Author Kat Hurst and her little one
I can’t believe it has been a week. A week since my little girl has passed away. Tears fall on my laptop keys as I write. I can still smell evidence of her. I still feel the overheated warmth of her skin next to mine. There were no warning signs of her illness… she simply just stopped existing.
She was only four years old.
I’ve asked God why…why was she taken from me? Why was I given this gift for only a short time? I long for her loving gaze. Her daddy, beyond heart broken, is sullen, quiet.
Oddly, the house doesn’t feel so much like a home. There are fewer words these days. Before, there was “Mia, leave your brother alone!” and, “Mia, are you ready for a snack?” and, “Mia, look how sweet you look!” Now there is silence. The chaos of Mia has disappeared. Her toys are no longer all over the front room. I continue to look for them to avoid tripping, but they are put away now ─ hidden to avoid sudden attacks of heart break and sorrow.
So now my husband and I must carry on and wonder what do we do now? How do we explain what has happened to her brother who is clearly confused? Do we bring another life into the household? If so, when? How do we grieve without appearing to be unreasonable and unusual?
See, my Mia was not a carefree little toddler, but rather a clumsy, chunky little tabby that chose us at a local animal shelter almost one year ago to the day. It was love at first sight and now she is gone.
Is it crazy to have these emotions over a small little being with fur? Should grief only be reserved for “real” children of “real” parents? The pain feels real. I listen to stories from friends with real children and I want to join the conversation. Sometimes I do. They look at me like I’m crazy. I say, “Yes, my children have jealousy issues too!” and “Yes, getting them to eat breakfast is such a challenge!”
OK, so I don’t have to worry about my child choosing the wrong college or life mate. And I’m pretty sure my sweet Toby will not grow up to be a mass murderer, but like so many mothers I know, I have moments of guilt and worry. I watch poop habits like a fecal-holic. I monitor every mood swing as if it might be a sign of illness. I find myself asking Toby crazy questions like “How was your day today my love?” It’s not uncommon for me to say to my husband “You are not going to believe what your son did today.”
Clearly you cannot define me as a traditional mother as I have chosen to nurture a furry being rather than a human form. I will outlive most of my children; a fact I now realize and accept.
Perhaps that makes me a mother of a different kind.
Dear Mia, my sweet little daddy’s girl, we loved you with all our hearts. See you on the other side little Pia Pie, along with the rest of the Hurst clan.
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