A Thoughtful thing.

The comment came out of nowhere.

There I was, having brunch with my friends on a rare Saturday off when someone at the table looked at me and said: “I wouldn’t consider you a thoughtful person, Elan.”

I nearly spit my bubbles out.

My first instinct was defend.

I mean, someone just insulted me, I simply had to protect my honor.

But then, just as quickly, I paused.

Let it sit, my heart whispered to me.

Is it really the truth?

And so I wound up taking the comment and placing it in my hand. I examined it next: closely, and from all sides, and where once before I would’ve swallowed the critique and obsessed over it for days, I instead chucked it behind my shoulder, letting it go.

I know myself better than that.

So I’m driving home on this rare Saturday off, feeling very proud of myself for how well I handled things earlier, and as I pull into my driveway, I notice a cat laying down outside by my garage.

A cat that wasn’t mine.

I managed to coax him inside, and then I realized: Oh my. Now I have a stray cat in my garage.

As I waited for the other cat lady in my family to arrive (my sister), I got to work getting him some food, water, and a blanket to lay on, which he very quickly collasped onto.

Once he was safe and warm, I kneeled down to pet him. It was then that I registered just how rough of shape he was in.

I felt bones. Dirty, matted, leaf-ridden fur atop just bones.

His nose, which he was having difficulty breathing out of, was bloody and infected.

His eyes were sad and he could barely eat.

My heart ached.

When we tried cleaning him with baby wipes, we discovered that he wasn’t fixed, and that his genitalia didn’t look to be in the best shape.

When my sister arrived, we did what everyone told us to do: take him to the shelter.

Upon arrival to the already overwhelmed, overworked, and overflowing animal shelter, we had him scanned for chips and checked into the database. No cat by his description had been reported missing in the last six months.

“Do you want to surrender him?” they asked.

I paused, for the second time that day.

I couldn’t.

I just… couldn’t.

The thought of dropping him off and never knowing what would happen to him just broke me. My heart again whispered no, and trusting that inner voice, I walked out of the shelter with this poor decrepit cat.

Now what?

Little pained meows were the soundtrack on the drive home as I wracked my brain as to what to do next. Looking down at him, skinny and starved, my heart went out to this hurting creature.

Obviously, he needed a vet. So I made plans to call first thing Monday morning to get him in.

The rest of Saturday passed.

I went to bed with worry.

Sunday went by.

I went to bed with worry.

On Monday, I called as soon as they opened. They could get him in for an appointment tomorrow.

One more day.

Unfortunately, it was on this day that I noticed his condition worsening.

Garage developing the stench of death, he wasn’t eating and he wasn’t drinking.

Every time I opened the door, I waited anxiously to hear a meow, fearful that I would find that this poor cat had passed.

I was in ruins.

Whenever I leaned down to pet him, tears fell from my eyes: gentle plop plop plops.

I felt helpless, not being able to help. I felt that I had exhausted all efforts and it was killing me not being able to do more for him. And that as a result, he was declining, and fast.

I knew those around me were thinking: why is Elan putting more emotional stress on her plate? She’s already sensitive, she doesn’t ned this additional burden.

And part of that was indeed, true. I am sensitive. I am also emotional. And yes, there did live that hurt in my heart, this reality that I could potentially lose him.

But this “emotional stress”, this additional “burden”, were all feelings of love.

That compassion I felt, that empathy towards another living thing that was suffering, all of those so called “burdens” came from a place of love and care.

And even though there was that potential of loss, I also knew there was potential for gain. Yes, he could die. But he could also live.

And if love was the only thing this cat got to feel in his final moments, then at least he would go softy, carefully, warmly, and with me by his side.

Unable to wait another day, my family called the vet and we were able to get him in for an emergency visit.

When we took him in, the looks on their faces echoed my concerns.

He looked like roadkill.

First: they did tests.

A lot was going on.

Basically, his white blood cell count was off the charts, which meant that his body was fighting infection, most likely in his genitalia, and nose.

He was about five pounds underweight, severely dehydrated, and extremely malnourished.

So they kept him overnight. Prayed that by morning his condition might improve.

Leaving the vet’s office, I was still worried but I also felt as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, for I knew he was in good hands.

In the morning, I was having coffee with my brother when I got the call.

Squeezing my hand and supporting me with sympathetic eyes, I took a deep breath and answered the phone.

My cat… had improved.

He was okay! He was going to be okay.

Tears of joy coming out of my eyes, the vet told me that she was just as surprised and shocked as I was, that the entire staff had been rooting for him and that he had miraculously pulled through.

After informing me that they’d like to monitor him for the next few days, the vet signed off, telling me: Had you left him at the animal shelter, they likely would’ve had to put him down. You did a good thing.

Fast forward a few weeks.

