On Death

I'm a words person. I love words. I love their power. I love their meaning. I have a running narrative going through my mind at all times. I will often find myself mouthing song lyrics for no apparent reason, or saying quotes aloud, or reciting poems at random moments. It can be an annoying trait to some, because it can be difficult to interrupt what's going on in my head. And I talk to myself often, which then makes me laugh at myself. On April 10th, we had to put our beloved dog to sleep. It's been 11 days since he died. In those 11 days, I've had a plethora of words on death swirling around in my head. I have told myself that I need to get them out. I need to write, I need to talk about them. I need to deplete. Yet, I haven't been able to. I have found it difficult to grab on to those words, put them in the palm of my hand, and identify them. My dog's death sparked an unexpected amount of emotion about my mother's death, which was over 2 years ago. Murphy and my mother were buddies. When she was ill, he was her lap dog; her company. She found great peace in rubbing his ears or patting his head, or rubbing his belly. After my mother passed away, Murphy would wander into her room and lay on the floor, as if awaiting her return. He would often sit in the corner of the couch where she used to sit- another sign that he wasn't sure where she had gone. After a while, he stopped. He no longer went into her room or used her corner of the couch. I don't believe he forgot about her, rather, he realized that she wasn't coming back. It took my mother 13 days to die, from the word "hospice" to her last breath. In the moment, it was excruciating to witness her death process. During that time, I was on edge 100% of the time. I would go into her room and check to make sure she was still breathing. I would wake up every morning and think "Is this it? Am I going to find her dead?" It was the anticipation of her death that wrecked me. I knew it was coming, just not when. And in the moment, it seemed to drag on and on and on. Some people would see this time as a gift; an opportunity to say the things that need to be said, to hold the loved one's hand, to sit in their company whenever possible, and to enjoy their presence. I, however, did not see it as a gift. I tried to. I tried to sit with my mother. I tried to hold her hand. I couldn't. The witnessing...the watching...the waiting...was too much. I made sure that I said everything I needed to say to her. She wasn't able to speak, but I know she heard me. After that, though, I was ready. I wanted the time to come. However, she wasn't yet ready. The hospice nurses kept telling us to encourage Mom to go; to encourage her to let go. At the time, and even now, I wonder, how much control do we, as humans, have over the timing of our impending death? It seems to me that my mother, as anyone in that situation, would not want to hold on, if they had a choice. That state of being is not living. We told her every day in those 13 days that it was ok to go. That it was ok to let go and that it was time. We told her that her parents were waiting to see her, and that she was loved by many. I believe she wanted to let go, but her body wasn't ready. In that situation, there is no control over death. It will come when it comes. And how arrogant are we to think we have some amount of control in that? My dog, Murphy, died on a Monday. On Sunday evening, he was sitting on the floor, and he looked up at me as I sat on the couch. He looked me in my eyes. My dog never did that. I felt in my soul that he was trying to tell me something. That the pain was more than he could bare. I told him that we would help him, and it would be soon. It took Murphy 30 seconds to die, maybe less. I watched the vet inject the pentobarbital into his paw, and I held him as he fell asleep; as the life left his body. I laid him down on the table so the vet could check for his heartbeat and officially say that he was dead. He was wrapped in a towel, put in a box, and I brought him home to be buried right next to my mother's garden. And now, as I'm typing this post, I'm seeing those words on death in the palm of my hand. I've grabbed on to them. Here they are: Heartache, pain, sadness, loss, beginning, end, faith, fear, love, grief. Those are the ones that I can acknowledge, anyway. The ones that I can feel and identify and understand. There are others, though, and I can't grab on to them just yet. With time, I'll be able to. For now, some words from Jim Morrison. "People fear death even more than pain. Its strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend."