Grief and Gratitude

My sister and her kids live in Morocco.  They had two cats named Paul and Claws.  Last week Claws got sick.  Vet care isn’t as widely available in Morocco as it is in the States. Here, the cat probably would have been euthanized early on, cutting down on the days spent hoping he would improve while watching his disturbing physical decline. It was a very visceral experience, resonant all the way across the ocean via FaceTime updates.  My sister felt responsible for this cat as a member of her family (as many of us pet owners do).  She tried everything she could to help him, but the resources just weren’t available. Claws suffered, and my sister and her kids helplessly watched him do so until he died Sunday morning. Afterwards, my sister and the kids went out into the woods and built a memorial for him.  A heart made of stones.

As of this morning’s New York Times count there have been 259,832 deaths in the United States, 1,411,300 deaths world-wide.  These numbers are hard to fathom on a personal scale, but when I think of the suffering and grief that a single family spanning two continents felt over the illness and death of a cat in Morocco, I understand why my brain can’t take it in.  It’s too much.  There is a magnitude of grief in the world that wasn’t there before 2020.  Whether I can conceive of it or not, it deserves to be memorialized.  There needs to be collective awareness and space held for it.  

It’s not just the loss of lives and health we’re grieving, but many things--job and food security, daily connections with people, political loss, environmental degradation, the absence of racial equality and justice, a quiet sense of safety when walking out the front door or stepping onto an elevator. And that’s in addition to the usual wear and tear of life. We’re all feeling it.

Back in April, one month after the first fatality here in Vermont, Governor Scott ordered the US and Vermont state flags to be flown at half-staff on the 19th of every month for the remainder of 2020.  He said, “...it is important for each of us to remember those who are no longer with us and the friends and family who cared for them.  We will get through this by staying united as Vermonters.”  This might seem like a small gesture, but acknowledging loss at his level of leadership and creating a shared space for grief has strong, positive ripple effects.  

We are not, culturally, great with grief and loss.  We don’t have obvious rites and rituals for dealing with grief, especially not on the mass scale we’re feeling right now.  We spend a lot of time avoiding these experiences, waiting until we are forced to confront them and then scrambling for resources and solace.  But death, loss, grief, all these things are a huge part of the human experience.  We are selling ourselves short by not acknowledging them and incorporating them into our awareness at the same level as “the fun things” like births and marriages and graduations etc.  

So, build your rock heart memorials, light a candle, fly your flags at half-staff.  Do whatever feels like the right way to make a space for this grief, this loss.  It doesn’t have to be a major downer to do so. Instead, it’s acknowledgment of this very real and sometimes very difficult human experience we’re all having together, all the time.  No matter what degree to which you’re experiencing the grief of these times, it always helps to know there are others in this with you.  It also helps to see others survive the worst moments of their grief and still emerge not only intact but possibly stronger and more whole for the experience. The resilience of others can give you hope and help you get through your own worst moments.       

Today is Thanksgiving.  If I could’ve spared my nephews the grief of losing of their pet, I would have.  But at the same time I give thanks for the way they dove fully into this difficult week, called family across the ocean to ask questions about death, cried, stopped crying to go play games, cried some more.  They did the thing (and are still doing it because their other cat Paul has come down with the same illness), and I feel stronger for being a part of it, even peripherally.  I give thanks for their ability to love and feel and share.  I give thanks for their resilience, and for the resilience we can share with each other. We will get through this by staying united as humans.