Cat Tales 8
Knitting relaxes me. As my fingers work the nee dles and the ya rn unwinds, something beautiful emerges. I’m conte nt, and so is my nine-year-old black-and-white tuxe do cat, who loves to curl up on the soft wool of my latest project and purr. Although Ben is technically my pet, my husband and I share parental responsibi lity for Ben and love him dearly.
But, in truth, he’s really a “daddy’s boy.” Since our kids are all grown and live away from home, Ben has been raised like an only child. He’s received more attention than many people give their human children. As far as he’s concerned, I’ve bee n a stay-at-home mom purely for his benefit, not because I run a home -based business. And his dismay over his “dad” holding jobs out in the real world has been clear.
Acutely attuned to our daily schedules, particularly Jorgie’s, e ach morning before the alarm clock could sound, Ben would jump in the bed beside his dad and snuggle with him, de manding to be rubbed and scratched behind the ear. If the alarm didn’ t go off or if Ben didn’t get the attention he thought he deserved, his da d’s handlebar mustache would get tugged or his face would receive several licks with Ben’s rough tongue.
To say these two had a definite morning routine is a massive understatement. From the time they got up and ready for thei r day, through breakfast, and until Jorgie left for work, they would talk to each other and play, with Ben following every footstep Jorgie took. Then Ben would make his way back to the bedroom, announce his presence with an auk and proceed to take over Jorgie’s spot in the bed with a huge sigh.
Later, when I got up, Ben would get a second breakfast, one that I knew f rom his expression wasn’t as good as what he’d received earlier. After managing to eat his unappe tizing meal, Ben would settle into his routine with me, mostly helping me type and napping, and bide his time until his playmate returned from work.
Back then, Jorgie worke d a lot of overti me, so it was difficult for me to know when he’d arrive home. Some how, Ben kne w. While I continue d to work or fix supper, Ben would park himself in our living room bay window and watch for Jorgie’s red truck to come down the street. And he always knew before I did whe n it turned into the driveway. Ben’s nails would clatter on the wooden stairs as he raced for the den door to greet Jorgie and t wine himself around his legs.
All was well again in Ben’s world. His dad was home. If it seems like our life was simplistic and routine, maybe it was. Jorgie and I always joked that we were just two bori ng people, and Ben fit right into our little family. Excitement and drama we re for othe r people. As far as we were conce rned, life was good. Comfortable. Happy.
The morning of May 5, 2006, changed all of that. And it changed each of us. I awoke earlier than usual. Something wasn’t right. Jorgie’s side of the bed was empty, and Ben wasn’t in his place. I listened for those familiar morning routine sounds from downstairs, but the house was oddly silent. Then I heard Jorgie’s footsteps on the stairs. There was an unusual heaviness to them as he made his way to our bedroom. Then it hit me. There was only the single set of footsteps. Alarmed, I sat up in bed and glanced at the clock. It was after 8:00 a.m. Jorgie usually left for work a little after 7:00. Finally, I heard Ben’s nails on the floor. Sof t. Hesitant. Pacing. He never paced. My heartbeat accelerated as I tried to find my voice.
I’m usually not an alarmist, but my mi nd raced through a dozen scenarios, each worse than the one before.
Was there something wrong with my elderly father? Had someone in the family had an accident? Was someone dead?
I couldn’t summon my voice. And Ben continued to pace between his dad’s side of the bed and the doorway to the hall. At last, Jorgie spoke, in a tone I hadn’t heard from him before, small and scared. “I think you nee d to take me to the eme rgency room. I’m bleeding.”
Suddenly, time, which had seemed to go in slow motion just moments before, was now movi ng at warp speed. I still don’t reme mbe r getting dressed and driving to the hospital.
And as we raced out the door, I was only vaguely aware of the look on Ben’s face: worried. That’s the only way to describe it. He was scared. And so was I.
Endless hours later, we knew nothing other than something was seriously wrong with Jorgie. The doctors wanted to admit him, but it was Friday, the beginning of the weekend, and we knew not a lot would happen diagnostically until Monday. Besides, Jorgie wanted to go home. Reluctantly, the doctors agreed. After a specialist appointme nt was scheduled for the start of the work week and Jorgie was fitted with some equipment and instructions, we were allowed to leave.
