Friday, October 13, 2006

A Lovely Permanent Monument

It was hard when Monday night rolled around again earlier this week (October 9): One week ago at this time I found Thelonious moribund in the doorway. One week ago at this time we left for the vet’s office. One week ago at this time, she died.

It has helped so much to put my attention on my actual feelings, rather than my thoughts about the situation, though it is inevitable there will be some thinking, which is probably a good thing, as it causes the feelings to well up.

But at a certain point, I remind myself to drop the story and feel the feelings, and I tune into physical sensations and take a breath, and it is rather miraculous how quickly the emotion dissipates. It’s not being pushed away, just directly sensed rather than thought about.

Though I wasn’t sure I quite believed it, I kept telling myself that while I will always love Thelonious and always miss her, I will in time get used to her absence. There were so many tears the first several days after she was gone, I thought I’d be crying every day for the rest of my life, and I gave myself absolute permission to do that. Who would it hurt, as long as I could function otherwise?

But after a week and a half, I feel better and there is less crying. I am now positive that what I’ve been telling myself is true: I will absolutely live on and be happy, and I will (probably) get used to her not being here.

After several days, there were even times I looked at a photo of her and felt joy rather than sorrow.

It’s like with my grandmother (and my aunt, and my great-aunt): I miss my grandmother and I love her—I talk to her; she answers—and I can still carry on despite her absence. There’s still a relationship, just a different kind.

A couple of days ago, I got a call I wasn’t expecting for another week or two: a call from S. F. Veterinary Specialists saying Thelonious’s ashes were ready to pick up.

Yesterday after work I rode my bike over to get what turned out to be a lovely little cedar box with a brass lock on the front, with two keys provided. A card on top had Thelonious’s name on it and the date of her death. It also said, “Cremation Service Provided for The Atkins Family,” half of which was inside the box, if we’re considering my own immediate Atkins family, which was just me and her.

The box and card were wrapped in plastic to keep them together and keep everything clean and protected. The whole thing was tremendously thoughtful. I realized that the person who handed it to me was someone I had talked to on the phone a few times who had been very kind and was again on this occasion.

There was another woman there picking up medication for her pet. When I was outside unlocking my bike, she came out and it looked like she was crying as she said to me, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Hearing about my cat’s ashes must have reminded her of a beloved departed cat of her own. I was glad she spoke to me. That was also very sweet.

As always, I had the feeling of loving spirits all around. I live in a sea of kindly entities, embodied and not.

In the end, I got five “real” cards and two e-cards, which I printed out, and many emails and phone calls and verbal expressions of sympathy. My dear friend Elea in Washington emailed every couple of days for the first week just to ask, “How are you doing?” I have been magnificently cared for (which could not have happened if I hadn’t told people what was going on).

After my aunt died, while my uncle probably received an outpouring of sympathy, of course I didn’t receive such expressions, but in fact, it was a major loss. It was an untimely, horrible, prolonged death, and I had loved her very much, so I called up my mother and asked her to send me a condolence card.

She sent a lovely handwritten card that is one of my (many) highly valued sentimental objects. Yesterday I asked her if she could send one for Thelonious, too.

She asked if I wanted her to send the remainder of my grandmother’s ashes.

“I don’t know; how much are we talking about?”

“Two pounds?”

“Two pounds?! I don’t think so. I think the token amount I have will suffice.”

“Perhaps I should scatter them somewhere.”

My grandmother really enjoyed driving around in the Cadillac a friend gave her after becoming too infirm to drive it, so I suggested maybe she should scatter her mother’s ashes over the nearest Cadillac, and then she could write a message in the dust with her finger: “I love my mother.”

My mother noted that if the ashes were mixed with cement first, it would be a lovely permanent monument.

2 comments:

Maya's Granny said...

Linda,
Is your mother thinking of scattering them on the Cadilac after she mixes them with cement? I wonder how the owner would feel about that.
I suspect it would make your grandmother laugh.

Bugwalk said...

Yes, I believe that was my mother's diabolical plan. I'm sure the owner would not feel at all honored. My grandmother was not a malicious person, but she did look on the bright side of life, so she might indeed have laughed.