October was a pain. The concussion sidelined me for much longer than anticipated. If you know anything about me, you know that I tie my identity closely to my capacity for training and racing. Being limited to active recovery for about three weeks was brutal, and it seemed things could not get worse. Then November happened.
This story is painful to recount, much more so than a little old bike crash. So the abbreviated story is all I have for now. On a Thursday morning, while packing equipment for a swim practice at Skidmore, Drogo, my 4-year old cat, went into heart failure. We rushed off to an emergency vet in Albany (all closer veterinary offices were closed at 6 am). Upon the doctor’s examination, it was found that Drogo had a congenital heart defect that was irreversible. Although the thrombosis that caused the heart failure was treatable, I was told the problem recurs within a year 100% of the time. Drogo was in a pain I cannot begin to fathom, with circulation to his legs cut off and entering the early stages of paralysis. Knowing this suffering was an inevitable end to his life, either now or again in a few months, I had to make the painful decision to euthanize my baby boy.
Pets pass on all the time. It is tragic, but inevitable given the short lives of cats and dogs. With that said, I have never been so devastated by another loss in my life. Drogo was the most reliable person one could ask for. He was affectionate (and not just when he was hungry!), welcomed every guest to walk through our door, and could always be counted on for a head butt. The hole in my life from his loss cannot be measured.
The experience has been surreal on my end. Just hours after taking him home in a box with his paw prints on it, I had to be on the pool deck coaching my swimmers, pretending everything was perfectly normal. Most of the people I’ve told have been empathetic, but there is certainly an air of dismissal, as if losing a cat is somehow not as bad as losing a human friend. Drogo wasn’t just a cat, he was my best friend.
It has now been three weeks, and while I no longer cry every single day, the loss is still felt. Everytime I feed my little girl, Clementine, there is no Drogo putting his face in the dish. When I’m cutting meat, there’s no closely observing beggar next to me on the counter. When I’m on the couch watching TV, there’s nobody desperately seeking a lap to curl up on. At this point I am approaching that “acceptance” stage of grief, but it has not been easy. To say that he was a blessing and that the four years of companionship he gave me were life-altering would be the understatement of a lifetime.
Swim practices and triathlon training seem so small in the context of losing one of your closest relationships. And yet the show must go on. In December I will fly down to Florida and finish my triathlon season at Challenge Daytona. I will do my best, and try to compete in a way that my boy Drogo would be proud of.
This story is painful to recount, much more so than a little old bike crash. So the abbreviated story is all I have for now. On a Thursday morning, while packing equipment for a swim practice at Skidmore, Drogo, my 4-year old cat, went into heart failure. We rushed off to an emergency vet in Albany (all closer veterinary offices were closed at 6 am). Upon the doctor’s examination, it was found that Drogo had a congenital heart defect that was irreversible. Although the thrombosis that caused the heart failure was treatable, I was told the problem recurs within a year 100% of the time. Drogo was in a pain I cannot begin to fathom, with circulation to his legs cut off and entering the early stages of paralysis. Knowing this suffering was an inevitable end to his life, either now or again in a few months, I had to make the painful decision to euthanize my baby boy.
Pets pass on all the time. It is tragic, but inevitable given the short lives of cats and dogs. With that said, I have never been so devastated by another loss in my life. Drogo was the most reliable person one could ask for. He was affectionate (and not just when he was hungry!), welcomed every guest to walk through our door, and could always be counted on for a head butt. The hole in my life from his loss cannot be measured.
The experience has been surreal on my end. Just hours after taking him home in a box with his paw prints on it, I had to be on the pool deck coaching my swimmers, pretending everything was perfectly normal. Most of the people I’ve told have been empathetic, but there is certainly an air of dismissal, as if losing a cat is somehow not as bad as losing a human friend. Drogo wasn’t just a cat, he was my best friend.
It has now been three weeks, and while I no longer cry every single day, the loss is still felt. Everytime I feed my little girl, Clementine, there is no Drogo putting his face in the dish. When I’m cutting meat, there’s no closely observing beggar next to me on the counter. When I’m on the couch watching TV, there’s nobody desperately seeking a lap to curl up on. At this point I am approaching that “acceptance” stage of grief, but it has not been easy. To say that he was a blessing and that the four years of companionship he gave me were life-altering would be the understatement of a lifetime.
Swim practices and triathlon training seem so small in the context of losing one of your closest relationships. And yet the show must go on. In December I will fly down to Florida and finish my triathlon season at Challenge Daytona. I will do my best, and try to compete in a way that my boy Drogo would be proud of.
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