When we arrived home, an anxious Ben greeted us and then imme diately shied away. The strong smells of the hospital lingered on our clothes and bodies, and our da rling wanted none of it. That weekend we tried to act as normal as possible, despite the abnormal circumstances, the equipment hooke d up to Jorgie, and the pe rvasive fear that hung over us like a thunde rcloud. Poor Ben was confused and neglected in compa rison to usual. No longer was he the center of our world; Jorgie’s medical condition had become the focus of our ene rgy and attention.
That didn’t change over the following few weeks. Weeks that brought a slew of doctors’ appointme nts, endless tests, surgery, and fina lly a diagnosis. Cancer.
The word we dreade d. The word we feared. The specialist told us that Jorgie would need extensive surgery, if his body could withstand it. More tests. More specialists. As each one signed off on the surgery, we had hope. Without the surgery, Jorgie would die. With the surgery, he had a chance. We held on for that.
To say our daily routine changed drastically is an understateme nt. Our lives changed even more. And our beloved Ben took a backseat to the disease that was ruling our lives.
As his dad grew weaker, Ben sank into a depression. No longer did he rush to meet his dad when we’ d return from yet anothe r medical appointment.
He dragged to the door with a heaviness that almost broke my hea rt. Some how he knew what the stakes were. Some how he knew what we we re up against.
One night after a particularly rough day, my husband and I lay in bed, both too tire d to sleep, just trying to relax. Ben had been missing in action for a while, but that wasn’t unusual these days. He couldn’t stand those antiseptic smells that seemed to surround us. Normally, I’d go look for Ben, but not tonight. Tonight I was beat. Ben would have to fend for hi mself.
Then I heard the familiar click, click, clicking of his sharp nails striking the wooden floor. But his steps were hesitant, like he was struggling with a particularly heavy load. The footsteps stopped by his dad’s side of the bed for the first time in weeks. Then he let out a sound that can only be described as a keening, a raw animalistic sound of pa in and loss.
Stunned, Jorgie and I both sat up in bed. Beside Ben, who was still stationed at his dad’s bedside, was a mammoth white ball of yarn. Yarn that was almost as big as he was. Yarn that I thought had been safely stored away in a guest room clos et. Then Ben cried out again. The sound ripped through me. I got up to check him for injuries and was relieved to see that he was fine, at least physically. As I rubbed hi m on his back, he purre d, a sound that we sudde nly realized had been missing for weeks. Jorgie and I praised Ben for his gift. And he purre d some more. Mi ndful of the tubing and equipment hooked up to Jorgie, Ben climbed into be d and slept with us that night. It was as if he had finally found a way to express himself, to tell us how he fel t about his dad’s illness and the impact it was having on our family.
After several long weeks, Jorgie’s major surgery was finally scheduled for June 19. Ben continue d to haul balls of yarn up and down the two flights of stairs that separate our den from our be droom. Each time he deposited a ball of yarn at his dad’s feet, he’d let out that keening sound. And the n purr.
Yarn was everywhere, balls and skeins of all colors, shapes, and sizes. If Ben could find it, he found a way to carry it. Once he had exhausted his stash of yarn, Ben moved on to fuzzy kni tted winter scarves. He carried these in his teeth and dragged them between his legs, fighting the stairs and household objects, to bring Jorgie somethi ng to cheer him up and to express his love for his dad.
And our spirits did lift with each gift this valiant cat brought. It was as if he were telling his dad that everything was going to be okay. Both Jorgie and I felt Ben’s deep caring and concern, his unconditional love. Who says cats are independe nt and standoffish? Well, they haven’t me t our darling boy. Jorgie’s surgery lasted more than ten hours. A week later he came home minus a few body parts and with a lengthy recovery ahead of him. And Ben was there to greet him . . . with a ball of yarn. More surgeries followed. More hospital smells. More equipment. But Ben didn’ t shy away, not since he’d figured out what he needed to do. Our lives had evolved into a new normal.
Jorgie’s cancer changed us. It had made us more aware of the fragility and preciousn ess of time togethe r. It ma de us appreciate the simple joy of a ball of yarn given by one who gives with all of his heart and soul. Jorgie retired and is home all of the time now. He and Ben have developed a new daily routine. They both rest more than befo re and take their catnaps in the afternoon. Ben has stopped carrying yarn, for the most part. Every now and then he brings down a bright ball and drops it at one of our feet, not with a keen, but wi th a familiar auk. Jorgie and I exchange a glance, wonde ri ng what Ben knows that we don’ t, marveling at his insight when one of us needs a little something extra that only he can give.