Cat, father and death

The astrologer had told me it would be a difficult year, but it wasn’t, if you discount a broken foot and covid fear that had taken over the world.  But what if his timing was simply wrong ?

Or should I discount the broken foot ? Because looking back at it, it all started with it and went downhill from there.

Xmas, a few weeks after the broken foot, came with a sudden change of covid rules in Hong Kong, one of the many we were to experience. Effective almost immediately (well to be precise, one hour later), quarantine for visitors from France was extended from two to three weeks. That was the Xmas gift of my daughter who was coming to visit her parents and re-activate her permanent residency. Surely, in a few years, it will seem useless because who wants to become a permanent resident of China? Doesn’t make you dream as much as permanent resident of Hong Kong, well,  at the time where it was still vibrant and free.

Three weeks of quarantine later, she was out and re-acquainted with  the simple joys of life like breathing fresh air, walking outside of a room, eating what she pleases, talking and seeing people face to face or using a washing machine and sleeping in a clean bedroom with fresh bedsheets. Who would have thought that it would become an unreachable luxury in the name of prevention against a bad flu named Covid 19?

I thought that the worst was behind and that I would be able to enjoy time with my daughter but …. Shortly after she was released from jail, my father – who was already old and weak - got Covid in a nursing home back home, in France. They had been doing relatively well until that time. Not one single case in the midst of the epidemy until they hired a temporary employee who failed to inform them that she had tested positive with Covid. And all collapsed. It was like cracking a match in a dry forest. They all got sick, employees included, and my dad included.

In the name of protecting elderlies during Covid crisis, the government had decided to lock people up in their homes for weeks but when it came to saving those very same elderlies, it was a whole different story. They were denied access to hospitals. They were denied access to new promising treatments under trial like hydroxychloroquine. Honestly, what worse than dying could have happened to them by participating in the test run? It’s even more ironic if you think that a few months later the very same government would have no problem asking everyone to get two (then three and the fun keeps coming) jabs of an experimental so called covid 19 vaccine. They were denied visitors. France, this country of freedom and equality, this country with a social security system that the world envies, let my dad die alone with no treatment. It was no better than being in a third world country. Well, I take that back because it’s unlikely that he would have been left alone. He would have died surrounded by his family and friends. But not in France. No, dying alone was the additional penitence added to his death sentence. Do I dare add that I would not have been allowed to see his body either if I had chosen to come for the funeral ? All what would have been unbelievable a few months back became the new norm that nobody, or almost nobody, rebelled against.

Seeing that my presence would have only meant missing my daughter’s visit, I decided to choose the living over the dead and to stay in Hong Kong with her.

It was forgetting that burial rituals are done for a reason and that reason is called grieving.

But grieving would not be in my agenda at that time. What was on the menu for me was an appendicitis. In times of Covid.

Even though there was almost no Covid cases in Hong Kong, the city acted as if plague was upon us. Masks everywhere and testing needed before any surgery. So much so that a simple appendicitis evolved during the waiting time to get the (of course negative) test result into a peritonitis. But at least it was a peritonitis without Covid. Something to be happy about it, isn’t it?

I had chosen to go to a public hospital near my home : the idea was to have the procedure done quickly and be out after two to three days. How bad could it be to stay in a public hospital for such a short time ? To my defence, I had fever, I was in pain and for once in my life, I just wanted to go with the flow.

What should have been two to three days maximum turned into thirteen days in a common ward of a public hospital, surrounded by dying elderlies or younger sick women with one common point : none spoke one word of English whatsoever. The food was awful. The noise was nonstop ( as it seems that none of the patients had ever heard about headphones ). Promiscuity was extreme. None of them seemed to think that as long as they could walk, going to the bathroom was a good idea. Privacy was non existing as they had put more beds than initially planned so you could not close the curtains. Sleeping was a challenge. Doctors were only passing by quickly , barely talking to you. I tried to be transferred to a private hospital, but they had a very developed sense of ownership and they had decided that I belonged to them once and for all.

To make matters worse, I’m allergic to penicillin which was exactly what I needed after my appendicitis had burst into my guts releasing all sorts of bacteria. They kept me under surveillance while trying alternative antibiotic treatments to combat the enemies swarming in my body. And the enemy finally gave in. I was ready to leave and get back to the civilization of the living and healthy.

