Abbey's Road: Everyone experiences grief differently; sharing memories helps

Since the last time I wrote about our cat, Watson, he has crossed the fabled Rainbow Bridge and now presumably is frolicking with his great-uncles Baxter and Scooter in the Land of the Feline Great Beyond, where the catnip never loses its potency and there’s a never-ending supply of the Deluxe Brand Cat Food.

Or so I’ve been told.

It’s been an interesting journey so far, this one of grief. It’s the first time the kids have experienced it up close and personal, with a loved one (though not a person) with whom they’re used to spending a good portion of their lives departing and leaving a hole behind.

I’ve noticed my kids process it in different ways:

Bookworm, the oldest at 14, used painter’s tape to mark off the place where she last saw Watson alive on her bedroom floor. She told me she’s unsure if she will ever wear the shirt of hers (on the floor) that his head last touched. (I told her I thought Watson would want her to go ahead and wear it; it’s one of her favorites.)

I’ll occasionally catch her looking out the window where he used to sit or standing by the corner of the yard where we buried him, lost in thought.

Memories, for her, will trigger tears as she soaks them in — I found a blue colored pencil with Watson teeth marks and gave it to her because she likes mementos. She needed space after that, which I gladly provided.

The Architect, 11, is an internalizer, taking things in and ruminating over them very deeply but letting on very little. She feels things profoundly but is cautious about who she lets in, preferring to keep her circles small and to mask turbulent feelings behind a serene exterior that can be mistaken for callousness but actually is not.

She requires space to process grief but also has a mental fortitude and resilience — I think, in part, due to the nearly five years she’s lived with Type 1 diabetes — that is unusual for a kid her age.

In a way, she mourns every day, even if she doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing. Her life is harder in many regards than a “normal” (I know that’s not a thing) kid, and she has developed a strength that allows her to navigate difficulty with perspective and grace.

Tiny, bless her heart, had big feelings at first but the following day was ready to head to the Humane Society for a replacement. She still talks about Watson as if he’s a member of the family; she remembers fondly his little quirks and all the things we changed about life once he came around.

The other day we had tacos for dinner, and I left the shells out on the counter in their package.

“It feels weird to be able to leave tortillas out,” I said to Tiny, who was standing nearby.

“Yeah, because Watson would always get them!” she said. “But you still can’t leave BUTTER out,” she added. (Butter is Sherlock’s vice. When a stick has teeth marks, we know we’ve been negligent.)

Me? I will always tell the stories because I’m a storyteller and stories keep memories alive. Watson lives on in the tortillas we don’t leave on the counter, the bite marks at the end of my pen, the way our money tree plant is tied to the wall because of his destructive tendencies.

The thing that caught me off guard was the first night after we buried him because the temperature dipped, and I knew it was cold in the backyard under the dogwood.

“I know he’s not THERE,” I said to Mr. Roy in the quiet, in the dark. “But I can’t stop worrying about him being cold. Because it feels like he should be in here, warm, with us.”

There were tears after that.

Grief is a funny thing and we all navigate it differently. As a family we come together and celebrate the happy memories; we encourage one another in hard moments and give space as needed.

And while it’s a hard thing to lose someone — yes, even a pet — we love, it’s nice to be able to walk through grief with family by your side.

Last but not least, I’d like to extend a heartfelt “thank you” to all the readers who sent kind notes following last week’s column about our Watson. For all the ways it can sometimes feel like humanity falls short, my readers never fail to come through with compassion and encouragement, and it does my heart so much good to hear from each of you.

Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.

This article originally appeared on Newark Advocate: After the loss of their cat Watson, the Roys support one another