to previous stages as well as its duration are elements that are specific to the structure and previous individual experiences. The starting point is represented by shock and denial, confusion, avoidance, fear. After, emotions such as anger, frustrations, anxiety, followed by sadness and depression caused by the experience of loss and emptiness. There may be a negotiation stage, that when the individual tries to identify a sense of loss, when he/she may start sharing his/hers experience. In time, which may vary a lot according to each and every person, one would reach the acceptance stage, followed by drafting an action plan, by moving past the suffering and becoming open to accept new experiences and new situations.

Our story

There were two pets in our house.

Blacky, the tomcat, a true black panther on the outside, yet with a very gentle and balanced behaviour, came into our house on 15th of august 2015. He was only three months old, a black soft ball who grew up too fast and became the Zen model for us. After four years, we brought him a female companion, the reddish Lizzie Lizuca. She was six months when she joined us, a troublemaker, full of energy, who vividly animated the entire house. In an almost miraculous way, in less than one week, the senior Blacky took her into his heart and they became inseparable. It was shortly before the start of the pandemic times. For us, there were months when staying indoor was less hard as we had their company, the play, the running, the hugs. We were in perfect formation; we were a little family.

Last December, Blacky began to stop eating, the most greedy cat, alert to the slightest noise indicating a potential snack, had tummy aches and stopped using the litter box. In the short version, we went to one vet's office on a Tuesday, December 5, who referred us to another on Wednesday, and on the night of Wednesday to Thursday, Blacky left this world, most likely due to a fatal combination of a crumbling gut and an unfortunate medical maneuver. The week before, he was fine, our lives were peaceful and we were preparing to welcome Saint Nicholas. For Ana, my daughter, it was the first loss of her life. Blacky, her friend and companion, was the being who stood by her side unconditionally, offered her warmth, attention, slept at her feet, sat in her arms and purred every time she held him close to her heart, on her desk when she studied, came to her from wherever he was in the house when she entered the house. Never for a moment did she imagine that he might die. She had only recently arrived at college when she heard the news. With a huge effort, she hopped in her Uber to get to the clinic where the lifeless body of her beloved kitten lay. She waited dozens of minutes for a doctor to come and explain what had happened. Amid endless sobs, she asked questions, tried to find out what she could have done differently to prevent the situation, which was when the end became inevitable. She was also thinking about Lizuca, she's at home, she's waiting for us, is there something we need to know, maybe we can make sure she never gets here ... I look back and I'm impressed by the self-control of the moment, the maturity she was showing, she was looking at a young, affected doctor who recognised that the medical manoeuvre she had performed the night before may have given her much loved friend the coup de grace. I asked to see Blacky one last time. I was warned he was in refrigeration. I suggested to Ana that, if she could, it might be time to say goodbye to him. At the time she refused. While I was with him, the doctor shared with Ana that she had recently lost her father and that, yes, it was hard, but to try to see him one last time so she wouldn't have any regrets about not getting to say goodbye. She came to see him. It's hard to describe how she felt, how she reacted. Later, in the car, she felt she couldn't breathe. At home, that she was vomiting. And Lizuca, though she couldn't see Blacky, was by her side. If it hadn't been for her, we don't know how hard it would have been to go in and live in an empty house again. There were many moments of grief, of outrage, of questioning, of blaming, of shock, of seeming inability to function, of trying to understand why, of inability to accept that he was really gone when everything around us remembered his presence, when every moment of the day was associated with a habit of Blacky being with us. Lizuca seemed to behave as she always did with us. She had moments when it seemed to us that she was crying and looking for him. Then she would settle down. Maybe she was hoping he'd come back. 

After a month, on the recommendation of several animal lovers and another doctor, I decided to get Lizuca a new partner. Ana said it was too soon. Should I have listened to her? In my naivety, knowing that she was sociable and had befriended Blacky in record time, I hoped that a little kitten would help her and that she would accept him sooner rather than later. We had never reached that point. There were moments of curiosity, of squirming, of paws over faces, of separation. The little pup was curious and eager to play, affectionate and cute fire. But he wasn't Blacky. 

