So instead, I'm posting a layout that...I didn't know if I was ready to post. I'm still not ready to even create a layout for the inevitable follow-up event, of actually saying goodbye. Nor can I do the subsequent layout for my cat Chalimar. 2 cats...passed away...within 6 weeks of each other. They were my life. The grief sapped my crafting mojo and I'm fighting to get it back.
So here is the layout I did, when I found out my prescious Annie had cancer. I know the paper is all DCWV, because that's pretty much all I have in solid colors. The letter stickers...cut off the logo on the product months ago. (My attempt at fitting it into a smaller storage area.) The single butterfly, flying free...not sure on that anymore either. I made this page in September 2008, so it's hard to remember. I just remember...how sick she was. The journaling reads:
* It’s not something I ever wanted to do. I realized
it was part of being a pet owner. But it just seemed
so far away. Cats are supposed to live a long time.
And believe me, Annie, you have always been
such a character, that I figured you would be with
me for a very, VERY long time.
* You have been my life since the day I brought
you home. You and me, the deaf girls team. No
matter how crappy my day was, you just cared that
I came home, fed you, and spent some time playing
with your favorite ball of yarn. If you couldn’t find
me, you would wander through the house yowelling
until I came running. You trained me well.
* In 2006, when they told me you had diabetes, I
learned how to care for you. I dealt with my fear of
needles so I could inject you. I adjusted my life to
fit in your care. I took you to specialists and paid
whatever I had to, to make you well. I was on top
of the disease at all times.
* And that’s what makes this so hard. I want to call
someone, throw money at something, and buy what
I need to make you OK. But I can’t. There’s no cure
for cancer. The hardest thing I’ll ever have to do, is
watch you slowly slip away from me. I can soften
your food, cuddle you while you eat, add water to
make sure you drink, give you your insulin, and
wipe your eye and nose as they leak from the
tumor pressure. But that’s it. There’s nothing more.
* I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do this. It
feels like failure. I don’t want to let you go. I can’t
let you go. Because I don’t know how I’ll be able
to go on. How can I live with a broken heart?
it was part of being a pet owner. But it just seemed
so far away. Cats are supposed to live a long time.
And believe me, Annie, you have always been
such a character, that I figured you would be with
me for a very, VERY long time.
* You have been my life since the day I brought
you home. You and me, the deaf girls team. No
matter how crappy my day was, you just cared that
I came home, fed you, and spent some time playing
with your favorite ball of yarn. If you couldn’t find
me, you would wander through the house yowelling
until I came running. You trained me well.
* In 2006, when they told me you had diabetes, I
learned how to care for you. I dealt with my fear of
needles so I could inject you. I adjusted my life to
fit in your care. I took you to specialists and paid
whatever I had to, to make you well. I was on top
of the disease at all times.
* And that’s what makes this so hard. I want to call
someone, throw money at something, and buy what
I need to make you OK. But I can’t. There’s no cure
for cancer. The hardest thing I’ll ever have to do, is
watch you slowly slip away from me. I can soften
your food, cuddle you while you eat, add water to
make sure you drink, give you your insulin, and
wipe your eye and nose as they leak from the
tumor pressure. But that’s it. There’s nothing more.
* I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do this. It
feels like failure. I don’t want to let you go. I can’t
let you go. Because I don’t know how I’ll be able
to go on. How can I live with a broken heart?
No comments:
Post a Comment