Heartfelt Thanks

It's as if I'm nursing a shattered limb or broken appendage, the way I've gingerly gotten around these past few days. I sound like I'm coaching a toddler or a brain-affected adult, the way I'll say -Okay, go check the mail. Good. Great. Now g0 put on a bra and change your shirt. Cool. Okay. After hours upon hours of berating myself and blaming myself for all the ways I could have - and should have - been there for Mae in the past few weeks, suddenly I've become so beaten down... so completely down... that I suppose I've instinctively maneuvered into self-preservation mode. -Good coffee this morning. Way to go.

Just to be on the safe side, I avoided most public venues until today. I chanced a trip to the grocery store during church hour, when I knew most people I knew would be tucked inside rows of pews, praying and Bible studying. As I slowly moved through the aisles, I noticed I was acutely aware of the faces of the people I passed. As carts rolled by, I'd search people's eyes, thinking, Are you destroyed, too? Are you hurting, too? No one appeared to be, but then again, maybe I didn't either. We all made it out of the store with little more than nods and soft hellos.

Two of my three shopping bags were in the car - on the same seat my sweet little Mae peed all over Sunday as she was dying. As I reached back for the third and final bag, I heard my name.

"Oh, I heard about your cat," my acquaintance breezily began. "I sooo know exactly what you're going through. We got a few barn cats back in the spring and something got one of them. Hadn't had her but three weeks or so. I was beside myself thinking about that little thing. The kids buried her and all. Broke my heart. Good little cat," she finished, loudly.

I nodded and half-smiled and turned back to the car. Then I turned back. Did I ever. "Actually," I said coldly, "I don't think you do exactly know. My cat wasn't some barn cat. She was my first pet. My only pet. She slept alongside me for nearly six years. When I took a bath, she sat on the edge of the bathtub. When I ate, she sat in the chair next to me. When I read, she swatted at the paper. When I played piano, she sat on the bench. She went home with me for the holidays and came right along with me on business trips. She was my girl. My confidant... my comedic relief... my companion. She wasn't a stupid, wild barn cat. She was my family. My only family. And now she's gone."

...

"Oh, honey," she said.

We stood in the grocery store parking lot for what seemed like ever as I wetted her shirt with tears and she hugged me and patted my back. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," I wailed.

And I was. I am. I'm so, so sorry. Sorry, and thankful. Thankful for her compassion and your compassion and everyone's compassion as we've gathered here to tell our stories and offer up our words. I've read every last one of your comments... more than once... and have been so moved by all of our collective losses and griefs and pains. Seems each of us has a story or a memory or a moment that's etched into our hearts by the loss of ones we've loved and ones who've loved us.

Yes, my heart's been warmed and touched... so deeply, permanently touched... by your words and thoughts and prayers and cards and flowers. They keep piling up, these quiet pledges of support and understanding, and I want to say thank you, you know -thank you for carrying me through this week. I want to send you my best thanks but it seems too little when you've all given so much. Your comments and promised prayers and long-reaching hugs are coming together like pieces of a community quilt - covering me and comforting me during this terrible week. And I can't think of words enough to tell you how much it means. How very much it means.

But thank you anyway.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. -Brin