A Billion Heartbeats Ago

2026 has been challenging, so far. A short visit at the beginning of the year, to see a friend whom I might not ever see again, started it off. I returned home to receive a vet’s diagnosis that our oldest cat, Buttercup, had an inoperable growth attached to her trachea, preventing her from eating solid foods. We were advised to initiate palliative care and prepare her for hospice. About that time, I realized I had gone down this road 25 years ago with my wife, Liz, who in 2001 was in the last stages of her young life. She made it to her 48^th birthday on Feb 14, 2001, but on the 17^th she surrendered her mortal cloak and passed away. Now, I know a cat and a human cannot be seen by many folks as being equivalent, but the pathway I found myself on this early in the year has had a triggering effect. And I don’t like it.

In reality, I’ve known Buttercup for as long or longer than I did Liz. I’ve probably spent more time with Buttercup. And so, I launched myself into a pre-grief posture. And at this stage of life, I jolly well better get used to it. More to come.

I lost Liz a billion heartbeats ago - how can that be? Think about the toll on one’s heart over a period, in the best of circumstances. Life itself, one’s personal journey, is enough. But add to it the dramas and connivances that outside world has put upon one and all of us, and it’s hard to imagine how a heart has it in it to beat a billion times in that period. Miraculous, ain’t it?

I think about Liz often, but the amount of time she has been gone is almost double the amount of time I was with her. It makes one think about time and how, as a construct, it’s just a little too prevalent in our consciousness. So what if she’s been gone twenty-five years and I only knew her for fourteen?

I've been working on a photography book project for the last six months. A sixty year look back at the images I have made. For reference, the shutter speeds of the photographs in the tome were, all of them, shorter than a heartbeat. Time, again, measuring the moment, but not imposing the delineation of said journey. But do we not get so beat up with that constant tick-tick of the clock, the heart, the shutter, as if all that mattered was time itself? I know I do.

Yesterday I took a moment to remember Liz on her birthday, Valentine’s Day. And in a few days I will remember her again on the day she left us here stranded in time. Just like Buttercup will soon do.

I just have to find a way to yield to the heartbeats that are left and coming.

 

© written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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