Cleo

Purr Power

A nurse cat is more devoted than her human counterpart, though some of her methods may be unconventional.

The cause of ulcerative colitis and its terrible cousin Crohn’s disease is unknown, though research continues. Why this cruel ulcerating of the bowel should occur mostly in young people aged between fifteen and thirty-five is a mystery, although I couldn’t help feeling that, in Rob’s case, unresolved grief over Sam had contributed. There is as yet no cure, apart from surgical removal of the bowel.

Rob didn’t want a fuss. We drove to the hospital as if it were an ordinary day and we were heading into the city to have lunch. As the car hugged the curve of the river, I thought of the surgeon’s hands. Today, I hoped they’d be working well. What can you say to a son who’s about to undergo a massive operation that will permanently change (mutilate?) his body?

“Isn’t the light beautiful on the water?”

He grunted agreement. If by some miracle the surgery was successful it would give him new life. I tried not to think of the enormity of what was about to happen. Eight feet of colon would be removed, and he’d return home with a colostomy bag. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was born perfect. I’d used every ounce of my maternal powers to make him stay that way. My determination to heal him through sheer will had failed. If all went well there’d be a second operation two months later to remove the colostomy bag and give at least (at least, at least—what loathsome words they were) the appearance of physical normality.

Conversation was minimal. Toothbrush. Check. Razor. Check. Why couldn’t he have the one thing that mattered? Good health. Uncheck. We caught the elevator to the eighth floor, where a small grey room was waiting for him. A crucifix on the wall was a reminder of previous young men who’d suffered more than their due. He sat in a chair that had arms but could in no way qualify as an armchair. At least the room had a view over the city.

“Chantelle will be in there,” he said, pointing at a grey cube of a building. “The university.”

My heart lurched. To have twenty-four-year-old male yearnings inside a body that refused to work properly seemed the ultimate cruelty. All the other patients on his floor were the wrong side of seventy.

Our silence wasn’t awkward so much as textured.

“I love you,” I said. The words conveyed a tiny percentage of my feelings for my beautiful, sensitive, cat-loving son.

“You can go now,” he said, not moving his gaze from the window.

“Don’t you want me to stay till they settle you in?”

He shook his head. “Tell Cleo I’ll be home soon,” he said.

My last glimpse of him as I left the ward was of a lonely figure sitting in a chair facing a window.

Outside on ground level, I crossed the street to find a small church. Wood-lined and colonial, it reminded me of the one in which I’d struggled so hard as a child to learn God’s rules. I tried to pray again, but my conversation with God was one-sided as usual.

There was more solace to be found in the park outside, the giant soothing hands of branches reaching over me. It was easier to imagine God here among leaves and flowers that pulsated with life. Death and decay was woven into the beauty in ways that seemed natural and reassuring.

Gulping the oxygenated air, I thanked the Victorian minds that had decreed hospitals needed parks nearby. Grass and trees absorb human worries and help put them in perspective.

Six long hours later I fumbled in my handbag. My hand trembled and was so slippery I could barely hold the phone to my ear. The surgeon’s voice was weary, matter-of-fact, with an upbeat edge.

“It went well,” he said.

Cleo and I nursed Rob through his recovery from the first operation, and a couple of months later, the second. As he regained strength he often draped Cleo over his stomach to let her throaty song reverberate through his wounds. While scientists have proven pets help people live longer, more research needs to be done on the healing potential of a cat’s purr. It’s a primeval chant, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore. There’s powerful medicine in it.

Cats are known to purr not only to express pleasure but also when they’re in great pain. Some say the feline lullaby is comforting because it reminds them of when they were kittens curled in the warmth of their mother’s fur. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday the purr is proved to be much more than a lullaby, that the vibrations have potential to heal living tissue.

“Listen to that,” he said one day. “It’s a cross between a gurgle and a roar—a rurgle.”

“Do you remember when you were little you said Cleo was talking to you?” I asked. “Was that real?”

“It felt real at the time.”

“Does she still talk to you?” I asked, no longer concerned for his sanity. Years ago I’d accepted Rob had a special connection with Cleo that only seemed to bring good.

“In dreams, sometimes.”

“What does she say?”

“She doesn’t talk so much these days as show me things. Sometimes we go back to when Sam was alive. We’ll run up and down the zigzag with him. It’s like she’s telling me everything’s going to be okay.”

Cleo straightened her front legs, arched her back and opened her mouth in a cavernous yawn. Appearing in Rob’s dreams was just a pastime, as far as she was concerned.

I’d have willingly exchanged places with Rob to relieve him of his ordeals. Yet he shrugged when I said such things. In many ways, he said, the illness was a gift. I shivered when he talked that way. He sounded like an old man. Certainly, his experiences gave him a perspective well beyond his years.

“I’ve been through good times and bad times,” he said. “Believe me, good’s better. When you’ve tasted stale bread, you really appreciate the fluffy stuff fresh out of the oven.”

Rob’s body gradually adjusted to eating and absorbing solid food again, though he still looked like a survivor from a wartime prison camp. If, for some reason, his body refused to heal properly and he had complications I wondered if he’d have any strength left to muster a fight. Fortunately, he was young and he seemed have stores of vigor to draw on from his athletic years.

Cleo, a more conscientious nurse than I, trotted after him around the house, snuggling into his blankets and presenting him with the occasional get-well present in the form of a decapitated lizard.

Through our long days at home together, I had the blessing of getting to know Rob better. It’s rare for a young man in his twenties to share his thoughts with his mother. In an unexpected way, his illness brought us closer together.

“I used to wish I had an easier life,” he mused. “Some families sail through years with nothing touching them. They have no tragedies. They go on about how lucky they are. Yet sometimes it seems to me they’re half alive. When something goes wrong for them, and it does for everyone sooner or later, their trauma is much worse. They’ve had nothing bad happen to them before. In the meantime, they think little problems, like losing a wallet, are big deals. They think it’s ruined their day. They have no idea what a hard day’s like. It’s going to be incredibly tough for them when they find out.”

He’d also developed his own version of making the most of every minute. “Through Sam I found out how quickly things can change. Because of him I’ve learned to appreciate each moment and try not to hold on to things. Life’s more exciting and intense that way. It’s like the yogurt that goes off after three days. It tastes so much better than the stuff that lasts three weeks.”

My young philosopher in a dressing gown had theories to rival an Eastern mystic’s. Yet deep down we both knew his dreams were the same as every other young person’s. More than anything, he longed for love and happiness.