After about two weeks, Lizuca began to eat less and less. The laser point, her favourite toy, no matter that was luminating her paws trying to spark her hunting spirit, the fishing rod, with its colourful feather and little bells inviting her to play, were watched for a few moments, but that was all. Lizzie was turning her head in a different direction. We offered her all her favourite food, bought a variety of delicious treats, but she kept on eating less and less. Friends, animal lovers, vets were saying it was a passing episode and all would go away soon. I heard them, but I felt deep down in my soul that something was not quite good. And I went also on a Tuesday to the vet who saw her a month ago when she seemed to be in perfect health. The spin had started. Blood works. Tests. Ultrasounds. IVs. Coming back Wednesday morning at the vet. Coming back home in the evening. Received a recommendation to go to another doctor for endoscopy. Pfiuuu, we survived the night between Wednesday and Thursday. Thursday morning. Hospital admission in the expert centre, minimum invasion surgery, the best and the most expensive in the country. Other blood works. Other tests. Other ultrasounds. Opinion – surgical intervention now with 5% success rate caused by massive blood loss risks or euthanasia. Say what? We do not know exactly what she is sick of why, why she is sick. Take here a sample, go to another lab for other blood test. Ordering a taxi. The lab has a doctor who only works at night and can study the cells for a more in depth diagnosis. It is past 9 in the evening. We cannot take her home. It is Friday morning. She seems to fell a bit better. She is purring slowly. She drank water with her paw. She gets to be on tape, nurses love her, they even suggest to insert a feeding tube in her neck. The doctor says no. There is no use. And I start asking questions. I am being scolded and labelled as suspicious. I go out for a few minutes. A doctor who gave up on her and another who already did before trying to save her. I say ok, lets do the surgery. We look for blood. Yes, but you need to find it before 4 pm, because after, there is no anaesthesiologist to assist in the surgery. You’d better go somewhere else. We cannot keep you during weekend. Phone calls. A lot of them. It is past 4 pm. Ana had been taking an exam today. I do not know how she found the strength to go. I asked her to come back to the hospital. We have to be on the road. We go to another vet, also surgeon. We receive hope. We accept the insertion of the feeding tube. We understand that the anaesthesia, although an easy one, bears a risk. I can only pay in cash. I walk for 1 mile, get the cash. I come back. Lizzie enters the intervention. She comes out. She breaths and she opens her eyes. Belief rises gain in our hearts. She gets more and different medicines. We take her home. Long ride. From north to south of the city. We manage to feed her through the tube. She drinks some water. She gets out of the bed, looks for her place. I put her back on the bed. She has cannula on a paw and a tube in her neck. I need to make sure she is not hurting herself. She lays on the bed for a while and then she gets down again. I let her there for a few minutes and then we do the process again. Her eyes are open, she doesn’t seem to get sleep and she really needs to rest. I feel so powerless. I cannot sleep. I am worried. After so many IVs, liquid food and water through her tube, she hasn’t used the litter box. I am counting the minutes. It is finally morning. We come back to the vet at 10 am. Long ride. From south to north of the city. She cries in the car. We finally arrive. The vet is consulting her. A few minutes pass. She pees. Yuhuuu. We have our continuous IV on, we stay next to each other. We see a lot of animals coming in for vet consultation, receiving treatment, going home. We want the same. We do another ultrasound. A few more hours pass. Other tests. Blood ones. Worse than yesterday. It is past 8 pm. We go home. Long ride. From north to south of the city. We manage to feed her through the tube. She drinks some water. She gets out of the bed, looks for her place, but she seems not to hold her feet too well. I put her back on the bed. She has cannula on a paw and a tube in her neck. I need to make sure she is not hurting herself. She lays on the bed for a while and then she gets down again with difficulty. I look at her. I feel all her suffering. I try to place a blanket under her. She cries, she is pain again. I lay next to her. I think I had a short nap. She again didn’t use her litter box. It is morning. We come back to the vet at 10 am. Long ride. From south to north of the city. She cries in the car. More than yesterday. We arrive. The vet is consulting her. A lot of minutes pass. She is not peeing. We have our continuous IV on, we stay next to each other. We see a lot of animals coming in for vet consultation, receiving treatment, going home. Lizzie cries out of a sudden. Her eyes are moving in an uncontrollable way. Reality hits me really hard. I know if it goes to head … I am trying to obtain a confirmation. I get it. I go out. I come back. She was looking for me. I take her into my arms. She is completely glued to me. And then she cries as if a long agony sound. I do not know what to do. I was