When I died, it was relatively quick and only painful for a short time. No one saw it coming, as they say. I was alone, and that’s just fine with me. I’m not really one for shared pain, if it hurts someone else.
To be honest, I wasn’t totally alone. The cat had been coming to me for three days. A stray, I had assumed, but no one else saw him.
The first night, he slipped onto my lap while I was having a glass of wine on the porch. Startled, my wine slopped over the rim of my glass before I had a chance to note he was a large, short haired tabby – grey, with brown, and a white face and socks. Beautiful – and I told him so. He gave me that part smile, part smug look that cats have, and purred.
“Come see this cat,” I yelled into the screen door, but when John started out, the cat vanished, running into the shrubs at my right. “What cat?” he asked. “Never mind.” And I thought that was the end of that. Until the next night.
I like to stay up late, watching meaningless horror movies or documentaries about serial killers – or maybe a show about hoarders, to make me feel better about my lackluster housekeeping. Just regular stuff. I was in my beat-up recliner, when the cat literally nudged open the screen, and came in. I tensed – I have two cats who are none too fond of stranger cats on their turf, but neither stirred from their places on the couch. The tabby jumped on my lap yet again. He stayed for about an hour, sitting as if he owned me and no one had yet told me about it. I tried to take a selfie, but as soon as the phone came off the table he hopped down. This time I got the disapproving, over the shoulder look of mild disgust, and off he went, again nudging the door. I was relieved to see that like other cats, he was a bit of an asshole.
The third night is the one where I died. I was feeling just a little off – tired, headachy – so I went to bed at a decent time. John was working the overnight shift. I was so sure I had secured the door, but here came the cat, jumping on the bed as if it were a regular occurrence. And again, the other cats didn’t even stir. He lay on my chest, looking into my eyes with that strange concentration that felines share. He gave a quick chirping meow, right before the aneurism killed me. He didn’t even move until I did. I found myself across the room, the cat at my feet, staring at my body on the bed I had slept in for over 10 years. I looked peaceful. I had a moment of regret, but it passed, and curiosity took over. It was a relief to not feel pain, or sadness. The cat and I stood guard while the next events transpired.
Things happened like in a movie, where they speed up the parts that aren’t as important. A few hours passed, the sky growing lighter through the blinds, from azure to cotton candy. John came home, tried to wake me, tried CPR, cried, called the ambulance. I felt a sadness for him, but it was like an emotion glimpsed through cloudy glass – not fully formed or felt. They took my body away. John pet the other two cats and cried, making calls, looking at our photo albums. It was time for me to go. The pain of the living who are left behind is not for the dead to see.
I decided to stay with the cat when I left. He had been a comfort, a signal, a sentinel to what happened. I decided I wanted to do this too, and now I do.
Time passes differently for me. If I concentrate or seek out information from living sources, I can remind myself of the month, the year, but its just not important to me. I can’t really explain how I travel, but I do, and I have seen so many places, people of all ages and cultures and countries. I like to think I give comfort. Some have known they were dying and recognized me for what I am. Many have not known, but have never been afraid of my visits, and for that I am grateful. Most pass on to wherever they go, quickly and with a smile. So far, only one has chosen to join us on this journey. She was five, and is the charmer of the group, her long dark braids and deep green eyes are often the last thing people see and comment on before they go.
If you receive a visit from us on your porch, it’s the first of your last three days. I don’t know why it’s three days, but this never varies. We can help you to pass in whatever way feels dignified to you. You won’t be alone, and you won’t be afraid. Until then, live and live well, and don’t let the thought of death make any mark on the life you should enjoy now. Just be.