My cat died. It was a week or so before Christmas and I walked into the dining room to find her sprawled across the table, pawing at the centerpiece. That was not at all like her. She might sit on the table and watch you intently, but she never sprawled. It was too undignified. She sat. She curled. She occasionally stretched. But she never sprawled. When I reached for her to playfully rub her side and question what in the world she thought she was doing, I realized exactly what she was doing. And while I stood and watched, she crossed from this world to the next.

I can’t say it was a surprise. She’d had cancer for over a year. It was to be expected, but it still hurt, even more so because of how similar her death was to that of my parents. I was blessed to be present when they both left this earth; the struggle during those last few minutes was the same, as was the calm that enveloped their bodies when that struggle ended.  Watching her die drug me back into the past.

I miss her. I miss our lap time and her sitting at my feet, waiting expectantly for a bite of whatever I was having. I miss having cat spit all over me when she was happy because she slobbered all over everything when she purred. And she purred a lot.

A month later, the Agars lost their home to an early morning fire. And my loss paled in comparison. Fire has always been one of my greatest fears and I cannot imagine losing everything in a matter of minutes. And then, just days later, the story of little Noah Chamberlin captured the attention of the town of Pinson, and then Chester County, and then west Tennessee, and then the nation. How does a child just disappear? Believe me, that’s a rhetorical question. I’ve had small children and now grandchildren. All you have to do is blink and they can be out of sight. I cannot imagine how his parents and his grandmother must feel. And the waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting. If I were in their shoes I would be insane by now having conjured up and then mentally lived through every possible, horrible scenario. If I had to choose between losing a cat or a house filled with all my worldly possessions or a child, I’ll give up the cat and the house and never think twice about the decision. I’m gonna hope everyone else would, too.

But that doesn’t lessen the pain. Although the loss that triggers grief may be small when compared to the losses suffered by others, that doesn’t make the pain go away. I can rationally, logically remind myself all day long how blessed I am to still have a roof over my head and my family intact, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss my P. J. I’m not saying that to garner sympathy over the death of my cat. I’m saying it so you will hopefully understand that the size of a loss is relative, with some losses being far greater than others. But the grief that is generated is not. Loss is loss, and all loss will bring grief in its wake. So please don’t belittle someone’s pain just because what they lost isn’t as monumental as it might have been. It still meant something to them and they still need time to grieve.

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