standing still. I didn’t move. I didn’t move her. What is happening? She has pain medication on. I look at the vet. I know where this goes. The vet has a hard time. He tells me that anyway it will not last more than a few hours. He also has 2 cats. I ask him what he would do if he were in my shoes. Rationally he could answer. Emotionally, he wouldn’t know. Lizzie is still in my arms. Her eyes move the same way. She gets out another sound, of a deeper agony. I look at the vet. There is NO more waiting to do. She doesn’t have to suffer any other second. The clock stares at me. It is a few minutes after 2 pm. Yes, I am sure. Yes, I will be holding her all the time. Tick. I seem to hear a long sigh. The eyes remain half-open. She is not moving anymore. Someone enters the cabinet. I cover her with Ana's grey scarf. I hold her in my arms. I caress her. I kiss her. Time passes by. Ana calls me. I go out. I do not know what to do. She is driving. I cannot tell her like this on the phone when she is about to drive. Does she want to see her one more time? What should I do? I try to act normal while talking. Ana asks questions. She did understand as of this morning/ I cannot lie. Why cannot I lie? I do not know exactly what I said. Whatever I said, I said it gently. She has a friend next to her. She seems strong. She has a purpose. To come and take me from this place. Without Lizzie. I look on the street ahead of me. I cannot find my place. I would move, but I feel I am of stone. I cry. I look at the sky. I feel I did what had to be done. Still, I do not know how to integrate the feeling of release. How can I feel this? I week ago, she was in our house, I was feeding her soup and she was purring when she felt its smell. I miss her. I go back in the cabinet. I would stay here, with her, for as long as forever. I rationally understand everything. There is nothing else to be done, soon the cabinet closes, soon Ana comes, ... one more patient comes in. I close the door between the hallway and the cabinet. I know that that moment came. I hold her in my arm one more time. Ahhhh. She peed. Her organs relaxed. I seem to hear one more sigh. There is air still coming out. The doctor gently removes the feeding tube, the cannula. He brings an absorbent on the other table. I know. I put her on it. I hold her in my arms one more time. Longer. I kiss her. The doctor covers her up. He has a bag. He tells me this is what happens next. I understand. Rationally, yes, I understand. There is nothing else I can do. It is time. I try to take something with me. I would stay with her longer. I know I am exaggerating. I love her so much. She is only 4 years and 7 months old. My sunshine. My joy. A black bag. A freezer. I manage to say goodbye. I think. I go out. Ana arrived and she is driving home. I do not remember what we talked in the car. We grabbed something to eat on our way. We arrived home. We opened the bedroom door. There he was. The little one stayed there for the last 3 weeks since he came in our home. Now he has all the house at his disposal. But not Lizzie’s room, the room where she stayed almost all the time during the past 2 weeks. There he cannot enter. Not yet. What confusion of states, of feelings. The little one, playful, happy to see us, he purrs, he jumps, he kisses us. We have food. Something is missing. A lot are missing. Today we all sleep in the same room. We watch pictures and movies. Blacky and Lizzie. Yin and Yang. This is how I called them when I took their first picture together. They’ve became friends almost instantly. They reunited in a different world after 1 month and 3 weeks apart. Trying to find a meaning ... All moments are coming back to me now. I should have gone with her to the doctor soon. I revisit explanations. It was something toxic. But there were no changes in the living environment. She had a previous kidney issue who suddenly aggravated. But a doctor saw her a month ago. She seemed to be perfectly healthy. She was stresses as we brought a kitten in the house. But there are far more stressed cats out there and they do not end up here. She suffered deeply for losing Blacky. She developed an autoimmune disease. Necropsy? Maybe I should have agreed to it. But, honestly, to chop her to satisfy a medical curiosity? I couldn’t carry anymore. The moment I am sharing this, there have been 2 weeks since she is gone. I have the kitten in my lap while sharing, he purrs. Ana is out somewhere. .. Sometimes it seems unbelievable that I can get up in the morning, that I can eat and even start to smile when this little kitten jumps and play as if all has been good since forever. Guilt? Ohohoho. Regrets? ... I would give anything to turn back the time and, each time when Lizzie or Blacky were coming towards me and I continued to be busy, to stop and to caress them, to tell then even the, how much I love them, how much they were making my life beautiful and how infinite was the love I felt when they were around. And I wish again to have gone earlier at the doctor. I cry again and it hurts so much. It was a sunny day today. A soul reaches for my presence again. I live. I feel enormously. I can still feel love. Almost the same. Maybe more. All and much more are the reasons for which I will try to do better now, even better tomorrow and always!

Namaste!