The Pain Of Anticipatory Grief: A Love Letter to Lola
When she goes a part of our family will die with her.
Our beloved Bengal Lola, 19.
I felt the impending heartache and pain of grief when my son Tiago was a senior in high school. I knew our days were numbered — that he’d be moving away for college. He went one step further and moved back to Australia. #myheart
My days are again numbered. As I brace for the loss of my beloved Lola. Our beautiful, spicy Bengal — my first pet as an adult — is 19 (god love her). And she is not long for this world.
We got her when Tiago was 2. He’s now 21.
Lolly is feisty, a fighter, and if cats do indeed have nine lives, she’s survived all of them and then some. She was attacked by two whippets as a baby; they punctured her neck, she couldn’t breathe, but she pulled through. She climbed an impossibly tall tree when she was little, and we couldn’t get her down for days — not even with the help of the fire brigade. She used to duke it out with the scrappy neighborhood cats in Sydney’s back alleys at night.
When we moved to New York, we left her in Sydney with our friend Suzy until we got settled. She walked home to our old house, and our tenants had no choice but to keep her. Actually, they fell completely in love with her — and didn’t want to give her up.
When the time came, and we called to have her sent—via Jetpets, Sydney to New York, with an overnight sojourn in Hollywood — our tenant had to find an identical stuffed toy cat to appease her devastated daughters.
I will never forget heading to JFK to pick her up. Watching her come around the conveyor belt after her long-haul flight, all I could think was what an absolute trooper.
Tiago, Lola, and Faith (left). Javier’s heartbreaking goodbye.
In the 12 years we’ve lived in New York, we’ve moved more times than I can count, and she’s sucked it (cats hate moving). She’s also weathered the chaos of being farmed out to friends when we made the trek home to Australia for weeks to see family. She moved with my husband when we separated — being without her mummy haunts me now. I hope she didn’t feel abandoned. He had a backyard, so it made sense. She escaped more than once, lost for nights on the rough, unforgiving streets of New York City. But she always made it home. She is a survivor.
In recent years, we’ve shared her, and she has loved being in Gramercy — sunning herself in our garden, just as she did back in Sydney. She’s an Aussie outdoor girl at heart, like her mama.
Just last week, she was doing exactly that, and we were blissfully unaware of what was to come.
Lola, Lola.
She is sick. Very sick. Age has caught up with her. The end is nigh. My heart hurts. The tears flow.
Tiago is heading to New York at the end of May for a visit. One of the hardest parts for him has always been being separated from his beloved pets, Lola and Faith, our Cavapoo (my guardian angel and divorce dog). Every goodbye for him carries the weight of possibly being the last. And sadly, this time, it is. Lola won’t make it to the end of the month. I doubt she’ll see out the week.
My youngest son, Javier, is about to turn 15. He has never known a life without Lola. When he was born, she warmed to him instantly, sneaking into his crib and not flinching when he followed her around to yank on her tail. This week, he doesn’t want to hang out after school — he wants to be home, with Lola and me, as we nurse her to the end, keeping her warm and comfortable, kissing her, and telling her how much we love her.
Pet parents.
In hindsight, over the past couple of years, our girl has been saying a long goodbye. She was clingy (so not her) and didn’t want to sit or sleep near us, but on top of us. On my chest, her head nudged against ours. What I would give for just one more head butt or chest cuddle.
But I find comfort in the thought that at least our baby will finally be going “home”. We will scatter her in the garden of our house in Sydney, where she will once again sun herself…
Our darling Lola, we are so grateful for you. You made us pet parents and changed our lives. To some, you might just be a cat. To us, you are a daughter, a sister, and a much-loved member of our family. Thank you for joining us on this ride.
When you say your final farewell, a part of our family will die with you.