Give/Take

Part One:

I hear my daughter before I see her, can hear the breathlessness before she appears, the attempts to take huge gulps of air that will not move into her body. I hear her sister ask if she’s okay, and I rush around the corner, meeting her as she stumbles the last step, her body begging for oxygen. It is the sound of someone trying to breath underwater, when the lungs cannot be filled but the body still wants more. It is as deafening as a scream and as quiet as a whisper.
*******
I remember Sacajawea, the weight of her tiny body in my hand, how she folded up like she was back in the womb. Her fur was velvet, the hair tickling my palm as I carried her. She was grey and ivory, with light colored eyes that shone with curiosity and joy. She was beautiful, kind, and loving. She would leap up behind you and curl her torso around your neck, her paws digging gently into the shoulders, giving a light massage as she purred. She would settle in this way, like a muffler, warming the spirit, spreading love.
*******
I slap her back, turning her head to the floor, folding her body in half, trying desperately to dislodge whatever it is that has cut off her air supply. The gurgling continues, and I can feel her energy without having to look at her, knowing that there is only so long that the brain can sustain without oxygen, only so many seconds that it can sit in depravity before its cells begin apoptosis, bursting and dying from their own longing.
*******
I remember the rasp that emanated from the kitten’s throat, like someone grating basalt on steel, her breath sucking in and out in gasps, hearing the air whistle, her neck dangling where once it sat strong, tiny patches of blood seeping from undetectable wounds. How we pulled her from underneath the rocking chair, the one she always wanted to lie beneath, this time acting like an inefficient guillotine to her vertebrae, merely fracturing but not severing.
*******
Her lips start turning blue, there are strings of saliva beginning to drip from her pouty lips as her small chest heaves and fights for what it needs to survive. I wrap my arms around her waist, placing my fists below her rib cage, pulling in with as much force as I think she can take without breaking her. I yell to call 911. Over and over I force my palms into her diaphragm, and every time I am unsuccessful, I get a moment of dread where I smell death, and I beg and plead in my mind, “Please don’t take her like this, not in my arms.”
*******
We take Sacajawea to the bathroom, her blood leaving tiny circles on the wood stained floor, gently setting her body on the counter top. Everyone is high, and no one knows what to do. It’s a Sunday, midnight, in a tiny New Hampshire town, and the nearest animal hospital is about an hour away. The kitten’s breath takes on a new heaviness, and tiny, red bubbles froth from one of her wounds. Her neck is broken, she is beyond repair.
*******
I continue to pump into her body with my fists, and with every thrust, I am forcing every ounce of love and memory into her belly. A collage of memories float through my mind in succession, unstoppable: her birth, the feeling of her tiny, infant body as it warmed my chest, the heat of her body when she crawls into bed with me still, seeking comfort and heat, wrapping her lanky arms around my back, hugging me close. I begin to calculate the time: how long until 911 can respond? How long until she might lose consciousness? How long until…
*******
The kitten is going to die. It is inevitable. Her breath tells us this in shallow gasps, but she seems determined to fight until she can draw no more. Watching her is excruciating. A decision is made that her suffering needs to end. Her owner collapses on the floor in grief and tears. Her sister, the one who was sitting in the rocker, eyes her from the doorway, water collecting in splashes on her shirt. That leaves me, and my friend Adrian. He volunteers to take the kitten to the river. I offer to go along for support.
*******
Again, over and over, my palms plunge into her midsection. Over and over, I am met with silence when I want to hear the sharp intake of air. She is drooling more, strands falling to meet the floor, encapsulating soft, pink candy specks that stain the tile in darkness. I look to my left and see my older son, standing helpless, not knowing what to do or how to be. I move my head forward and my older daughter and younger son have both called 911 and are speaking to dispatch. I hear bits and pieces float by my ears, “my sister…choking…she’s 6…come…”
*******
We crawl down the slope to the river bank, Sacajawea wrapped in a plaid scarf, slipping over the rocks. The air around us hangs in a humid shroud, and we can hear crickets as we slowly place our steps. Softly murmuring, the Contoocook River flows at a clip, meandering and pausing upon the shore. We reach the water’s edge, and the kitten is still managing to breath, still wanting to live. Adrian unwraps her from the scarf and holds her body above the water, preparing to plunge her underneath. His eyes fill with tears, and he blubbers like a baby. He repeats, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” The kitten, sensing his hesitation, begins to gurgle, the suck of the air more and more labored, and attempts to issue a horrendous, sharp meow. She is suffering.
*******
My arms are feeling tired and ineffective, and I worry I might break her ribs. I muster another heave, and this time, I am rewarded with the sound I am longing for: sputtering. I hear her breath move into her throat in a hoarse whoosh. I am still not convinced she is breathing, so I pump again with my fists, and she coughs, spit falling from her mouth onto the floor, air permeating the lungs. I ask her, “Can you breathe?” and she nods ‘yes’. I tell the older kids that she’s okay, and to call off the emergency dispatch. I envelope my daughter in my arms and she bursts into tears, big droplets pouring down her cheeks, allowing the fear of death’s specter to weep from her body. My muscles begin to shake as I hold her, the adrenaline racing through my veins, sweeping every inch of my body. I lift her and take her into the kitchen, inspecting where fists pounded into her flesh, taking a paper towel from the counter to dry her face and the spittle from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes look straight into mine, and I see how intertwined my own mortality is with her being. I feel the invisible strings between my heart and hers, the ones, that if severed, would leave me as fatally wounded; the ones, that if snapped, would bust me, too.
*******
Adrian sits on the rocks with the kitten in his lap, his face buried in his thick hands. I gently lift her body, so fragile and light, because I cannot bear the wailing another moment. I walk carefully and steadily to the water, bringing the kitten close to the river’s surface, reflecting the dark night and an opal sheen from the moon. I hear her inhale one more time, then I sink her body, breaking the skin of the water, her body thrashing out of instinct, but barely moving. I feel tiny jerks, bubbles rising to the surface where her mouth sits below, the twitches lessening and slowing, until her body issues silence, and the water’s surface is again smooth and untouched. In that moment, I feel her energy rise, like a jolt that makes my hairs stand on end, and then it’s gone. She’s gone. I wonder what Sacajawea sees in her last moments. My face? Her mother’s? The moon? Hot tears crease my cheeks as my hands sit submerged in the icy water. I hate that she died cold. I carefully float her to the surface, wrapping her soaked body in the scarf, as if it matters now. I hold her tiny body, hugging it next to mine. Then I place her back in the river, letting go, watching her become one with the current, watching the river continue to move despite death at its doorstep.
*******
 
