Why I Can't Blame God Tonight

This is going to be a little rambling, and is definitely a divergence from my usually lighthearted post, so bear with me…

Barney the cat passed on today, six days after our new daughter, Wren, was born. He had developed some sort of bladder condition with a long and impressive sounding name, the short of which was that his bladder was blocked, backing urine into his kidneys, and hurting him pretty badly. It would eventually kill him. For $700 to $800 we could purchase a “chance” at getting him better, with the high probability that the problem would recur again in the very near future. The other option was the one that most pet owners have to face at some time in their lives: when is it best to let your pet go in the most comfortable, happy terms you can arrange? That was an especially difficult choice for such a good cat, a creature that had been with my wife through so many hard times, and who had so clearly and visibly loved her and this whole family. I won’t go into a long litany of everything he did for us, I’ll just say he’s the best male cat I’ve ever known, and even had the good graces to not trigger my cat allergies.

The decision we made was very, very hard on my wife (ok, on me too), and is only one of many crappy things my wife has had to deal with during what should be a beautiful time in her life. Things like my ex who decided, in the middle of Kari’s pregnancy, to sue for custody of the kids she gave up 7 years ago. Kari is one of the most wonderful, thoughtful, caring, beautiful women I have ever known and she deserves more than anything to enjoy her time growing and caring for Wren. She doesn’t deserve all hardships put on her lately, most certainly not to lose a creature that had been like a best friend to her, days after what should be one of the most joyous events of her life. It’s the sort of thing that really pisses me off, and would generally make me scream and rage against the injustice of the world, and maybe even call God out by name on it. I’m not going to do it this time, however, and if you’ll bear with me a little longer, I’ll tell you why.

I used to tell people that the scariest moment of my entire life was the day I was playing with my oldest daughter, then about 3 years old I guess, in a plant warehouse. We were playing chase. She was running from me, laughing hysterically, when she hit a thin puddle of water on the finished concrete floor. Her feet went out from under her faster than you could process it happening. The first thing to hit the concrete was the back of her head, and it made a sound like a high powered rifle going off. In that brief moment, I was sure that her brain had been hurt. I don’t think I had ever really known fear before that moment. Despite the fact that my daughter was in fact fine, I still have trouble even thinking about that day. The ghost of that raw, chest crushing fear is still right there. I tell you this as introduction to the “other” day in my life when I really, really knew what freezing, crushing, pleading to God fear is.

My newest daughter, Wren, was born at 1:22am last Thursday morning. She is a beautiful, healthy baby who at age 5 days already shows all the signs of being a future world leader. My incredible wife had a somewhat difficult labor (never ever trust anyone who says the word “cervidil” to you) but came through it like a champion. Those of you who have had kids will know the combined sense of joy and relief that comes when you see your healthy baby child come out of the womb looking healthy and whole. It is an incredible, euphoric moment because as much as we don’t like to admit it, we all have hidden fears of the worst and finally seeing our healthy child alive and well, well it’s just a good thing. So Kari and I both had that moment of utter happiness when Wren came into the world, and all was good. In our case, several nurses from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit were already on hand because of a fairly common condition which basically boils down to “the baby made a poo while still in the womb”. This happens all the time and the NICU folks were just there to suction her out really well in case any “myconium” (baby poo) had gotten into her nasal cavity. As soon as Wren was out the doc handed her to the NICU staff to do their thing. They put her on the warming table and got started in a fairly standard fashion. Then things started to turn. A good ten seconds passed, and we had not heard Wren cry yet. I cannot and will not try to convey the feelings that started up then. Another ten seconds went by. From my standing position by my wife I could see them get out the respirator bag. My wife and I both heard the word “intubate”. More time passed, but I don’t know how much. The world started to turn over. I remember my wife, with tears running down her face, praying one word, out loud, over and over again: “Please… Please… Please”. I remember the most terrifying moment of all, when all of the nurses in the room suddenly gathered around the warming table, not working on Wren but trying to act as if they had all just casually drifted into a little clump around the table. They were clearly doing what they had been taught: shielding me from seeing what was happening to my child. This more than anything convinced me, as I stood there gripping my wife’s hand, that our daughter was laying on a table dying. I wanted to run to her, but I wanted to stay out of the way. I wanted to cry to her that I was there, but I wanted to hide from my wife what it was I could see in the nurses faces. I felt a huge, gaping void open up inside me, and then I did what probably millions of people before me have done. I tried to make a deal. I said “God, please don’t take my baby. Don’t take her, and I promise that I will never forget that you gave me a miracle today. Please God. Please”. I prayed that over and over in my head, and whether or not that prayer had anything to do with anything, God didn’t take her. At some point we finally heard her cry, and we got to hold her, and she was beautiful, and healthy, and alert. She was alive.

So all of the above is to tell you why I can’t blame God tonight. It hurts to have to let Barney go, and it hurts to see my wife have to let him go. It hurts to look around the room and see his toys there, to see the catnip filled scratch box that he used to flip upside all the time. He really was a good, good cat, and he put up with more out of our crazy family than any one cat should have to. He deserved a long, happy life. He deserved better than some stupid bladder disease, and my wife deserves better than having to tell an old friend goodbye when she should be celebrating a new one. I’m going to grieve for both of them, and for myself, but I’m not going to get angry. Five days ago I made a deal. I got a miracle. And I remember that. And as cliché as it may sound, I think maybe Barney’s job was to get Kari safely to me, to this family, to this time with our new baby girl. Maybe he did his job. He was there when Kari needed him, and he was there for this family when me, Kari, and my two daughters were learning how to *be* a family. So maybe he did what he was supposed to do, and maybe he has a new job now. I hear that cats make great guardian angels, and I happen to know that there’s a new little girl in town that is going to need one. I think she would like Barney the cat.

Goodbye Barney. Thank you for taking care of Kari until I could get there. You're a good, good cat.