I’m never going to be ready for this conversation. It’s the last day of the year and while people are quietly celebrating their victories and successes (the same thing I have tried to do that fateful day — Instagram’s Post a Picture/Video trend was a great way to look back to the last year and find solace in that fact that despite the hurricane that is 2020, there were spots of sunshine still), I can’t fully celebrate without thinking about you, and mourning your loss.
It fills me with an immense sense of guilt that I left that day, slept over at my best friend’s place of two decades. The night before, we played for a while (I will forever be grateful for that opportunity, I even had photos) and then after I placed you back to your cage, I told my family members who were clearing up the dinner table, “Lily’s not as active,” and made a mental note to take you to the vet, chalking it up to age, or the weather, or both. I remember thinking, a fleeting thought, of goodbye.
I kissed your nose good night, after giving you belly rubs that render you half unconscious, one foot into dreamland.
There are many things I regret, but not that.
They say that mothers can detect that their children are in danger even when they are miles away from each other. Most night I will wake up with a tugging in my heart, a yearning to look in your cage — usually the sight that will welcome me is a fallen wheel, toppled over by your weight, a drenched piece of my clothes you use as your hide, a fruit fly in your food bowl.
One time I fed you watermelon and you loved it so much I fed you a teaspoon more. When I was about to hunker down for the night, and you just about to start your day, I went to the toilet to brush my teeth and in the dim light I saw red in your stool. I woke up G then, and, all frazzled, brought you from vet to vet, finding one that was open and catered to exotic pets. You looked at me quizzingly the entire time in the car, while I struggled to find calm, as if to tell me, “Mum, it’s okay.”
And it was, though I never fed you watermelon again.
(That night, a lesson learned in such a frantic state: watermelons dye your stool red.)
You saw me at my worst — anxiety attacks, Bar-exam nerves, binge eating, and witnessed me at my best, becoming a lawyer, getting help, becoming a yoga teacher. And through it all, you remained a constant companion, sleeping quietly blanketed by sheets, your legs splayed out, as if to remind me — “It will be okay.” As if to assure, “There is time for rest.” As if to proclaim, “One at a time. Dim the lights. Quiet down.”
You know, whenever I would feel an anxiety attack creeping in, there was no one who can help me calm down like you do. That’s where we were most alike — most safe in dim rooms, in calming places, under sheets, in secure hands.
When I got home that fateful day, I remember rushing up to shower (a pandemic staple) and playing with Ellie, whom we affectionately call your younger sister — the yang to your yin, the chaotic energy to your calm peace. I sat down for dinner, and, having remembered that you like the occasional boiled meat as a treat, cut up pieces of pork. I wasn’t even finished with my dinner when I raced up the stairs, dining table conversations dying down as I approached your home.
I emptied and cleaned your food bowl, replenished the water, put in the cat food and mixed in the pork.
Then I went to wake you up.
Only you were already in peaceful slumber, never to come back to life.
I remember very few things then — I remember doubling over in pain, howling, as I made my way to my room. I remember shouting at my brother to confirm that you were gone, and his somber assent of that harsh truth. I remember begging my dad to just bury you, that I couldn’t, but to give you one last time with me, so I can thank you and thank you and thank you, because you were such a good companion.
When I lifted the lid off the box where my dad placed you, I saw again how stiff you were, how raised your quills were. You usually raise your quills when you were stressed, and never with me, unless I surprised you. My sister said you had dried puke in your mouth, greenish, a sure indication of something ingested. Every night since then I ask myself, were you in pain? Were your last moments those of anguish? Could I have done anything else to avoid it? Could I have pushed the pain away?
And every night I end up crying, because those questions will remain unanswered.
And all I know is that you’re gone.
I will never be ready to have this conversation. I just told my friends that last week was the first time I thought of Nami without breaking down in tears, and it’s been 6 months since she crossed the rainbow bridge. I don’t know how grieving works, how timelines work, but all I know is, tonight, on the eve of the New Year, while I will celebrate and look back on my successes and victories, and lessons learned, I will also mourn. I will think of you, and cry, and feel the pain, and also remember just how good you were to me, and to those you’ve (un)intentionally raised your quills to.
Thank you for the 2.5 years, Lily. The spunk, the grump, the calm — a plethora of personalities in one tiny package.
You will be sorely missed. I hope you run free wherever you are.
And I hope no one in hedgehog heaven freaks out when you eat too much watermelon and your poop turns red.
I love you, I love you. Good bye. And I hope to see you in my dreams.
Of perpetual finds 