Jeff Jefferson – Jeffie

Grief

How do you write about grief? Grief is so personal and something everyone experiences in their unique way. There is no right, no wrong and certainly no time restraint.

Many say, there are the stages of grief – shock & numbness, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance.

Personally, I don’t feel we ever get over grief. Instead, we learn to live with grief, or as Dr Tonkin says, “We grow around grief”. At first, grief consumes the whole of us; it fills every part of our lives. It’s all-consuming. I believe life continues, grief doesn’t become a smaller part of our lives, it doesn’t shrink, grief stays just the same size, but we begin to live and grow our lives around it. There may be times when grief feels every bit as intense as the first moment it struck, but there will be times when it is no longer front and centre of our lives. It doesn’t mean you are being disloyal to the loved one by not thinking about them constantly, it doesn’t mean you love them any less – you are simply growing around the grief, carrying on with living.

Not only am I a healer, but I’m also a writer. Writing is a form of therapy – be it journalling, writing my diary or writing books. For me, it made perfect sense to write when we lost Jeffie. I wanted to share with you the feelings I experienced and how losing a much-loved family pet can be as raw as losing any loved one, human or animal. It’s raw; it’s written in the moment and not edited in any way…

Tuesday, November 5th 2024

As I begin to write this, a fresh flow of tears leaves my eyes; I wonder how my body keeps up with the constant flow of tears I have shed these past three days – I didn’t think it was possible.

Oh, Jeffie, how I miss every single part of you. As I write, I’m sitting in one of your favourite spots, looking out into the garden. How I miss watching you patrol the garden first thing in the morning, chew a bit of grass, take a thirst-quenching drink from your pot of water before settling down on Fred’s house to “observe your land,” we used to tease.

It’s not easy coming downstairs first thing in the morning, opening the kitchen door and not hearing you meow your beautiful greeting, which honestly sounded like hello. You’d then look at me, with wide, excited and curious eyes before jumping off the sofa and rushing over to greet me - like it’s the first time you’ve seen anyone in days - with purrs of excitement as if to say, “yay, Mum’s up, that means the day has started.”

I loved how you’d then run to the living room - where the door was shut - and as I opened the door, you’d gently lift your front paw to push the door open for me. As I lay down my yoga mat, you’d sit on it, waiting. Naturally, you were way better than me. Words can’t explain how much I will miss you jumping on my chest or back and helping me. I haven’t crossed this hurdle yet, but I will soon. Doing my yoga or Pilates alone.

I wanted to write this now while the grief is so raw. At present, it feels like the grief will never lessen, I won’t learn to live with the loss of you. Last night, I knew you had come to me. You were here with me whilst I tried to sleep. It was so comforting, and now, selfishly, I want more. I want you here all the time. To feel you. To see you. Hear you. I know you’ll never be far away; in fact, you may be with me more now – even whilst I work! You’re possibly sitting right beside me as I write this, but at present, I’m so numb that I’m not able to feel it. As I relaxed in sleep, I could. This thought brings a smile to my face - if you were physically here right now, you’d be trying to jump on the laptop and nudge my hands away from typing so I could stroke you.

Some people don’t understand and say that losing a pet is just “losing an animal.” But it’s not. A family pet is a loved one. Part of the family. In some ways, they are closer than members of the family. You were always here. You were my constant companion. My trusted and loyal friend. You knew when I needed to stop and become present or if I needed some loving or healing. You knew.

You weren’t “just a cat.” You were a dearly loved, treasured, and respected member of this family. Anyone who met you or knew you fell in love with you. You were super special, and I’m so grateful we were so fortunate to have you in our lives for nearly nine years. That is nowhere near enough time, but we are eternally thankful for the time you gave us.

It was back in November 2014 when Theo came to me and said he wanted a “real pet” – Fred (the tortoise) wasn’t a real pet to him. He wanted one he could stroke, gain comfort from, and play with – a companion. Little did we know that not only would we find a “pet”, but we’d also find our soul buddy. We contacted Cats Protection, and very quickly, the team contacted me and said that a cat needs rehoming. Sadly, the family who loved you could no longer keep you or your brother (who used to beat you up). When we first met you, it was love at first sight. Not only were you stunningly handsome, but your character was simply perfect. We agreed with the family that they could look after you until they needed to move, which happened to be just before Christmas.

That first Christmas was magical. You were now the top cat and loved it. We bought you gifts, one being the duck on stretchy elastic – which you treasured – although, apart from him, you just loved playing with all the wrapping paper and climbing in and out of the boxes.

The next nine years were undoubtedly filled with highs and lows; you were present for every single one. Mine and Theo’s constant. Our little furry soul buddy healer.

You also had your share of challenges. One that comes to mind immediately is when the pack of Bengal cats moved into the house over the road. They were extraordinarily territorial and certainly terrorised the local cats – including you. There was one time the pair of males stalked you, attacked you, and nearly took your life. The vet said you were fortunate they didn’t puncture your jugular, as clearly that’s what they intended to do. Thankfully, the family moved away, but not after thousands of pounds worth of vet fees and you becoming timider of other cats.

