She had been losing weight steadily for the past year, and would go through bouts of weakness, but then she would rebound. Her age alone told us that she wouldn't have much longer, and we anticipated that one of these bouts of weakness would result in her going to sleep and not waking up, and when it happened, we weren't surprised, but we were all sad.
It was interesting to see how each family member dealt with her passing. Death is a natural part of life, and as unpleasant as it is to experience the wild ranges of grief, it is important for us to allow ourselves to go through it, rather than make feable attempts at hiding from it, uncomfortable with how it makes us feel.
Lee faced it head-on initially. I had wrapped her in a towel and laid her on a blanket so that the kids could see her and say good-bye. He went right over to her, without fear. He crouched down, and he literally said good-bye out loud. Then, he turned and left. Before he left the room, though, he stopped and asked me whether or not Chi Chi could hear him tell her good-bye. I told him that I believe God let her spirit stay for a little while so that she could hear us.
The others varied...some went in, others only peered in at her from the door...even several feet from the door way. We all do it differently.
The death ritual is for the living. It is to comfort and bring closure to those of us who mourn the one who passed. We bury them with dignity, we remember them lovingly, but none of these things benefit the one who has died. We honor them, their memory, but we are the ones who feel better when we honor them. Like, one last act of love without expecting a thing in return. It's unconditional, and it's important to each of us when we contemplate how we would play out the ritual of their final physical presence in our lives.
Having pets, and then having to see them die, kind of gives us a dress rehearsal for when we lose people who are dear to us in our lives. We can experience the finality of it, the feel of life without them, and we can see and learn about ourselves through the stages of grief, and the strangeness of how we can go from one stage to another, and back to revisit one we already left, with no rhyme or reason or consistency.
Take Lee, for example. So brave and inquisitive early in the morning. In the late afternoon, he drew a picture for Hugo. A picture of himself with Chi Chi, our dog Luke, Abi, and Hugo. I prepared dinner while he created his work of art. Suddenly, the sound of a loud sob escaped his little lips. I quickly turned to him where I saw his shocked, tear-filled eyes. He said, "I wish Chi Chi didn't have to die," and then he began blinking his eyes hard, like he does, when he tries not to cry. By the time I made it to him to comfort him (which was immediate and quick), he was already composed and rather stoic. I hugged a little stone boy. We wouldn't see the emotional sorrow in him the rest of the day, even through the back yard funeral service. Quite the contrary. He wanted it over with, asking when we would put Chi Chi in the hole Adam dug. Seeing these things in Lee has given me opportunity to peer into his soul a little--to see that there is still evidence of a wounded spirit that needs attention.
Yes, the death ritual is for the living.
Everyone hurt for Hugo. He had contact with both sides of our family all day yesterday, as they expressed their condolences. At one point I received a text from him asking me to tell everyone we're NOT getting a kitten. I LOL-ed. Hugo isn't exactly an animal-guy--and the poor thing inherited a Labrador and 3 more cats when he married me. I wasn't surprised by his text saying he doesn't want another cat. I texted back, "Haha. Everybody knows you're a Chi Chi lover...not a cat lover." There was a pause, and then he responded, "That's pretty much it right there."
He was a Chi Chi lover. We all came to be Chi Chi lovers. She was a part of our family, and we will miss her.
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