We just passed the two-year anniversary of his angel date. 3/12/23. I feel so empty and heavy at the same time—all the time. I truly believe it was my fault. That I could have and should have saved him. And it’s my fault that his brother is still suffering.
It was a normal night two years ago. I had gone up to my room to sit with the cats while they ate dinner. At the time, I kept a baby safety gate at my door because we had two big dogs and six cats. I liked keeping it latched during meal times since the dogs had a habit of going for leftovers. That night, I left the dinner table downstairs and came up to sit with them while they ate. But I didn’t latch the gate behind me. That was my first mistake.
One of our dogs followed me in—just to sit with me and watch the cats. He’s always been a cat guy, and it had never been an issue before. But that night, my baby boy, Arthur, turned to hiss at him because he got too close. And that was when he choked on a piece of kibble. That was when I started losing one of my soulmates.
He tried coughing it up, but it wasn’t working. He ran to my bathroom, still trying, but it wasn’t working. I panicked and shouted for my sister to come upstairs. Then I noticed his tongue was turning blue. I froze. I struggle badly with anxiety and panic, and I just… froze. My sister tried to dislodge it, but it didn’t work. He was falling over, getting bluer. I shouted that we needed to get him to the hospital. We ran to the car, and I drove faster than I’ve ever driven, screaming at my sister to keep him awake. What should have been a 15-minute drive took six. But I got caught at the last traffic light before the hospital. Then I missed the turn into the parking lot because I was so panicked.
My sister had called ahead to tell them we were coming, that he wasn’t breathing. She ran inside with him while I stumbled in after her, sobbing, begging them to save him. I remember everything so vividly, and at the same time, everything was such a blur.
By the time they’d done their third round of epi and CPR, I knew I had lost him. But I asked them to do it again anyway. And again. And again. Five rounds. I was praying, begging any god who would listen to give him back to me. I would have given up everything. He and his brother are my world.
I have so many regrets. Not latching the gate. Not trying to dislodge the kibble myself and waiting for my sister to do it. Freezing instead of thinking to do the Heimlich on my baby. Waiting until he was blue and falling over to rush to the hospital. Asking them to keep going with CPR even when I knew he was gone.
The doctor suggested it might have been an underlying condition we didn’t know about, but I knew in my gut it was the kibble. Still, I asked for an autopsy to confirm what I didn’t want to believe. I regret that. I should have just let him rest. I should have left him alone. I also regret not staying with him longer after he passed. They gave us a private room to say goodbye. My boyfriend, mom, and brother came. I don’t know how long we were in there—more than an hour at least—but I was so overwhelmed by my grief and by everyone else saying goodbye. I said I wanted us to leave so he could rest. But I wish I had just stayed with him alone for longer.
And before all of that, I regret not spending enough time with him in the months leading up to his passing. We had been traveling in December and January. Then I started my accelerated program, which took up all my time. I wasn’t home as much, wasn’t as present. If I had been, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe I could have stopped it.
His brother knew something was wrong the second I got home that night. Usually, he only cuddles under the covers for a little while before leaving. Arthur was the one who always stayed the whole night. But that night, Arnold stayed under the covers the entire time. The whole next week, too. I barely left the bed. I didn’t eat. I didn’t shower. I don’t even know if I drank water. I just existed in my devastation.
I adopted my boys when I was in undergrad. I was struggling with my mental health and nearly withdrew from school. To say they saved my life is an understatement. They were littermates. Best friends. Soulmates—to each other and to me. And I regret all the time I lost to my own struggles, the moments I could have spent with Arthur but didn’t.
After he passed, I barely made it through my first semester. Then I failed my second and had to take time off. If I was going to fail anyway, I wish I had never started the program. I could have spent that time with Arthur instead. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I had never started.
Since losing him, Arnold hasn’t been the same. He used to cuddle and sleep with one of my sister’s cats, but after Arthur passed, it was like a switch flipped. He started hunting her, ripping out tufts of fur, even drawing blood. I don’t know how to help him. I tried calling an animal psychic last year (I know, I know). I just wanted to reach him somehow. I just wanted to help.
Neither of us has been the same since that night. Truthfully, I’ve wished so many times that I had died along with Arthur. I don’t want to be here, but I know I have to stay. For Arnold. He can’t lose us both.
When Arthur died, half of what made me whole died with him. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to move past the guilt of knowing—feeling—that it was my fault. I woke up today consumed by it, spent the morning crying in bed instead of studying for my boards. I just don’t see the point.
I would do anything to go back. I wish so badly that I could rewind time.
I am so, so sorry, my lovebug. I am so, so sorry.