Finding Purpose

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I ran my fingers over the grainy printout in my hand. I glanced up at the suitcase across the bedroom and the tears came faster. I couldn’t control it anymore. My body was wracked with the hardest sobs I had ever felt in my life. I wanted him to comfort me, touch me, wrap me up in his arms and legs, tell me that he was wrong. I knew it wasn’t going to happen no matter how desperately I needed or wanted it. When I heard the bedroom door open, I let myself hope for a moment that he was coming for me. I couldn’t see through my tears, but I heard him loud and clear as he picked up his suitcase.

“I’ll come back for the rest when I have a more solid place to live. I’m sorry, Sadie. I just can’t keep living in the past like you do. I will always love you.”

He didn’t even touch me. He just left. I cried until I could cry no more. I had nothing left to live for. I started considering things I hadn’t thought about in decades. Would anyone even miss me if I was dead? No one reached out to me when my son died inside of me. No one cared that he was gone. Not even my husband. I placed my hand on my soft stomach and took a deep breath. I fell asleep like that, trying to connect with the tiny baby that had once resided there.

I spent the next two weeks going through the motions. I went to work, I ate the bare minimum, I slept when I wasn’t able to keep my eyes open, and I would stare mindlessly at my phone or the TV for hours on end.

Nothing felt important. Nothing felt ok. I barely had the will to live, but killing myself seemed like too much work. I kept it on the back burner. It was always there as an option, just in case it finally got to be too much to even do the basics for myself. Some nights I would even pull out my laptop and read up on different ways to die and what they felt like. I still wasn’t ready to make that decision. 

Instead, I thought that maybe it was time to try the tactic I had read about: living for something other than yourself. A lot of people say that’s not the way to go, but when you can’t find anything else to live for, what’s the harm? I gave it thought for another week and decided I would get a pet. I had never had one besides the little ones most kids get. I’d had a couple of fish, a hamster, even a little garden snake. But I’d never had a pet that I could cuddle with or do more than just feed and clean up after.

That week after work on Friday I stopped by the humane society to look at dogs and cats. I wasn’t sure which I’d like more, so I talked for a while with the receptionist out front. We decided I would probably do well with a cat based on my work schedule and because I didn’t have a yard.

I held a few, but most of them didn’t want to be touched. Then I saw him. Samson. Curled up in his cage, this tiny brown cat had the same name as my son. My beautiful son.

“Do you want to see if you match well with this one?” The attendant asked, reaching for the cage door.

“I’d like to adopt him.” I pulled out my wallet.

I then found out it wasn’t quite that easy, but we got the process going. I brought him home the next week.

By the end of the third week, I was starting to question why I had thought that caring for a pet was a solution. He could never replace my son and he was just making me exhausted and frustrated.

I started to wonder if I would have been as horrible a mother to a human Samson as I was to this poor cat. Every time he hid under the bed I just got angry. I hated that he needed a special diet that I had to cook myself. I had been warned about these things, and more, but I had been so obsessed with his name being a sign. I had convinced myself that this cat was meant to be mine and that caring for him would give me the purpose I had lost. I was so wrong.

I sighed deeply and opened the fridge to get the meat out to prepare Samson’s dinner. Shit. I had forgotten to go to the store after I finished off the package the previous night.

“I am such a horrible mother! I can’t keep babies alive and I am going to end up killing this damn cat, too!” I collapsed into the kinds of sobs I had gotten so used to having.

Samson darted across the kitchen right then. I instinctively reached out for him. He stopped, looked at me, and jumped into the open fridge. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I closed the door on him. I sat there and cried while he softly mewed from inside the cold. 

Once I was able to stand up I opened the refrigerator and let Samson out, knowing full well he’d never like me now. I considered taking him back to the humane society. I decided that wasn’t fair to him. He had been hard to adopt out. It was one of the many things that added up in my head as him being meant to be with me. Like when we had gotten human Samson’s diagnosis at our 20-week scan. 

We had been told the odds weren’t good, and even if he had lived he would have had a hard life. Somehow I had convinced myself that it meant he’d live, because I was the kind of patient person who could handle a child with special needs. But, if this cat was any indication… I was wrong about that, too.

After weighing all my options, I decided I’d just adopt Samson’s needs into my ‘going through the motions’ routine. I would keep him and take care of him and have no expectations of him. He seemed to have very little will to live, too. I could help him as much as I was helping myself and one day, maybe he’d stop hiding from me. Eventually, maybe I’d even find a purpose in life.

A year later neither of those things had happened. I had gotten into a solid routine, though. I was starting to find happiness in things again.

I had accepted that Samson would never stop hiding from me, but I was still looking for my purpose in life. I often wondered if I even had one. Do people who say they’ve found their purpose even know what they’re talking about? I was starting to think maybe they were just lying to themselves.

Over the next few years I tried painting, singing, knitting, and I even learned to play the guitar and the piano.

It had been five years, but the sound of the doorbell, or any sound really, sent Samson straight under the bed.

I let the young couple in. The little girl I had heard so much about trailed behind them, her curly hair in pigtails that bounced around her face when she walked.

“Hi, Destiny. It’s nice to meet you.” I offered my hand to shake, but she gave me a big hug instead.

“Thank you for helping me!” She said as she pulled away and stared at her shoes.

The husband and wife had wandered over to my piano. I followed them while Destiny stayed near the door, seemingly embarrassed.

“How long have you been fostering?” The wife asked.

“Oh, a couple of years now. It’s not something I ever expected to do, honestly. Would you like to sit down?” I waved my hand at the couch on the opposite wall.

They obliged and Destiny joined them. I offered to get some water or juice, but they wanted to get going soon. I quickly headed back to my spare room and came back with my arms full.

“She’s so beautiful.” Destiny’s face lit up as I handed over the fat white cat.

“Make sure you have a solid grip. We’ll have to put her in the carrier when you guys leave, but she really likes to be held, so you can hold her while I finish talking to your parents and hand over all of her belongings.” I made sure she had the cat’s entire body supported before I let go.

Jazz was my 10th foster cat and I was starting to actually enjoy it. Samson still spent most of his time hiding, but the first time he sat on my lap I realized that maybe I could help other cats that needed a little boost in the ‘will to live’ department. It wasn’t a purpose. It wasn’t a way to fix my broken heart or empty womb. It was simply something I was good at that could fill my time.