Part I: Carrying Anticipatory Grief While Learning about Death
"Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life." - Joan Didion
Today’s post was written while listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival, specifically “Long as I can See the Light” because this is a comforting song for me when I’m working through death and grief.
It’s been a while, eh?
A lot has happened since I last met you here, dear reader. Least exciting of which was much work travel. Now that’s done, three things have happened that have reminded me about the complexity of our humanness and society, cemented my desire to lean into learning more about end of life work, and shaken my soul with deep grief:
Attending A.P.E. Gallery’s exhibit called “Registry of Grief and Delight”,
Beginning my Death Doula coursework through UVM’s program,
Saying an incredibly grief-filled goodbye to my ride-or-die, sweet angel companion of 16 years, my buddy… my sweet cat Ellum.
Today, I’m leaning into the third because it’s what feels right for me in the midst of such deep wave-filled grief.
Yesterday, Saturday March 29th, 2025, I said a very difficult and heavy goodbye to the sweetest soul and longest relationship I’ve ever held.
Ellum was maybe 17 or 18 years old. You might think “well, that’s a good long life” and you wouldn’t be wrong. I just think there’s never enough time for anyone you love.
I first met Ellum when he was about one or two-years old, roughly 16 years ago. My boyfriend at the time had a friend who found a “scrappy looking black cat” behind a Chinese food restaurant in Quincy, MA. His friend couldn’t keep the cat - he had a dog at home that would make it a challenge. He called around looking for anyone who might want to house this little dude. My boyfriend (now ex) said “I bet Kelsey would take him” and he was right.
I got the call from my ex while I was traveling by bus home from - probably - grad school or work at the university. I absolutely wanted this scrappy cat, without even seeing him or knowing anything about him, because I love cats. No questions asked - despite my apartment at the time not allowing them. We hung up the phone and my first thought was “what should I name him?”
The great thing about living in Boston is there’s no shortage of inspiration. Being on the bus that evening, I was looking out the window as we approached my favorite neighborhood bar at the time - Deep Ellum. We stopped at the intersection and as I stared at this bar - it was decided. This little dude would be named Ellum.
Ellum was feisty from the beginning. Brought to my apartment, up several flights of stairs in a small dog crate, he was let loose upon entry and he made himself right at home. He ran around the apartment exploring - no fear. No “who is this weird lady following me”. Just “I guess this is where I live now, cool”. He settled in quickly - loving the view from every window (he was a nosey boy and he loved the bustling of the neighbors). He slept with me at night, once he was done with zoomies of course.
After a few months with me and my roommate at the time, he put on weight and his coat started smoothing out. He was a very handsome boy (and he knew it). His big yellow eyes and big wide nose - his intense, yet unconcerned, gaze - he had a presence. I keep saying he was always the main character. It wasn’t only because of how handsome he was, but also because of how he always commanded a room. This cat was social. He wanted to be where you were and where your friends were. He wanted to be seen and heard. For many years, when he was younger, he wanted to be pet - but only on his terms. He could turn on you on a dime. BUT - it was all in good fun because he’d be back for more soon after. As he aged, he chilled out and just wanted pets 100% of the time with no retribution. A strong presence in such a small, stocky being. My little comrade.
Ellum saw me through so many life transitions: relationship starts, relationship ends, moving (he moved with me - from Boston (x3) to NH (x2) to MA (x3) - a total of 8 times), friendships that came and went, so many roommates, the adoption of another cat, so much school (x4), getting married, buying a house, getting a dog, the death of loved ones. Ellum has been there as a steadfast, non-judgmental, ever-loving (never complaining) partner through it all.
When we adopted Silly (Silhouette), he was probably about 3 or 4 years old. We kept them apart until she got a little bigger and we scent-shared. When we finally allowed them to meet, he sniffed her, hissed once to let her know he was in charge, and immediately took her under his wing. Ellum really raised Silly. He taught her how to cat. He taught her how to snuggle. He protected her fiercely. They couldn’t be more different personality-wise. He, ever social and wanting to be the center of attention. She, scared of any and everything (sounds, people, light, you name it). But together, they leaned on each other.
