I had him in less than 24 hours. Yet, I had managed to lose him. I stifled the panic in my throat and fought back surprising tears. I was seriously overreacting, and I knew it. However, it knowledge of and power to stop are two different things, so I let it be.
I am a dog person. Cats are an anomaly to me. I know they usually stay indoors and poop in a box (gross). They do not come when called. They snub perfectly good food and act as though they are offended when offered the most delicious treat. They consider furniture their very own destruction derby. Fetch, leashed walks and swimming are not a part of their repertoire. What do they do? Sleep. Chase strings and toys that wiggle. Jump on high places and leave paw prints. They serve no one. They are the utter opposite of my dogs, who are faithful and loyal and excited to see me every single day. They are bred for service to humans—I am the very center of all they do.
Despite feline pitfalls, this cat struck a chord with me. He had come as an emotional support animal to a 100 lb. German Shepherd female, belly heavy with what is likely a dozen pups. She is miserable and this black cat with four white paws and a blaze makes her feel calm. That is good enough for me. The calming cat came home with the soon to be puppy mama. I knew would have to figure out cat care, but he would help her settle in and whelp at peace. Later, I would ask him to help me train the puppies to accept felines as friends.
After an eleven-hour drive, we arrived at my house. It was late, so their introduction to my world consisted of jumping on my California king bed and dropping off to sleep. While they snoozed, I laid awake planning for the coming litter while simultaneously setting up scenarios that could make financial ends meet in my increasingly expensive world.
Morning came too early, so I asked my dogs to teach the expecting mama the house schedule, first taking her outside to discover their yard and then leading her back into the kitchen breakfast area. While they showed her the ropes, I dutifully prepared morning grub and set about cleaning.
I was draining the dish water when I remembered the cat. Churchill, that 17 lb. feline that had somehow made me like him after a long drive and one night in a shared bed. I had to admit, cat snuggles are nice. He had to be hungry. I called him a couple times before I remembered that cats do not recall. I shook his vittles bag. Nothing. Frustrated, I went to find him. Dogs come to tasty food, so my irritation at having to coax a cat to eat was palpable.
I searched all the rooms in my house. No Churchill. I opened cupboards and checked under beds. Nothing. I was looking in my kitchen when an unwanted thought pierced my mind and punctured my thinking. At that moment, my gut began to hurt, and my heartbeat doubled. I checked both the back and front door. No Churchill on either porch. I tried to stop and think rationally, but the unrelenting thought began plunging itself repeatedly into my increasingly frantic mind. Did he get outside? The idea was nearly more than I could bear. I could not fight back the rising tide of doom in my soul. I was aware of my overreaction but could not gather myself enough to evaluate. I was left with only one option. I had to find him.
Near panic, I again tried reasoning. This cat would not just go outside. He had lived on a farm in Arkansas. To him, getting out would mean a bit of play before a short walk to the farmhouse. However, he does not know Northern California is three days drive from Arkansas. He would get lost. It was not cold, but there were coyotes out beyond my fences. My mind went to places I did not want it to go. I fought back anger at losing him and the tears that come from helplessness. He could not fall prey to those wild creatures. I would not be able to take it if they got him. feeling like I would soon throw up, I determined that I had to find him. I called his pregnant companion, and we went outside to see if we could see him. We searched my property, neighboring areas and the fields down the road. No Churchill.
On the way back to my house, the pounding fear began to radiate out from my abdomen and make my hands tremble. Trying to get a grip on my reaction, I took a drink of water and checked the house again. Still nothing. With no idea where to look and sure he was gone, I stood at the window, forehead on the chilly pane, and prayed God would return him. Worried tears wet my words. I knew I was overreacting, but I could not stop what was going on in my inner world. I was desperate. Loss had been my constant companion for a decade. I could not bear having one more thing taken from me. Hopelessness gripped my chest and tried to make desperation strangle me. I went from asking to begging. “God please, make him come back.” Sobs, ugly sounding and without any sense of decorum, erupted from my lungs, making my face askew and paralyzing my mind. How could I care that much about a cat I barely knew? Loss trauma is a chain reaction. Each loss joins the last until the pain becomes a series of links that chokes its victim with ever increasing grief.
I knew I was over reacting. I could not stop this perceived loss from connecting from 10 years of things I cared about being ripped out of my world. Those things had been much more profound. Safety of a secure home; a relationship I thought was till death do us part; work that gave way to bad leadership and an unstable economy; A child who broke my heart to pieces; church abuse that blamed me for every problem because I was not ‘spiritual’ enough and worse, was the one who invited it all because of a personality flaw; death; disappointment; and more. It had been years. I had been through counseling, and I was recovering. Even so, sometimes the pain connected to a new experience to the old and I spiraled. Usually I caught it at the beginning and I could breathe my way out of it.
But this Churchill. He surprised me. The unexpected loss got past my defenses and choked me before I could stop it.
Such is the life of trauma recovery.
I did not try to stop crying. I had enough knowledge and understanding of what was happening to know that I could not stop it if I tried. Instead, I let the pain of a thousand hurts wrap around the perceived loss of a barely known cat. Knowing it had to come out, I concentrated on breathing, counting to four three times with each breath to slow it down.
Eventually, the tsunami of grief rolled back and my mind began to clear. I wiped my nose on my sleeve (I know. Gross). I was bone tired and still worried. I had been so careful. How on earth did he slip past me?
I was staring at the window glass and wondering when the reflection of my rocker, covered with a large drying rug, started swaying all by itself. I tipped my head to watch carefully and then turned around to see if I was imagining things. It rocked again, then Churchill sauntered out from under it, gave a meow and rubbed my legs.
Relief filled me, I chuckled and petted his head. He had been safe the whole time. Grateful I was wrong and not the least bit embarrassed at my overwhelming reaction, I scooped him up and gave him a bowl of food. He had no idea I was looking for him. He thought this new lady liked to say his name. I gave him fresh water, thankful my overreaction was all for naught.
Or was it?
Allowing emotions to surface is a must for healing. Sometimes, God puts us in a situation that has nothing to do with what he wants to heal. If we take the time to allow whatever a situation brings up in us to run its course, ugly sobs and all, we will find that the griefs of our past have connected with a frustration in our present or a fear in our future.
That connection is the healing point.
Trauma does not go away because we will it. Trauma demands a voice and will find a way to cry out "IT HURTS!" If we will give to that demand, we will also gain its departure. For, once trauma has had its say, it can be put to rest.
Does your trauma need a voice?
Come. We are listening. You will be safe here, ugly sobs and all.
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