The Guardians of Sorrow

Brady the beagle was only eight years old when we unexpectedly had to have him put down. He woke up late one night shaking his head incessantly. I could see that his face was slightly swollen, but decided to wait out the few hours until morning to take him to the vet. It seemed to be some sort of allergic reaction, maybe a bug bite. He was given Benadryl and sent home.

That night, a Saturday—because all animal emergencies seem to happen when only exorbitant after-hours care is available—he developed serious gastrointestinal problems. The next few days resulted in one futile attempt after another to get him well. After almost a week of veterinarian head scratching, it was determined that he had weak kidneys, and all the inflictions and medications were more than his little organs could handle. The most humane thing was to let him go.

The vet spoke kindly and softly as he worked.  The process was gentle, quiet, and methodical—as my heart split open with grief. The guttural sobbing that followed came from as deep a place of hurt as seems humanly possible. I not only grieved Brady, but my dad who passed the summer before, my dog, Emerson, whose loss Brady had been the welcome heart mender for, and layers and layers of scratched open sadness.

I began to ponder why the death of a pet is so uniquely lacerating. More than once I have heard people say, “I cried harder when my dog died than when I lost my mom.” Or, “My cat died ten years ago, and I’m still not over it.”

Our fur-wrapped friends willingly offer unconditional love and unencumbered relationship. Pasts are forgotten, the future is not analyzed—now is all there is. No wonder grieving a pet is so searing. After all, that soft head is the one that soaked up countless number of tears—the nose that sniffed, the eyes that wondered, the head that tilted, and the ears that heard the stories, the railing, the fears.

They are the guardians of our sorrows and champions of consolation. And when they leave their posts, the unwatched gates fly open and the despair of decades spills through.

The Party

Recently, I had a party.  It was a big one. If you’re wondering why you weren’t invited I’ll tell you that, although the party was huge, the guest list was small. My husband came for a short time before going to work. My oldest daughter was invited but it really wasn’t her kind of thing. My mom had other plans.

I served mostly sour foods. There were balloons everywhere, all popped; and a large pool for diving, swimming, or wallowing. The pool was full of self—self-pity, self-doubt, and self-loathing. There was also a very shallow wading pool for self-esteem but I didn’t spend much time there. Most enticing, was the petty-fountain, dripping with free flowing whys, hows, and whats. I sat with my popped balloons, sour snacks, and pity pool making the most of every minute.

I dove into the pool thinking about how a year ago my husband lost his job of twenty-five years when the theatre program he had built from the ground up was reduced to nothing. Angry that one year later, the company I had given my time and heart to had closed. Ruminating over money owed to me that would easily see us through until I find work but will not be paid. Frustrated over the mistake I made in filing for unemployment insurance that will delay a check coming for another two weeks.

I swam through pain and sorrow about my youngest daughter and our perpetually fragile relationship. I trudged to the deep end, and wallowed in the possibility of losing our house, how to buy groceries, or put gas in the cars. And what about the world falling apart all around us—corrupt cops and cop killers, Facebook rants, and terrorists?

I dragged myself out of the pool, and picked up some “petty-fors” to dip in the fountain. Why could no one stay at my party? Why am I always short on money? How is it that I have energy to clean every room in the house but mine? What’s the city ordinance on the possession of dust bunnies? Why do I have jowls, and none of my friends do? Why have select facial hair follicles gone rogue? Why me? Why? How? What?

On Sunday, I got to spend time with my long time friend, Jean. I invited her to my party and she accepted. She even brought a few of her own sour snacks and popped balloons. She swam by my side in the pool, sampled the nasty food, and took a turn dipping “whys” in the petty fountain. We talked, we laughed, we cried; and then took a short walk.

As we walked, Jean commented, “You know, Satan loves to attack us through our children.” I stopped in my tracks. “But God has access to their hearts.”

There was the crux of it. All the other struggles are just logistics, life challenges that can and will be overcome. But our children are at the tender nucleus of our souls—our Achilles’ heels that cannot be controlled or forgotten—only loved and covered in prayer. Of all my recent trials, the one with my precious daughter had caused me to plan and execute a party like none before. Satan wants us to live in self-doubt and pity—and I complied.

Once I succumbed to that darkness, the bog of depression began to suck me in like quicksand. But God sent my cherished friend to say just the right things at just the right time. There was such comfort in those words. Remembering that I am really not in control. That Satan targets our vulnerabilities, that God is even more interested in my daughter’s wellbeing than I am; AND has complete access to her heart.

It was then that I piled up the rancid food and listless balloons. I shook my head at the energy wasted on the petty fountain. Next, I drained the toxic water from the pool, aware of the real, but no longer consuming presence of the heap of debris. I allowed the pool to fill with crystal clear Living Water. I opened my arms wide, fell back into the pool and let myself float, simply float.

Cheryl Was Shot

The announcement came to me, and my 1969 junior high classmates, that Cheryl had been shot. She was walking down her street, towards her own home, when a young man—a neighbor, randomly, ruthlessly, and without provocation shot her. She had survived. Cards, flowers, gifts, and well wishes of every sort could be sent to her home address.

Our community’s sensibilities were shaken by the news. We were shocked, curious, stunned—but not numbed. I had never before heard of someone being shot for no reason. I had never thought much about anyone being shot. I don't know what kind of gun the shooter had or what happened to him. I know it was just a handgun, not a semi-automatic, or anything close to what’s used in today’s now prolific shootings.

My mom helped me select and send a card and small gift. I don’t remember what the gift was or what we decided was appropriate to say on the card. I do remember receiving a thank you note a few weeks later from Cheryl. It said, “Thank you for your kindness during my illness.” I was struck by her reference to her “illness” but, at the time, couldn’t think of a better way for her to say it.

I had a lot of trouble reconciling why this would happen to her in particular. She was a sweet natured, diligently unobtrusive girl who tried her best to blend in with the utilitarian beige desks, and modular walls. But she couldn’t blend; because she was also, what today would be termed, morbidly obese. She was easily the most overweight girl in the school, but would likely be one of several if she were attending middle school in our current millennium.

She sat behind me in Social Studies, and although I was shy, her demeanor in comparison made me look like a convivial queen of popularity. She dressed nicely, had pretty blonde hair, and a pleasant smile. We always said hi to each other and exchanged small talk, very small talk; and that was about it. When Cheryl returned, post-convalescence, our interaction resumed as if rehearsed.

In the decades since, our communities have been bombarded by images of violence—graphic depictions that appear in movies, television shows, video games, and the news. We hear and see reports of multiple shootings per week, leaving us numbed but no longer stunned.

I think about Cheryl and what she must make of all that’s currently happening in our schools, businesses, and neighborhoods. How does her unique perspective color her reactions and opinions? What must it be like to have been one of the first? It didn’t make the news; there were no copycats; just an informative announcement to update the school families—a desk left empty for several weeks in Social Studies—a polite thank you note—and an unrecognized beginning.