I can’t describe the feeling of being back home with my daughter and my cats in a bedroom alone, with my own bathroom and the luxury of silence. The pleasure of not fearing what would come next. The pleasure of not having to see old people dying in front of my very eyes, all alone. The pleasure of not hearing retching or groaning all around me.

The pleasure of smelling only nice scents and of being surrounded by people who care for you. Because yes, like in France, because of Covid, no visitors were allowed. In public hospitals that is. Because Covid didn’t target private hospitals, so visitors were allowed over there. Go figure. Maybe Covid only targets poor people ?

Recovering and walking and regaining the five kilograms I lost took precedence again over grieving in the following weeks. And enjoying time with my daughter, it goes without saying.

And there I was, having not grieved properly and feeling this heaviness and sorrow come over me time and time again. I tried to do what I do best : distract myself and do things, whatever they are, doesn’t matter. Keeping busy is and was my saving grace. Or so I thought.

I buried myself in various trainings and sport and social activities, beside work as soon as I recovered all my usual strength and energy. At times, getting up in the morning was a challenge. At times, I felt so sad and depressed that it was a hurdle to get on with my daily activities. I felt I had become an orphan, all alone in the world. I felt guilty because I hadn’t been there for my dad. I even missed my mum, even though she died many years ago.

In the name of distraction, I adopted a second cat, a baby stray cat. He was to be named after my dad : Janot. He was born more or less while my dad had died. It felt right. It was a way to keep him in my daily life somehow. It was as if he was still there, in a twisted way.

Life went on. Some days sad, some days even sadder and some days lighter and better. A roller coaster of emotions. And keeping a happy face for the outside world because I’m a strong woman and I can’t be seen collapsing in pain. What would that make of me ?

A few months later, one night, Janot decided, like he often did, to go for a walk around the building. That evening, I thought I should close the windows and the balcony door. But as usual, I ignored my gut feeling and went to bed. When I woke up, Janot was nowhere to be seen, which was rather unusual as he was not the type to miss breakfast. I thought that he would be back in the evening. But at dinner time, he was still not at home and that’s when I was convinced that something was not right. I asked around. I checked that no cat corpse had been found on the ground floor of my building. Nothing. He had simply vanished.

On the weekend, we launched a search party, escalading balconies, windows and trying to retrace his steps. A charming old lady who used to see him and give him food told us that she had not seen him for a few days. I posted on Facebook and someone finally reached out to say they heard strong meows the night before. Listening carefully from the kitchen, we could faintly hear him as well. I felt helpless. I couldn’t figure out where he was exactly. I knew he was around, probably unable to come back home for some reason. Maybe he was even hurt, and I couldn’t rescue him. I felt sad. I needed to find a way to help him out. He was out there somewhere. I had to find him.

Thanks to some other neighbours, we finally found out where he was : he had fallen in between two buildings and couldn’t go back as it was too high for him to escalate. While we were figuring out how to reach him, he heard and saw me and decided to give a try to go down the 12-13 meters that separated him from the ground. And he did manage it successfully. But scared and still at heart a stray cat, he escaped. And then I collapsed. I felt such a sadness and immense powerlessness. The same I felt when my father was sick and finally died. I felt like a terrible cat owner and a terrible daughter. I couldn’t protect and help my cat. I couldn’t be there for my dad. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt like crawling in bed and sleep away the pain. Instead, I forced myself to go for a long walk. Being in the forest helped me feel better. I went back home and decided to take care of myself, to accept the pain of losing them both and to keep going. I did things I liked doing. I handled myself as if recovering from a long disease and in a way, I was.

During the following week, things went gradually better. I missed Janot. And my dad, of course. But the pain was less acute. I had gradually lost hope. I had accepted the loss. I knew he was alone somewhere in the compound but too afraid to come back. I tried leaving some food, but Janot was not where I thought he would be, and the food was always left untouched.

Finally we reluctantly decided to put a cat trap. The first night was not successful. We persevered and tried another time. Without much hope, I went to collect the cat trap 10 days exactly after Janot’s disappearance. And there he was. Scared. Hungry. But very much alive and kicking.

He quickly re-adapted to his previous life at home with his big brother. And that’s when I realised that the weight I have had since the death of my father was finally lifted. The anger. The sadness. The loneliness.

In a strange way, Janot and his fugue forced me to grieve. And with this finally done, happiness and lightness came back into my life.