Ezra Reuben rubbed his hands together while sitting on the park bench, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the Living With Loss group.
After his wife of 43 years had died, it had taken him two months to leave the house and a month more to resume any semblance of a routine. Opening up about his loss was an even bigger step, especially in the setting of grief counseling.
“Everyone, please welcome Ezra,” said Debbie, the group coordinator, gently patting the man on his shoulder.
Ezra raised his head slightly.
“Uh, my name’s Ezra, and I lost my wife, Arlene, a couple of months ago,” he said to the other bereaved gathered in the park. “We were married more than 40 years, and I’m 68 so we were together a lot longer than we weren’t. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s gone.”
He finally looked around, seeing friendly if unfamiliar faces among those taking part in the outdoor session. He doubted going out in public and sharing his pain would help, but gentle nudges from friends finally convinced him to at least try – and get some fresh air in the process.
“We knew this was coming for a while, so when she finally passed, I had braced myself as best I could. But you can never prepare for something like that … not really.”
Ezra then forced a smile.
“Right there at the end, we told each other we loved each other, of course,” he said. “But you know what the last thing she said to me was? She said, ‘Ezra, you’ve got to go on because you have to take care of the cats.’ So, I guess now I’m just waiting for the cats to die.”
The couple had no human children, but animals had been part of their world throughout their marriage. Over the years there had been dogs as well as cats – even a ferret at one point. But at the time of Arlene’s death, the couple was down to 15-year-old Barfolomew and 17-year-old Ferris Mewler – both ginger tabbies.
“Those boys miss their mama,” he said. “But they’re good company – and they make sure to let me know I still have to feed ‘em.”
Ezra didn’t expect to spend his sessions on the bench talking about cats, but it made him feel better when he did – and that feeling seemed to be contagious.
One visit to the park led to two meetings of the Living With Loss Group and two evolved into six. It wasn’t long before Ezra was quite comfortable chatting with everyone in his group. And oh, how he loved talking about his kitties.
Three months into his meetings, however, Ezra showed up for a session with tears in his eyes. Ferris had finally succumbed to kidney disease.
“I was taking him to the vet every week to give him fluids,” he told the group. “But by the end there wasn’t any quality of life left for him, so I had to let him go.
“It’s just Barf and me now.”
Ezra knew all too well the trauma of losing a four-legged family member. He had often said the price you pay for spending some of the best years of your life with an animal is having to endure that one horrible day when you lose them. Coming so soon on the heels of Arlene’s death caused the loss to hit even harder.
It was several sessions before he became “chatty” again, but once he did, he expressed concern about Barfolomew.
“He won’t eat,” Ezra told Debbie after a meeting. “I think he misses Ferris … and Arlene.”
The Living With Loss group met each Thursday, and late on a Wednesday night, Debbie got an email from Ezra.
“Barf is gone,” it read. “I went to check on him before I went to bed and found him dead on the bathroom floor.”
Debbie felt horrible for Ezra, but she was also worried; of all the things he had said during the support group meetings it was the line “I guess I’m just waiting for the cats to die” that concerned her most.
She didn’t want to overstep, but she also feared what the widower might do.
“I’m so sorry about Barf, Ezra,” she emailed back. “You’ve had to deal with a lot in a short period of time but please, please come to Thursday’s meeting. Get there early and you and I can talk.”
Ezra emailed back with an ominous answer: “I’ll try, but I have a decision to make tomorrow.”
Debra spent most of the night pacing, wondering if she would ever see Ezra again. He had made so much progress, but the deaths of his cats had surely been a setback.
When morning came, she decided to drive over to Ezra’s house and do a wellness check.
She rang the doorbell, but there was no response.
She then knocked frantically, but again, nothing.
The garage was closed, so she couldn’t tell if his car was there or not.
But just as she decided to call 911, Ezra pulled up in his driveway.
He got out of the car and waved, then walked to the passenger side and opened the door.
He retrieved a cardboard pet carrier and began walking toward Debbie.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was worried about you,” she said. “What have you got there?”
Ezra opened the box and pulled out a black cat – an old boy graying around the mouth and missing a left eye.
“This is Snake Plissken,” Ezra said. “That decision I told you I had to make? It was either getting a kitten or a senior cat, and the minute I saw this guy I knew he needed me – that we needed each other.”
Debbie reached over and scratched Snake’s chin, and he responded with a vibrant purr.
“Arlene told me to go on because I have to take care of the cats,” Ezra said. “From the looks of the shelter, there are a lot that need taking care of.
“I guess I’ll be here for a while.”
