We are not meant to know the dates of liminal moments. Birth, death, these are the mysteries of transition and to know the dates is a burden.
17 years ago I made my second long term commitment. My first commitment was to get engaged to a young man. That didn't work out. My second commitment was more successful: I adopted two cats.
Now, after 17 years together, my beautiful tuxedo cat, Shadow, is at the end of his life. He has liquid in his lungs. He has a mass on his liver. His kidneys are failing. His bowels are diseased. His heart is enlarged. He has cataracts on his eyes. His muscles are wasted. Shadow was always my comfort cat. Whenever I cried, over my latest heartbreak, over frustration with my career, out of sheer anger, Shadow would come to me. And yesterday, as I wept for him, I realized that on Friday, when I am crying over his death, he will not be able to comfort me.
We are not meant to know the dates of life's passages.