Part Two:
 
I contemplate dimensions, slits in the fabric of time and space, all the tiny choices we make every second of every day that draw us closer together or further apart. In my dreams, I see Sacajawea’s eyes turn to stone, the luster dulling as her spirit exited her form. I wonder if there is another outcome in the universe, or several, all running alongside each other like television channels playing different programs at the same time. In this one, she is dead. In another, does she pass from old age, a grown cat, in the arms of her owner? In yet another, has she never left her mother, curled up next to her abdomen? Perhaps she herself is a mother, has a litter of kittens, and she is introduced to the same pain I taste in watching my children grow.
 
I see the eyes of my daughter, panicked and frantic, desperate to breathe. I think of the same parallel moments, that maybe in another path she has exited the world, and I am left to hold her still body in my arms, watching my heart shatter into slivers so tiny it will never be repaired. I feel my heart clench around itself, creating a barrier from the thoughts that persist as I toss and turn, because to face them feels like a burden I can’t bear to hold.
 
Why do we love anyone with depth if the pain of loss can reach into so deeply that we feel scooped out from the inside, as if we are empty? How is it our hearts can bear to reach out and intertwine with others, if the potential cost of watching them leave in a thousand different scenarios, is our own wholeness? Are our elastic hearts capable of stretching enough to hold and carry pain to the point they explode? How do you keep your heart at arm’s length, distancing joy and love, and still feel human? How do you forsake love, continuing to move through the world, without choking on your own loneliness? How do you say no to love and manage to breathe?
 
I can’t bear the thought of losing her, and I can’t stand the notion of not loving her. If I tasted her mortality, I might shatter into microscopic shards, never fully picking up all the pieces to have a full heart. But if I guard myself from emotion and love, I turn to impassive, cold stone, and my heart suffocates a tiny bit each second.
 
Here is what I know:
I would rather be broken.
My heart yearns to breathe.