Friday night Willow died. She was my twelve year old daughter's pet dwarf hampster. We had only had her for six months, and she was just the tiniest little bit of life, but in that short time she had charmed us with her shiny black eyes, her curiously twitching whiskers, and her endearing poofiness. We squealed with delight whenever she groomed herself by rubbing her tiny hands in circles on her face. We were grossed out and amazed simultaneously when she would stuff her cheeks with seeds only to spit them out in our unsuspecting hands later. Of course, no one took to her like my twelve year old because she was hers to enjoy and care for and I'm proud to say that she did an excellent job.
But like all things, after a few months, the novelty wore off and Willow became just one of many components of our busy lives. We still noticed her fluffiness and laughed at her burrowing, just maybe not quite as often. And then early last week, my daughter showed me that Willow didn't have her usual spunk. At that moment, of course, she became the center of our attention. There soon followed a flurry of web searches, sterilizing her environment, neosporin, coconut water, anything we could think of to help her to get well. And she did, for a few days. She ran in her wheel again and up and down her tunnels until Friday, when we noticed her still form and thought, she's sleeping...no...she's dying.
We spent the next hour or two huddled on the couch with Willow in our hands, just watching her breath. In and out. Knowing each time that it could be her last. In and out. We each held her until our hands ached. In and out. Finally, we put her in a box with some bedding and held the box on our laps. Every once in a while the silence was broken by a few tears, or the inevitable "Why?" and the painful, "Is this my fault?" and of course the "If only...". After some hastily eaten Chinese food (who has time to cook dinner in an emergency situation like this?) it was time to go to bed. My daughter kept a vigil until her eyelids were too heavy to keep open and she made her way to bed. By morning, Willow had taken her last breath.
These are very tender moments in a child's life and I would hope that all parents would realize that a child's bond with a pet is very real and would respect it as such. But I would also hope that they would recognize it as a unique opportunity to model for their child a dignity surrounding death and therefore a deep respect for life. That they would realize that how a child deals with the death of a pet can prepare them to deal with the death of family members. It creates a culture around death, life, and connections.
I think of my own experiences with death as a child, waiting in the car as my mother went into the hospital to see a dying aunt so as to protect me from seeing her wasting form. They didn't want to frighten me. Adults whispering the names of ailments and the conditions of various elderly family members. Basically, I remember being removed from the process of death and dying and I remember being afraid.
When my cat of fourteen years, Amber, began to die my daughter's were five and nine. I set her up a little bed on the living room love seat and fed her by hand. I carried her to the litter box several times a day and I thought, "I want my children to see me caring for living things. I want them to see me drawing near to beings who are suffering rather than turning away." And they followed suit. They approached her with curiosity and respect. And after a glorious afternoon of one last bask in the warm sun, I brought Amber in to die. I had been so attentive to her decline that I somehow knew she was taking her final breaths. I wrapped her in a towel (because she was having involuntary bowel movements) held her in my arms and told the girls to say goodbye. I didn't tell them what to do or how to do it, they just began to sing. I don't even remember what song it was. I just remember my heart splitting open at how beautifully they were expressing their gratitude to her for being in our lives and I thought, why can't it be this way when people die? Why do we pay so many people to do everything for us and then show up in black clothes and choke back our tears? Why do we mutter cliché statements like "I'm sorry for your loss" which, while they may be sincere belie the things we really want to say that might take an afternoon over coffee or several pages of handwritten correspondence? It's like we're emotionally constipated. And if we do death so poorly, are we doing life poorly as well?
We dug graves for both Amber and Willow. I dug the one for Amber myself and the clay soil was tiresome to break through, but I found that having something to do, doing the burial rather than just watching someone else do it, was therapeutic for me. It gave me time to process and grieve and a place to put my energy. Amber was bid goodbye by one of my children reading a letter she had written to her, thanking her for being such a good pet, and Willow was remembered for all of the things she did to endear herself to us. She was buried with a little heart-shaped card with her name handwritten on it, a makeshift blanket, and precious bits of crystal and abalone. There was journaling and a few pictures taken and quiet and space.
Of course, when we lose a pet, I am sad to see my children cry and miss the pets too, but I am grateful every time to show them a different way. A way that normalizes death and lessens the fear. A way that finds beauty and gratitude even in the midst of pain. Maybe if enough of us do this, we can change the culture of dying back to one that is more alive.
