It was a short, but wonderful, relationship. Perhaps star crossed from the very beginning, we lived together in easy companionship. Each morning I would wake up and open the back door, finding her waiting on the other side. I’d feed her, pet her, tell her good morning, and go about my routine of making tea and toast. When I left for the day, I’d say goodbye, give her more affection, and leave her to the backyard where she could chose between the sun and the rain, the shelter or the sky.
After a full day of work, before the front door was shut behind me, I could hear her meowing hello. I’d put down my bags, run to the back, and let her in. She’d purr, wrapping herself around my feet (I think she secretly loved it when I tripped), and meow for dinner. As I turned on the music, or the cable, she’d sit in the living room, watching me, or crawl underneath the television, finding a secure place between stacks of DVDs to nestle. We’d watch movies and American Idol together (I actually got sucked in this season...never thought that would happen, but they got me). When I felt restless, I’d sit in back with her, looking up at the sky, and we’d enjoy the sounds of Malang at night.
She had the loudest purr of any cat I’d ever met. It was a small roar, like an engine running, or a tiger snoring. While she laid in the sun, she’d turn herself on her back and cover her eyes with one paw. Other times, when I was rubbing just the right corner of her back, she’d lift up her hind legs and lower her front legs, dip her head in between her paws, and rub her chin and cheeks on the ground with glee. When I’d had a bad day, she was always there, walking around my body sat next to her on the tiles, crashing into my crossed legs, looking at me with those huge blue eyes. Sometimes she’d suddenly roll onto her back, turning from side to side, and let me pet her stomach. For a stray cat who’d seen nothing but trash and exhaust fumes, she was so loving and endlessly sweet. She made my house warm. She made being alone so peaceful. She was my girl, and we were in this together.
However, recently she’d stopped eating. I noticed her drinking a lot more water, and when I pet her, I felt more bone than flesh. One day (skip this part if small squiggly things gross you out) I saw a white worm crawl inside of her body, underneath her tail. Parasites are one thing, but the hernia on her lower body was also growing. She’d been on her special food from the vet for a month, so it was time to take her in for another blood test. I got the text Friday morning that not only were her kidneys still bad, but her liver was also failing. The blood test showed that her body was giving up. Her restricted diet had bought her more time, but could not cure her condition.
When I’d brought her to the vet, I was not prepared to leave her there. I went in to see her the next day, and could tell she was done. Her skin felt leathery, and she refused to look at me. I’d never seen her so hopeless. She knew she didn’t have much time. That morning she’d thrown up worms. The vet said the only thing that could save her was a kidney and liver transplant with a blood transfusion, and they don’t do that here in Indonesia. The vet said that if I force fed her daily, she maybe had anywhere from a few days to a few weeks left. I couldn’t imagine staying home with her, making her eat when it was clear she was ready to go. All of this information was delivered with Bonni, my wonderful Indonesian friend, at my side. He translated everything in a calm, even tone, grabbing my shoulder for strength when I felt it draining out from my feet.
This morning I returned, and although we’d both tried our hardest, we let go. Stella was ready. She’d given it her all. She’d survived so much, and lived longer than most others would have. All I wanted for her was to know that she was loved before she passed, and I think she got the message. As the injections were taking hold, she let out a little noise, like a purr, before she went completely still. The vet and her assistant were amazingly gentle and kind. I could tell this was their least favorite part of the job. They treated her with the utmost respect and reverence, placing her body into a comfortable pose and cleaning her of dirt and blood before wrapping her in her favorite blanket.
They buried her this afternoon, in a pet cemetery across from the clinic. I felt that being there for her passing was enough. Her body was only a vessel. Her spirit was what I fell in love with. She was tough, kind, and so very brave. We had so much fun. I miss her presence all around the house. Although I never let her sleep indoors, I could always tell she was just on the other side of the wall. Sometimes she’d see the tiny lizards that hang out, eating mosquitoes, and chase them hilariously, running from one side of the cabinet to the other, waiting for them to emerge. She hated the bawdy bobcat that strutted atop the roofs of the neighborhood, and would wait for me in the kitchen when he came calling for her. We knew each other’s patterns and habits. We took care of each other.
Every other time I’ve had to let cats go, my Mom has always been there to handle the dirty work, to make the tough decisions. This was the first goodbye I had to handle on my own (aside from Bonni), as an adult. I had sworn she wouldn’t die on my watch, but learning how to deal with death is part of life. Stella chose me, perhaps, just as much as I chose her. She needed someone during her last months, and I’m grateful it was me. I’ve always been an animal lover, but I think she came into my life to teach me, in part, how to let go. Relationships have their own expiration dates. They don’t always end with our permission. The wisdom comes in knowing when it’s time.
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Since my last entry, life has been full. I was lucky enough to travel to the jungles of Borneo in order to observe gorgeous and funny orangutans in the wild (along with Proboscis and macaque monkeys). That weekend on the boat, floating down rivers, healed something in me and opened my eyes to how small we are, and how essential it is to restore the health of the forests and her species. Then came the Hindu holiday on the beach, next to (and in) a six hundred year old temple. Last weekend was spent on the island of Lembongan, which is located off the south east coast of Bali. There I saw my first stretch of black sand, snorkeled amidst pink, blue, yellow, green, and orange fish, and hung out with some of the other Fellows as one of us turned 30. Next week brings the month of April, and with that comes more plans of final trips in May and eventually returning home.
Classes are going really well. I’m learning things I was never taught in school in order to teach my students how not to view the world through blinders (I'll do my best). Our weekly movies are inspiring and entertaining. I love coming back to them on Monday nights and observing their reactions to films about American culture. As I gather more and more information on each decade, I’m both horrified and empowered by the history of my country, and so very grateful I can return to it. Although, as I’ve been going to my weekly language lessons, I’m more at ease here than I’ve ever been. Understanding breeds patience, and the more I know about how the local people communicate, the more I’m watching my world perspective shift. I found myself hanging out with faculty members on the stone wall outside the department the other day, enjoying the fantastic weather, laughing with them about the many ways to misunderstand language cues across cultures. It was a conversation fit for nerds, no doubt, but one I’d never even tried to share with them before. I felt truly included for probably the first time since becoming part of that department, and for a moment, the internal politics vanished.
I’m able to compare where I come from to where I am on a less personal level now, as my comfort and ability to communicate grow wider. I recently found out that on Indonesian identification cards, citizens are required to print not only their date of birth, address, sex, height, etc...but also their marital status, religion, and occupation. Something so simple explains quite a lot. I’m still woken up daily by the call to prayer (and people wonder why I go to Bali so often--I can actually sleep there), but it bothers me less when I know that the man who teaches me Bahasa Indonesia makes $170 per month. Less than two hundred dollars A MONTH. And he’s happy. They all are. Indonesians are happy with enough. They don’t need more. If their car takes them to and from work, it doesn’t matter if it was manufactured in 1981, or if the shade of blue it’s covered in is out of fashion. A local family told me that they live on $7,000 a year, quite comfortably, and I exhaled my shame of feeling poor making only 30 grand annually in Chicago. I no longer wonder what the hell is wrong with Indonesia as much as I wonder how I’m going to function back in the good old USA. I frequently can’t wait to go home, but I’m not sure I know how to live like an American anymore.
I know I’ll figure it out. I’ve got time. Thankfully. I have a body that has yet to give up on me. I have memories of souls, both human and animal, that have altered mine irrevocably. And for that, I am so thankful. Goodbye sweet Stella. May your spirit find a body fit for a Queen.
