One of Those Weeks

                It’s been one of those weeks.  You know the ones—when something happens that brings your everyday life to a screeching halt.  You move into that timeless zone where your entire world is focused on a single life-changing issue.  Throughout a lifetime they show up in different forms—death, accidents, fire, job loss, cancer—and for a time nothing else can draw your attention away because, as a human, you can only carry so much emotional load at a time.

                This week we dealt with my father-in-law’s heart attack and the roller coaster of uncertainty in the hours that followed.  Thankfully, he’s on the road to recovery.  I won’t go into details, because many of you have already experienced or can at least imagine the waiting and wondering and drawing together that happens during a loved one’s trauma.

                I do want to mention a little incident that did break through my focus.  We’d been gone the entire day and returned to a dark home.  I spent time unpacking grocery bags, sorting mail, and checking email as the cats paraded through, alternately rubbing against my legs to say they missed me and clawing as a reminder to never leave again.

                I didn’t pay a lot of attention to them as I weeded through the day’s piles, but eventually it dawned on me that Frank wasn’t part of the cat procession.  Frank, despite his numerous dysfunctions, is a wonderful greeter.  Like a golden retriever, he’s the first to bound up and say hello when we come in the door.  The others usually turn a cold shoulder until they forgive us for abandoning them.

                Frank’s absence was odd enough that I began a thorough search of the house, even opening all the closet doors in case he somehow got trapped inside.  The alternative scenario was that he escaped that morning when my husband staggered in after a long night at the hospital.  Twelve hours outside during an arctic blast would not be healthy for a housecat.

                He’s naughty and bites and bullies the others and purposely destroys the house, but I can’t help loving Frank because when he tries, he is the most loving and social of all the cats.  He follows us like a puppy and even gives hugs as he sleeps next to me.

                                I was really getting worried.  I pictured him freezing to death as he crouched beside the house wondering why we wouldn’t let him in.  I bundled up to go look for him, opened the back door, and he sprinted in, cold but not frozen.  Perhaps he hadn’t escaped outside until we’d arrived home an hour before.

                My worry for Frank was quite different than that for my father-in-law.   My father-in-law was in the hands of specialists and my responsibility was to be there and to pray.  There was a weight in my heart, but not on my shoulders.

                With Frank, all the weight of finding him was on me.  He disappeared on my watch.  Who else would look for him?  My hands were tasked with searching for the little guy.  I guess it’s not that different from being a parent.  The overwhelming feeling of responsibility for the well-being of another, whether pet or child, amplifies the love you have for them.

                This week I’m not only filled with gratitude for my father-in-law’s competent care and recovery, but for Frank’s safe return and his role in our lives.

The lost has been found