Losing Lily freed me from a reality TV ritual
The news of Lily’s death came in while I was watching TV .
“My sweet Lily was run over by a car.” my neighbor’s text message said.
Lily was the black cat next door. She patrolled our block: poking into conversations, stalking birds and sleeping under cars.
I paused the video on my screen — a YouTuber’s reaction to 2006's hit reality show The Hills — and re-read the message. The news sank in.
“Lily died.” I blurted out to my husband. Then, an uncontrollable sob began.
I have a black cat of my own and understand the space pets take in our hearts. They become family. Still, my emotions over Lily surprised me. Lily had been a casual appearance in my life for two years. I didn’t realize I felt that much for her.
Finding out Lily had died while zoning out in front of the TV was a rude awakening. I felt someone was shaking me awake, slapping me in the face and yelling “STOP WASTING TIME!”
Earlier that spring, I had gotten back into reality TV. I get sucked into it despite knowing it’s a fiction genre like any other: heavily produced, carefully planned plot and everyone on screen a (hopefully) paid actor. Reality is the last thing I expect. I enjoy being mesmerized by glamour, love trysts and clear delineation of what’s going on. Reality TV doesn’t demand a lot of me. I could sink into it’s senseless comfort for hours.
Once I had sent my neighbor my condolences, I took a glance at the TV: Stephen Pratt — series antagonist — was staring at me. On any other day, I would have hit play to get swooped back into whatever ridiculous story he was in. But in that moment, Pratt was just a series of pixels on a screen. I couldn’t remember what the plotline was. I didn’t care enough to get back into it. Lily occupied every part of my awareness.
I sat in front of the screen for a while, thinking about what I’d do next. Hitting play wouldn’t bring me any real joy. I knew I was just sitting in front of a story I wasn’t invested in. That’s when realized I wasn’t getting anything out of what I was watching.
I’ve sunk dozens , maybe hundreds, of hours into The Hills. If you ask me to describe a scene in detail, I couldn’t tell you anything useful. Most scenes happen over meals at trendy restaurants. Gossip is exchanged. Everyone wears designer clothing. Some characters work in fashion. Others work in event management. They party often.
I had created a ritual around this show as a way to regularly zone out. I have a toddler, a home to manage and a backlog of projects to work on. By the time 7pm rolls in I don’t have brainpower to get into anything serious. Reality TV was a helpful way to pass the time.
It dawned on me that Lily had probably died while I was watching TV. I felt sick at spending so much time watching something pretend to be real. Why wasn’t I spending my time doing things that gave me more in return? I was done with this zoning out business.
What are our thresholds for giving up bad habits? What does our mind need to be shaken awake? If Lily hadn’t died, would I still be sitting in front of my TV every evening…for two hours…watching videos I’m not going to remember the next day? How real do things have to get ? Is something as big as death necessary?
It was the suddenness of it , not death itself , that jolted me into awareness. Losing Lily on such an average day, while I was doing such a forgettable thing, made me realize how death doesn’t care if you’re present. It’ll show up. Any form of death can creep up on you while you’re writing your magnum opus, doing the dishes, or watching embarrassingly unimportant stories.
Lily’s meaning in my life came from how she made me be in the moment. She introduced herself by trying to sneak into my kitchen. I often confused her for my own black cat and thought it was running away. Lily peed on my porch to mark her territory. She pooped in my rose garden. She left dead critters by my house.
My fondest memory of Lily happened days before her passing. It was the last time I saw her.
My baby was throwing a tantrum. I calmed her down by pointing out Lily outside our window. Lily had found a comfortable spot on a branch of a peach tree. A mocking bird was furious and having none of it. Lily hung out on the tree as my daughter and I watched with rapt attention. A little while later, Lily plopped herself on her driveway, daring birds to come at her. The mocking bird called her bluff. It swooped angrily back and forth. Lily swiped at it lazily, eventually got bored and strutted into the safety of her home. My baby and I giggled.
Lily’s buried under the shade of that peach tree. I think about her whenever I walk by. She filled my life with real stories, all of which I will joyfully share with my daughter. Lily was not my cat, but she was real and she was in my life.
When my gaze lands on reality TV, I inevitably think of Lily. I reconsider. Am I enjoying this moment? Is it as fun as Lily? Some times it is. Most times it’s not.
