Inquiry for My Cat

A Stamp During a Pandemic

It’s Monday afternoon. The lazy cat is rolling over the patch of sunshine on the carpet. Her emerald eyes beam through me, fixating an invisible point beyond my neck. She is here, yet she is in her own zone, where I cannot follow.

She is sitting with her back to the images from the wide TV which flag words, numbers and flashes: coronavirus death tolls, lock downs, improvised hospitals, our parents and grandparents at highest risk… I muted the TV, as if this way, the reality will pour into my life at a slower pace.

It’s Monday and I am not at work. Today, I am not checking my watch, in a race to tick another box in my work productivity app. Today, I am not mentally mapping my way through the city to do the errands, before hitting the gym. Today, I am not challenging myself to sweat and suffer at the next cardio training. And for sure, today, I will not get another cool heart rate graph generated by my precious workout gear.

I look towards my cat, but my thoughts have projected me to a point beyond her eyes… I thought I was looking for eye contact, but I found myself looking for guidance.

I am suspended between relief and anxiety; my unbreakable routines have collapsed. The “have to’s” are not there anymore. The impermanence of life has slew footed me, and now, it’s like I am watching my body from above, in an operating theater, after my cardiac arrest.

In this state, I see the internet flooded with advice on how to live your life at home to the fullest, in the times of the coronavirus pandemic. This leaves me untouched. I see optimistic influencers pouring around opinions about how this crisis will bring the best in us. I feel tricked. I see people singing on their balconies and spreading around hope hashtags. I feel numb.

I wonder if my cat looks directly into the eyes of my fear of death, standing tall, behind me. It is there where she is staring, right? I hope she can teach me some tricks … after all, I am a good human to her, some reciprocity is expected… the beam of light has slowly moved, and now only half of her face is glowing. I wish I can turn around and see what she is seeing, but then I realize that whatever is behind me, is already reflected in the TV screen. I turn off the TV and let my glance slide. The images have disappeared, some birds are chirping outside and the cat is suddenly relaxed… she takes her gaze away, rolls and yawns, ready for a nap.

© Ana-Maria Schweitzer 2020

Ana-Maria is a Romanian health psychologist, working in philanthropy and involved in developing prevention and care programs for people with chronic conditions. A seeker of meaning, she uses writing and playing with words, as ways of uncovering both the order and disorder that reign inside and outside our minds.