Keep a Light On

Merlin used to like to listen to music. He’d crawl up on the bed and sit next to me, while something played from my phone to try and calm my aching nerves, even though he couldn’t hear or see very well, with no teeth and no claws. I think in a way he could feel the vibration of the sounds through his body, like a purr resonating through my bones whenever he would sit on my chest to go to sleep. It’s like he knew I needed the comfort, like he knew I needed the consolation only a one-eyed cat could provide in a period of dark depression, bipolar mania, or skin-picking compulsion.

I still remember the way Merlin would howl like a dog at night until I turned on music or read something aloud to him, so he could find me in the dark up the stairs in the bedroom. My husband would call to him but he wouldn’t listen or couldn’t hear us, so later on, even with music or the lights on or our repeated calls for “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” we’d still have to get up and go get him from the main level of the house. But with the calls, if they were loud enough, he’d come ambling up the carpeted stairs and through the hallway, up the step stool we placed at the end of the bed for him. And then, if I was there, which I would be if I was writing or sad or both, Merlin would make himself into a little cat crescent above my head and wheeze himself and his failing kidneys and heart to sleep.

Merlin’s medication went along with mine. Every morning and night we’d take our pills together, sometimes more easily than others. His prescriptions reminded me to take my own even when I didn’t want to, even when I struggled with the discouragement of knowing I might have to take mine forever. Merlin’s wouldn’t last forever, and neither would he—but I preferred not to think about that, just like I didn’t like to think about my life revolving around Fluoxetine doses and late summer visits to the psychiatrist. But when it ended, as all things do, the calls for “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin” dissolved into the quiet hum of our heating system.

I, too, dissolved into the quiet for a while. Turned into sugar in water, the water being the grand scheme of my bipolar disorder. Merlin’s medicine was no longer a motivator for me to take mine, and I had to work on myself in silence. I donated his prescriptions to low-income families for other cats with kidney failure. I donated his food to a cat rescue. I slept every night for a year with a lamp on so he could find his way into the bed even though he was gone. That purr, the one that resonated through my bones and helped me heal, no longer existed, but the pawprint in my heart reminded me that I can do hard things. We all can become bigger than we know, and be the people our pets know us to be.

I think Merlin knew in his little, falling apart, beating too-fast, cat heart that my diagnosis wouldn’t become everything I am. And maybe he left at the right time for me, because after the summer I said goodbye, I began to see signs of struggling less. The skin picking slowed, even without the headbutts at my legs to remind me not to stand so close to the mirror, or the meows that would interrupt my tears or force me to get out of bed when I didn’t really want to. Maybe because I had them all in a little compartment in my mind, pulling them out of the figurative box like strings.

Merlin used to like to listen to music. He’d crawl up on the bed and sit next to me, while something played from my phone to try and calm my aching nerves. And even though he’s gone now, if I think really hard and lay quietly on my pillow, I can still feel the vibration of his purr through my bones.

-Nicole Bea

Nicole Bea (she/her) and her husband share their home in Eastern Canada with a collection of multicolored cats and a lifetime's worth of books. She has written several novels for middle grade through to adult audiences, and her poems and stories have appeared or are forthcoming in a variety of publications. During the day, Nicole works as a technical writer, and by night she focuses on “deep stories to dig into”: pieces that include romance, honesty, hope, and self-discovery. She can be found on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook @nicolebeawrites.