To be honest, I always thought I’d have to grieve Silly first. Since she was little, she’s never been “well”. She had a massive surgery when she was just a couple years old. She’s always been boney and never had much muscle mass. When we brought our (amazing and very chaotic) dog Ollie home, I thought it might actually kill her from stress. But, Ellum was the best big brother and stepped in to be the best “in between” for the two of them. And, of course (as I wrote about in the last post), in recent months she’s had her own medical issues that had us thinking we were going to be saying goodbye pretty quickly. I’m grateful she seems to be holding on and working through with the intervention of our vet care, but she’s not young herself.
So, all the more impactful to return from two weeks of travel and find my sweet Ellum was in a rapid decline. I noticed it within a day or two back. He was slower. He was crouching in strange positions and lethargic. He wasn’t eating or drinking much and it felt like he was lost or struggling to be present. When you know your cat, you know. He was clearly uncomfortable and something was wrong. Ellum has really had no major medical issues (aside from hyperthyroidism that’s been in control for years), and just two weeks prior he had been precariously jumping all over the house (as usual) and playing like a kitten. But, he had been losing weight and muscle.
For timeline:
I arrived back home from travel late in the evening Friday, March 21st.
I noticed things were off by Monday, March 24th.
Scheduled an appointment for Wednesday, March 26th. He got bloodwork done, a B12 shot, fluids, and was prescribed anti-nausea and appetite stimulant medications.
By Thursday, March 27th, we learned his bloodwork was showing elevated levels for his kidneys and he would need more fluid and a discussion about leveraging a phosphorous compound.
I returned to the vet again on the morning of Friday, March 28th. During this visit, she discussed the various treatments we could do to “manage” his kidney levels. We’d need to return often for fluids and hope we could get his levels down. At this point in the conversation, I was starting to realize this might be more significant than she felt comfortable telling me. I decided to ask her outright - “is this something we can help him get better from or is this something that will continue to decline and I’d be largely hoping to maintain it to keep him alive for me?”
The vet sighed and, relieved, said “I’m actually really glad you asked. Management doesn’t guarantee he’d get better, particularly with his age. You’d be keeping him alive with hope.”
I’m not in the business of animals suffering - especially because of me. My sweet boy had given me 16 amazing years and was clearly suffering. I was heartbroken. Devastated, really. I told her I would talk to my partner and let her know what we would do. The vet mentioned she would be in tomorrow (Saturday, March 29th). We also had to visit the 29th for Silly’s monthly Selencia shot (to relieve the pain of arthritis and help her move more comfortably).
I got home and the waves of grief began. Being unable to calm myself, I took the day off. My amazing team stepped in and allowed me to spend the day with my ever-present, steadfast comrade. We spent the day snuggling in bed. He mostly slept, sometimes getting up to roam aimlessly a bit. He drank water and ate (anything he wanted). He purred, though more softly, and stayed so very close. To see him suffering and clearly uncomfortable, I decided I needed to say goodbye with dignity. I had to let go so he could find peace.
My partner called the vet (I just couldn’t bring myself to do it) and let them know we would be there with both cats tomorrow - one for her shot and some bloodwork, the other to say goodbye.
Who knew my sweet Ellum’s last gift to me would be the deepest navigation of grief while starting my Death Doula schooling?
Soon - Part II: Holding Vigil and Walking Hand-in-Hand with Grief.
Memento Mori,
Kelsey
So sorry about Ellum. He was so lucky you decided to adopt him and he had the best life because of you. Even though he's gone from the physical life, he's always around spiritually!
I am so sorry for your loss. I know how much you love your cat companions. Your writing is heartbreaking and beautiful. Especially your confronting the terrible choice of keeping him alive but suffering or letting him go.