The price we pay for love

 Warning: death and dying are covered in this blog. Please look after yourself and those around you. If you need help, free text or call 1737 anytime within Aotearoa/New Zealand. 

 

It’s a balmy summer afternoon, and I’m heading to my friends for dinner, where Korean Chicken will salve my growing hunger. Fur Elise starts to play gently on my phone, the tune a memory of the days I had an old piano. My son is calling, distraught, an accident with the cat, an injury, the vet at Carrington. Cursing at insolent drivers and praying for green lights, I arrive, forgetting to scan in, rapidly hugging an unexpected friend in the waiting room who has her own tragedy to deal with tomorrow. I stroke Thunder, the diminutive Co-share Cat, who is lying peacefully in a box. My son, his friends, me - we weep. Deep belly weeps, blue eyes stained with tears, sobbing from the soul.

Later, I watch them. Sam’s hands are bandaged, the wounds Thundy inflicted in fear and agony now treated with a tetanus jab and antibiotics. Adding insult to injury, this death. These kids (they are adults) know what to do, flowers and candles and crystals and a glass of wine, as the little guy is prepared for burial. I’m the celebrant, but I stand back, watching in awe and in sadness, as they are wracked with anger, disbelief and sorrow.

It's summer in Aotearoa, and we slide languidly into February. I watch funeral director Caitlin Dougherty and desairologist Monica Torres do make-up and hair for decedents, equal doses of compassion and practicality on display for the curious and the caring. She was 26, my friend Lizzy: 26 on the 26th, and that was it. They did her hair wrong, brushed to look like her mum’s. Robert and I were pallbearers, on a sizzling day at a cemetery I would later work in. It was heavier than I thought, this dead weight. Thirty years later, I watch my mum die, her first anniversary just around the corner. It’s a tough month.

I trawl through my photos on the net, the "reverse Google image search” function the only way to find who has used them. And it appears: Thundy asleep on their bed, the photo advertising the services of the place where he was rushed, in pain and in distress. Sweet coincidences continue, and I find an image of Sam feeding the tiny cat, SPCA promoting careers for children who love animals. The woman I contact responds to my email within the day:

We're so sorry to hear about Thunder. He was a truly beautiful cat who made a perfect little model - he certainly stood out when we were choosing images. It's so hard to lose a furry member of your family - deepest condolences for your loss on behalf of all SPCA staff ... we are so glad you have each other. 

It is what I need. It is what we all need: acknowledgement of the loss; concern; affirmation of a life well lived; support; aroha and awhi. An inherent desire to take action, to share our grief, to yell to the world how much we loved … it’s all part of the process.

Lorna Wood says grief is a bag, at first a backpack stuffed to the brim with heavy tramping gear, weighing us down. Over time, it morphs into a hand-painted soft tote bag, slung over the shoulder. Back and forth, the bag swells and recedes, transforming with our moods, special events and anniversaries. If we’re lucky, it finally becomes a sparkly evening purse, glittering with memories: brought out occasionally, yet proudly worn for all to see.

Yes, Thunder has torn our hearts apart, but grief is the price we pay for love.