I now have two cats!

Guji, of course, and now Mika, my handsome new boy.

As I sit here on the couch with two cats napping next to me, I look out the window and smile.

What were the odds that this cat would find me on a rare Saturday off?

More ironically, what were the odds that this cat would give me an opportunity to do a thoughtful thing?

Bubbles in her hair.

a song to set the scene // roses in the rain (lullaby) by christina perri

“What does it feel like?” he asked.

Like a pasta knot.

More specifically, a big wad of sticky fettuccini noodles that needed untangling.

A metaphor for all the problems in my life, I walked into my latest counseling session feeling a bit… overwhelmed.

I didn't even realize it was present at first.

In fact, it wasn’t until he asked me, “how are you really feeling?” that I uncovered the presence of this damn pasta knot.

Mentally, I felt like if I didn’t face this wad of sticky fettuccini noodles that needed desperate untangling, it would only get worse.

Heck, I might’ve even pasta-way.

(pun always intended)

Caught in the whirlpool of work/family/personal related issues, I was feeling somewhat lost and beset with stress.

Perks of working in a family business involve working with the family.

Cons of working in a family business involve working with the family.

Throw my gem in there.. and you get a wad of sticky fettuccini noodles that need untangling.

Sitting there, I felt there were so many things that needed to be addressed, yet I felt stuck. I mean, where does one even start?

So, he asked me if I wanted to try something different.

Different is good, I like different. So I said yes.

Perched on the couch in his office, he asked me to close my eyes and start noticing my breath.

Ah yes, the breath. That thing which keeps me living.

Listening along to his comforting voice, I took a deep breath in…. and a long exhale out.

Deep breath in…. long exhale out.

This went on for some time.

And as I started to let the worries slip away, I felt myself falling deep into the present.

Background noise became just that: background noise.

Visuals: there were none.

Thoughts came, and then they went.

And as time went on, I started to feel warmth spreading throughout my arms as my breath started to feel like waves of sweet honey.

This is nice, I like this.

It was then that he asked me to recall a memory of my younger self, perhaps that scene in the bathtub which I had told him about once before.

I can picture it instantly: 5-month-old me looking longingly into the camera with bubbles in her hair.

And so I go there.

He asks me to imagine this young elan and to go up to her, and greet her.

And so I do.

I kneel down beside the bathtub, watching this sweet innocent little elan look back up at me with those big brown curious eyes and I say,“hi!” with a twinge of nostalgia and poignancy.

There she is, that’s me.

In this intimate moment between me and young elan, I hear his voice encouraging me to talk to her.

“Does she know who you are?” Yes.

“Does she trust you?” With all of her heart.

“Would you let anything bad happen to her?” I would protect her with everything I have.

Tears, sweet gentle drops, find their way out of my eyes and I allow myself to embrace their slow fall down my cheeks.

I go back to little elan in the bathtub and I smile fondly.

I would protect her with everything I have.

Heart filled with this overwhelming desire to comfort, coddle and protect this wholesome creature that would someday experience the life I had so far lived, I realized that if I could keep this pure little girl safe, then why couldn’t I aim to do the same for Big Elan right now?

After all, she is me and I am her.

Sitting in this epipahny and holding tightly to this lovely little me, I then wished her farewell, with the promise that I would be with her always: to comfort and to protect.

After achieving the difficult but necessary act of opening my eyes, which had been glued together with tears, I was suddenly back in the room, feeling tender and raw.

I found my counselor looking at me, empathetically.

“When you’re ready, tell me what you saw.”

And so I did.

Piecing together what I had just went through, more tears flowed as I shared my experience.

I explained how seeing little elan in the bathtub had filled me with this overwhelming desire to keep her safe. I told him how I felt compelled to protect, love, and adore this innocent little girl with bubbles in her hair, unconditionally.

And what I came to realize there on the bathroom floor was that little elan is now Big Elan, and that despite the years that have passed, Big Elan deserves that same love, care, and protection.

Not from outside, but within.

When I’m stressed, hurt, or heartbroken (or, just trying to untangle a wad of sticky fettuccini noodles), there’s a part of me that obviously needs comfort and care. Somewhere, in the disguise of young elan sitting in the bathtub, there lives this craving and assurance that everything is going to be okay.

I think the purpose of this exercise was to not only sit quietly and breathe and to look inward and acknowledge those feelings of being overwhelmed with compassion and grace. It reminded me that whenever I do feel low, I am strong enough to take care of the part of me that hurts, in the same way I would care for the 5-month-old with bubbles in her hair.

In the end, we all deserve the same kind words of encouragement we would say to our younger selves.

And truly, that power lies within.

Sometimes it just takes a little meditation and a big wad of sticky fettuccini noodles that need untangling to realize it.