In 2021, we nearly lost you. You became very unwell very quickly. We rushed you to the vet, where you stayed for two days. After many tests, we discovered you had major kidney issues, and it was suggested I take you home to say goodbye to the family before taking you back to the vet the next day to be put to sleep. As you sat on my lap, looking so unwell, my heart was broken. I wished there was something I could do - Reiki healing! And I did. You did appear to get brighter before my very eyes, and when I took you back to the vets the next day, I recall them looking at me, saying, “I don’t know what you’ve done, but whatever it is, Jeff’s condition has improved significantly.” They didn’t know how long you would live; it was a miracle you were so well. At this point, we knew we were on borrowed time, and every day was a blessing.

I gave you healing every day, and you gave me healing every day. It was a perfect balance of energy exchange. Unconditional love.

My happy memories:

·      Our morning routine

·      Playing fetch over and over with your mice – slowly but surely moving the mice further and further away, so we had to get up to keep playing

·      You sitting with Fred

·      The gentle prod with your little foot if you wanted attention or we were taking too long to feed you

·      Cat Soup – if it got to 10 pm and you didn’t have your soup, you certainly make it known that it was time

·      Ignoring me for a few hours if I’d been away as if to say, “How dare you. I’m now going to punish you by ignoring you.”

·      Sitting on the sofa in the evening, you on my lap making biscuits, almost in a trance

·      Stealing water from anyone’s glass that was unattended

·      Playing in the garden – you wanted to join in with everything, be it table tennis, badminton or gardening

·      Sitting under your tree in the summer

·      Patrolling your land

·      Being frightened of leaves that fell from the trees

·      Chasing the wind and then pouncing up the tree

·      Sneaking into my therapy room at any given opportunity

·      “Playing” board games with us

·      Knocking anything onto the floor – especially keys, pens or puzzle pieces

·      Wiping your feet when you come in from outside

·      Meowing at the back door to come in and then running to the front to be let out

·      Meowing at the door but actually not wanting to come in

·      Being on the glass roof, looking down at anyone inside

·      Zoom calls (yep, you’re famous across the world)

·      Somehow nudging yourself into any seat you wanted

·      So so many memories, too many to list

But my favourite memory is always knowing you were here. That comforting purr and nudge of your head.

On the 2nd of November 2024, you didn’t seem your usual self. You hid under the bed all day, barely drank and didn’t eat anything – not even your soup. When I came downstairs on Sunday morning (the next day), you didn’t greet me in your usual manner. Something was not right. I was meant to be at an all-day reflexology course in Harrow. I struggled to decide to go or not. Were you simply feeling under the weather? It’s happened before. It got to the point where I had to go. We talked about giving it another day, and if you still weren’t right, we’d take you to the vet on Monday. No, you needed to see a vet today for a check-up and maybe reassurance. I didn’t expect a call at 1 pm saying I needed to be quick. You were at the emergency vet, and it wasn’t looking good.

That journey felt like an eternity. Once I got to the vet, it was clear you really weren’t well. The vet explained that your kidneys were no longer functioning and you were beginning to shut down. You appeared to brighten up once I arrived and even drank some water. But no matter how much energy healing I gave you, it was your time to leave this earthly realm. As I called in the angels and archangels to support you along your journey, I looked into your beautiful, deep, wise and knowing eyes. My fingers were right next to your paws, you reached out with one of your paws and placed it on my hand as if to say, “It’s ok, Mum, it’s my time, you’ll be ok,”. Oh, my beautiful boy. I will treasure that moment in my heart, always.

I held you as you took your last breath and left this world. My heart ached so much for the loss of your physical form no longer being here. My heart will continue to ache until it is my time to join you again.

I know your spirit is free from the physical form, and you are no longer in any discomfort. You gave us nine incredible years, three of which were a bonus. And I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for this—my beautiful, brave Jefferson.

Grief is a git. It hurts. It physically hurts. Grief only hurts this deeply if the one who is no longer here is loved as much. And my word, Jeffie, you are so, so loved—the most precious cat.

Thursday, November 7th 

I’m now writing this after visiting you at Dignity Pet Crematorium. I gave you a white rose and placed your duck between your paws. I accept your physical form is no longer here, but I also know in my heart that you are now in my Spirit Team, guiding me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have inherited angel wings, as you were one in a million. Pets are part of the family. I think of you as my youngest child. Thank you for all you taught me, Jeffie. You are very loved and never, ever will be forgotten. You have most definitely earned your wings, my beautiful boy.

If it should be…

If it should be that I grow frail and weak,

And pain should keep me from my sleep,

Then you must do what needs to be done,

For we know this last battle can’t be won.

You will be sad, I understand,

But don’t let grief stay in your hand,

For this day, more than the rest,

Your love and friendship must stand the test.

We’ve had so many happy years,

What is to come can hold no fears.

Would you want me to suffer? So,

When the time comes, please let me go.

Take me where my needs they’ll tend,

Only stay with me until the end,

And hold me firm and speak to me,

Until my eyes no longer see.

Do not grieve, it should be you,

Who must decide this thing to do,

We’ve been so close, we two these years,

Don’t let your heart hold any tears.

Love you, Jeffie, now be in peace, forever yours, Mum xx >^^< xx