A short story from a graphic novel arises unwelcomed into my mind:
After his father passed away a wealthy man becomes obsessed with learning what people see at the moment they are about to die. His father had been screaming, horrified by the perimortem vision he beheld. Soon after he converted part of his estate into a hospice in an attempt to unravel this mystery. In a house of dying people he believed he would have his opportunity to learn from a patient at the right moment, demanding to know what that patient was seeing.
Soon the man got his wish. And spent the rest of his life locked away in a padded cell, endlessly screaming in horror at whatever visage the living should never know.
This story is unwelcomed because it surfaced from the subconscious depths of my mind as an explanation. A stupid and cruel explanation that any halfwit knows is fiction.
My cat Snowball, my precious baby boy did not pass away peacefully as I hoped and expected. Delirium took hold as he howled and struggled against some unknown phantom danger. I held him, spoke with a gentle voice full of love and reassurance that I'm here, his Daddy is here to love him like always. His breathing stopped, his jerking ceased. I held him close for a long time before wiping away his urine, then folding two of my shirts around him. (and no, I did not think anything supernatural happened)
If I had the foresight, I would have called Dr. Hillary Hart, DVM to come to my home the previous Sunday, hours after he he had purred playfully for the last time. She would have administered euthanasia before the full brunt of his illness overwhelmed him.
I find it amazing that I'm not tormented over "letting" my child suffer so much in his last minutes of life. The previous three years eight months of happiness I gave him saves me from that torment. Beautiful, uplifting memories for which I will always be grateful.
20mar2017
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