Rest in Love: Kiki
Baby Kitten “Smidge,” August 2007 — the picture I fell in love with!
Photo by Erin Joy Hollister, October 2007
Photo by Stephanie Mohan of Creative Portraiture, December 2023
Kierkegaard “Kiki” Mao was born on June 30, 2007 in Portage, Michigan and passed on October 19, 2024 in East Grand Rapids, Michigan. She had a long, happy, stubborn and very human-like life that spanned Kalamazoo to Lowell Michigan; Nashville, Tennessee; and the San Francisco Bay Area in California. A wise, soulful and heartfelt cat, she waited to return to Michigan and for her human to turn 40 before she let go. She is now at peace and no longer suffering, and her 17.5 years of constant presence and companionship is missed.
In my 40th year, I’ve been noticing the cyclical nature of life as I come to a natural completion of themes, relationships and projects around my soul-centered growth. The endings clear a path for new themes to emerge, new relationships to begin and new projects to nurture and grow for deep soul healing. With the loss of my beloved cat, Kiki, I’m experiencing this life transformation in a big way!
I was fortunate to get two more years with her than the vet predicted because I was able to take those years as a gift: a gift of more time, more moments, more cuddles, and the ability to prepare myself for the time when she would no longer be in the world with me. At first, I thought she wouldn’t make it to 16, and then she did. Then I thought she surely wouldn’t make it to 17, and she did. I felt secure that she would stay with me when I turned 40, and she just made it.
But, she also began preparing me for her departure. When she did recover from her e coli infection in late May-early July, I was relieved that we got to enjoy a couple months during my Summer of Jade when she was back to her old self. Then I knew the end was coming when in September, she stopped sleeping with me and found alternative spots in the apartment to burrow into. It allowed for some separation between us that gave me a chance to get used to sleeping on my own again, to not have her at my heels, or following me around the house. . .
As the heat wave came towards the end of September into early October, she stopped being able to walk well and after my birthday on the 8th, I pretty much had to carry her around to her food and water, and lift her onto the bed to sleep. I knew she didn’t want me to do anything to prolong her life, so when she had a seizure on October 18th because she wasn’t getting enough food or water anymore (even when I put her in front of it), I wanted to let her go, so she wouldn’t suffer or feel pain in her death.
It seemed fitting that she came back to the state where she was born and spent half of her life to die. And I don’t believe it was an accident that she made it through my 40th birthday and my big literary celebration before she slowly stopped eating.
From the moment we drove from Portage to my apartment in Kalamazoo, I held her in my hand and was so afraid I would crush her small body that I stayed up all night holding her against my heart, so she could feel my heartbeat. That first morning when she woke up, she was no longer afraid and mirrored my body language, way of walking and love for the rest of her life. After her seizure, I held her against my heart again for 40 minutes until she stopped trembling like she did that first night with me. And when we took her to the animal hospital in Grand Rapids, I held her in the last moments of her life, and my parents covered her body with the pink polka dot blanket I had wrapped around her. I now see it was similar to the pink polka dot blanket her breeder had placed her in for the pictures I first saw of her as a baby kitten.
Kiki’s final face — I call it her Golden Girls pose — October 19, 2024
A final nickname
Each time I come to a life cycle completion, I am in awe of the symbolism that arises: how things come back to us, different yet the same. It seems my relationships with my pet companions last 17 years, as my dog Charlie also died when he was around 17.5.
He was born March 21, 1996 and died on Thanksgiving, 2007. Kiki knew him for 3 months. He lived 10 years longer than the vet predicted, and I knew he was holding on for me. When he saw this ridiculous little poofball I brought home, he stayed around long enough to make sure she was worthy to take his place and finally let go. Back then, I was disconnected and frozen in my grief, so I couldn’t say good-bye to him.
With Kiki, I could comfort her and hold her as her heart stopped. I can still feel joy with the sadness. I can cry, and it doesn’t consume me because I have learned to titrate my emotions and have a deeper capacity to hold all of myself. As I let go of the relationships I found mirroring and healing in through my last chapter, I embrace my 40’s era without a mentor (though some new teachers have appeared) and without any mirroring outside of my own symbols for myself: bowler hats, swords and wings.
