The Odd Adjustments of the Aftermath

Kirk is gone now.

I put him to sleep on Sunday night, around 7:30pm. As difficult as it was, it was by far the best of all possible situations. He died in my arms, quietly, at home. We put him in a box lined with silk on the coffee table so we could spend time with him.

True to Kirk's renowned intuition and sense of timing, 15 minutes before the vet tech arrived at the house, he had started meowing plaintively, clearly saying: "I'm done." I had a vet tech friend come to my home, rather than taking him into the vet (avoiding that unnecessary trauma), or having an anonymous service come do it. The first shot is Ketamine, relaxing him into a stupor, then a second shot to put him to sleep. He drifted off calmly, staring vacantly towards the ceiling, his head nestled comfortably in the crook of my arm. I closed his eyes.

Katie and I then went out to a nice restaurant for a great dinner in celebration of his life. I inadvertently ordered an absinthe cocktail that was called "Death at Dusk". Perfectly apropos.

I woke up in the morning feeling good ... satisfied, really ... with a sense of completion. I have effectively been mourning Kirk for years now, knowing he was on his way out, and I spent time consciously appreciating him. So since his death, I haven't gone through the classic stages of grief. Instead, I'm experiencing a vague melancholy while adjusting to life without him. 20 years of repeated behavior is hard to unlearn.

I instinctively look for him when I come into a room, or open the bathroom door after a shower, or while sitting at my desk. I repeatedly think I see him out of the corner of my eye. I figure this will happen for a long time.

Though Kirk was mostly quiet, moving about the house feels quieter now.

While I still have my appetite, meals seem less interesting without him vulturing over my plate.

Working at the computer feels emptier without having to reach awkwardly over his head to type on the keyboard.

I'm more aware of these activities now that an integral part of them is missing.

Oddly, I find myself laughing harder than usual at good jokes. But then I feel the loss when the laughter ends ... a certain hollowness that's not usually there.

It's all part of the odd adjustments of the aftermath.