Tuples Lin Gropper (2009-2019) We've lost her, and I don't think our lives will ever be the same.
Tuples Lin Gropper (2009-2019)
We've lost her, and I don't think our lives will ever be the same.
We didn't know it would be her last day. David carried her to the backyard so she could sit with him and listen to his favorite Steely Dan record. Then she came back inside and sat on David's chest for a while. She also spent some time sitting in my lap, one of my handmade quilts tucked beneath her, as I knitted.
These were the last of the things that she loved to do and that she still could do even though she was very sick and weak. She liked it most when David and I were both beside her, and in these difficult and fleeting last few weeks, that was enough to make her purr.
People like to believe in the idea of a good death, a death that is dignified and serene. But when death comes of its own accord, it comes in loud, rasping breaths, in the mortifying trickle of bodily fluids and in eyes searching desperately for something to see before the world goes dark. Like a general who makes deft use of the element of surprise, death has the ability to catch you off guard. You don't expect to walk into the kitchen and find your cat lying on her side, gasping piteously for air, moments after you were debating whether the merciful thing would be to put her to sleep.
David picked her up and carried her to the couch. He held her as I stroked her face and told her, through sobs, that we would see each other again and that she would again sit on my lap and watch me knit someday soon. I was the last thing she saw.
We wrapped her up in my best quilt, the large one she watched me sew from the scraps of fabric left over from all of the many shirts, dresses and blankets I have lovingly made all of you. David tucked her in with her two favorite toys, one of my black elastic hairbands and a toy mouse I sewed for her.
David carried her out to the shoreline. He held her as he looked out at the skyline of San Francisco, the city where we had spent lives together.
One mom. Six apartments. Numerous friends and admirers. And eventually one forever dad, @davidgropper. I will always love you #Tuples.
Tuples Lin Gropper (2009-2019) We've lost her, and I don't think our lives will ever be the same.
Tuples Lin Gropper (2009-2019)
We've lost her, and I don't think our lives will ever be the same.
We didn't know it would be her last day. David carried her to the backyard so she could sit with him and listen to his favorite Steely Dan record. Then she came back inside and sat on David's chest for a while. She also spent some time sitting in my lap, one of my handmade quilts tucked beneath her, as I knitted.
These were the last of the things that she loved to do and that she still could do even though she was very sick and weak. She liked it most when David and I were both beside her, and in these difficult and fleeting last few weeks, that was enough to make her purr.
People like to believe in the idea of a good death, a death that is dignified and serene. But when death comes of its own accord, it comes in loud, rasping breaths, in the mortifying trickle of bodily fluids and in eyes searching desperately for something to see before the world goes dark. Like a general who makes deft use of the element of surprise, death has the ability to catch you off guard. You don't expect to walk into the kitchen and find your cat lying on her side, gasping piteously for air, moments after you were debating whether the merciful thing would be to put her to sleep.
David picked her up and carried her to the couch. He held her as I stroked her face and told her, through sobs, that we would see each other again and that she would again sit on my lap and watch me knit someday soon. I was the last thing she saw.
We wrapped her up in my best quilt, the large one she watched me sew from the scraps of fabric left over from all of the many shirts, dresses and blankets I have lovingly made all of you. David tucked her in with her two favorite toys, one of my black elastic hairbands and a toy mouse I sewed for her.
David carried her out to the shoreline. He held her as he looked out at the skyline of San Francisco, the city where we had spent lives together.
One mom. Six apartments. Numerous friends and admirers. And eventually one forever dad, @davidgropper. I will always love you #Tuples.