A sorrowful heart produces no blogging
Why is it that I am comfortable telling the whole world about the inner workings of my reproductive tract, but am loath to set down the pain in my heart over the loss of a loved one?
There has been little to inspire me to write since December 23 when we found out that the cancer our second oldest cat was diagnosed with in November had spread to her lungs. I should have written about the Winter Solstice night we spent decorating our tree with two of our best friends. I should have written about the blizzard in Denver that kept my mother from getting her luggage for two days after she arrived here 4 hours late on December 22. I should have written about the compound miter saw and the Wusthof knives that Dear Hubby and I gave each other for Christmas. Or, finally, I should have written about the hours my mother spent sleeping on the floor in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport trying to get home after her annual holiday visit. But the sadness that hung like a cloud over my house after the diagnosis and that has haunted us since January 2 when we put our precious girl Nhalla to sleep has left me without words.
I have told almost no one except close friends and family. Work has kept us crazy busy and stressed out and, overall, has not helped. During the last few days of our vigil, I read somewhere that humans need to believe in something greater than themselves, or they will fall into despair. We have leaned on our belief in that something these last few weeks to get us through this difficult time.
Our beautiful Nhalla - of the chirping meow, green eyes, and fuzzy tummy - who loved to chase the laser dot and curl up for a nap in any random ray of sunlight. Baby girl, you will be missed so much.
There has been little to inspire me to write since December 23 when we found out that the cancer our second oldest cat was diagnosed with in November had spread to her lungs. I should have written about the Winter Solstice night we spent decorating our tree with two of our best friends. I should have written about the blizzard in Denver that kept my mother from getting her luggage for two days after she arrived here 4 hours late on December 22. I should have written about the compound miter saw and the Wusthof knives that Dear Hubby and I gave each other for Christmas. Or, finally, I should have written about the hours my mother spent sleeping on the floor in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport trying to get home after her annual holiday visit. But the sadness that hung like a cloud over my house after the diagnosis and that has haunted us since January 2 when we put our precious girl Nhalla to sleep has left me without words.
I have told almost no one except close friends and family. Work has kept us crazy busy and stressed out and, overall, has not helped. During the last few days of our vigil, I read somewhere that humans need to believe in something greater than themselves, or they will fall into despair. We have leaned on our belief in that something these last few weeks to get us through this difficult time.
Our beautiful Nhalla - of the chirping meow, green eyes, and fuzzy tummy - who loved to chase the laser dot and curl up for a nap in any random ray of sunlight. Baby girl, you will be missed so much.
posted by Isotta Bug @ 12:24 PM
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