Who’s death came first? Was it the bird’s or my grandfather’s? Based on my age, it had to have been the bird’s. We were walking home from our evening swim practice. The sun had gone down and night had begun to settle. Our path took us through the golden field of overgrown grass just outside of our neighborhood. From there we would reach the familiar streets and wind our way toward home. The five of us, like a pack of stray dogs, walked this path regularly. We would pause here and there as we followed the scented trail to our house. As it happened one particular night, our routine was interrupted by the sight of a fallen bird. Its nest had to have been above our heads in the sycamore tree. The poor hatchling was a small, featherless lump on the sidewalk, with its eyes still sealed closed....too new to see the world. As was our nature, we brought this small bird home with us in the hopes of rescuing it from certain death. I think we “saved” that bird all of one day. I remember desperately wanting it to live. It was so hard to see such a small, innocent creature suffer. I must have been about seven years old.
Three years later, I would watch my grandfather’s suffering as he struggled to explain to my dad that the black spots on his legs weren’t dye from his socks or that his bleeding gums weren’t caused by lack brushing. The black spots had infested his tongue and the inner workings of his body, which sent a message of urgency that my dad needed. They went off to the hospital where my grandfather’s body continued to fail him. His body wasn’t producing the necessary red or white blood cells. He remained in the hospital as his exhaustion mounted and he grew even more weary. I’m not certain of how long he remained alive, but he never did come home.
As I count my way through the deaths of people and pets close to me, I’m struck with the memory of crying endlessly for some and not for others. It’s not that I didn’t love or care for any of them more than another, but there seemed to be something different in how I experienced their passing. I cried for Sultan, my beloved golden retriever, over the course of weeks, while I cried briefly for my own mother who died across the table from me. Attachments were high for both and I felt guilty for not crying more for my mom.
I’ve spent months cataloging deaths in my mind: Sultan, my brother, Darrin, my grandparents, Dash and other cats, Wagger, Enid and many more. What I noticed is that those who seemed to suffer longest were the ones I cried the most. Just like that little bird, I had the hardest time watching another suffer because, at some level, I felt their suffering. I wanted to take it away. I wanted so much for none of them to experience pain, fear or the slow spread of death. Those long deaths were hard and must have been difficult to experience. As I wind my way through thoughts and ideas about death and suffering, I’m not certain of what my conclusion should be because, lately, I’m left wondering.....am I inserting myself and projecting my own ego into their deaths? Maybe suffering has nothing to do with it. Maybe the crying and deep sadness I experienced had more to do with my own personal readiness. Maybe I wasn’t ready for death in those moments. I thought I had insights and answers but I’ve gone full circle in my head and am left to question my thoughts. All I know is that each death was felt and has left an ache in bits of my heart. I loved them all.
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