Riding to school this morning, I made a terrible comment to my oldest about how right now we're all walking around and our bones are wet. He told me to stop it, but instead I carried on with the fact that at some point during my cremation, my meat will be perfectly cooked. He jokingly gagged and yet I carried on that I better not be buried or I'll haunt him for allowing it to happen. I didn't want someone playing with my hair and makeup to make me look like someone I never was or plugging my orifices with medical grade butt plugs to keep me from leaking out all over my coffin. I did half seriously tell him that before everyone leaves, Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" better play.
I joke with my kids like this periodically knowing they'll remember bits and pieces of my requests for my last wishes. Little may not remember, but I'm sure Middle will and Big will endure too much grief to contribute to the conversation unless one of them remembers my wishes differently than him. Seriously though, if you find out I've passed on please remind my children that I will haunt them if I'm buried somewhere. At least if I'm cremated, all three can split my cremains in thirds to carry a little bit of me wherever they end up.
Death has been a big part of our conversation as of late due to Ollie's looming expiration date. Some days, this old geriatric cat of mine will act deceptively normal. Well, normal for being 17 and on borrowed time. He still wanders the house every night if I'm not where he expects me to be and howls for me to come find him and help him as well as screaming his demands for dinner no later than 7:29 pm knowing full well he won't get fed till 8:30. Other days, the tumor behind his ear will start oozing, he'll be unsteady on his feet and rhythmically twitch his sore leg like he's keeping time to a song only he can hear.
I've made calls to local veterinarian's offices, nurses who will visit in home, and to friends and family to say their goodbyes to him. I whisper, "soon, soon... I won't let you suffer much longer." I don't want him to suffer and I do want him to die with dignity, but something deep inside of me is too selfish to let go just yet. This is my Ollie, the best friend I never knew I needed time and time again. I'm literally keeping him alive long enough to afford his euthanasia and cremation. It's over $400 to make sure he's not cremated with any other animals, which is a HUGE deal if you're Ollie and never liked anybody but your human mom... and sometimes I think he just tolerates me. When my own mama asked why I would just bury him in the backyard of my childhood home, a.) he don't know NONE of them pets buried back there nor would he like them b.) he coming with ME. Where I go, my boy will come with me. I want him to lay on/in my bedside table close to the head of my bed where he sleeps every night as it is and always has been. I don't want his old bony ass to haunt me because he's got little bits of Rover and Spot mixed in with his ashes and he's PISSED because he can't stab me in the jugular with his sharp ass little nails I could never hold him still long enough to trim.
This cat literally fell tail and back feet up in the air into my lap as I sat on the floor and surveyed my choice of kittens. He chose ME to take him home. He chose ME to tolerate for the rest of his life. He chose me even though I chose to marry the man who hurt him, he chose me even though I brought three babies home, he chose me even though I moved us from apartment, to basement, to apartment, to house, to apartment to house to his FINAL apartment... he chose me even when it was my heart that was breaking curled up under my "marital bed" mourning the death of my marriage. He chose me even when I foolishly brought a third cat into the household and even when I sent the cat back with my ex-boyfriend when we split. He still chose me even though I couldn't and can't bare the thought of life without him in it. How do you raise another being from 6 week old kitten to 17 1/2 year old screamy geriatric cat and then just say goodbye? It's a process I'm still, well, processing and I'll never honestly be ready to say goodbye.
Despite death being such a hard topic no matter what season you're in, I know for myself that I'm not afraid of death or knowing that a.) we're all going to die and b.) you can't escape that. I'm comforted by my faith that something better awaits me, but also know by science that it's physically "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." My brain can't honestly wrap itself around any other thinking, it's all very black and white in the recesses of my mind that this is just how it is. I'm not afraid of leaving life behind. I'm afraid of not LIVING and experience all MY life has to offer. I'm afraid of leaving my children before they're old enough to care for themselves or if needed, their brother. I'm afraid that now that I'm aware of how screwed up our situation was and how messed up my childhood was, that if something happens to me before they're of age they'll be thrown into every bit of what I've worked to undo.
Little asks me about death as we're somewhere between awake and sleep. "How many days do children live? Do you know when you'll die? Do you know when Pappaw will die? Why do we know when Ollie will die by not Pappaw? Does everything die?" I can read the inflections between the lines and can hear the thoughts little me would have after learning what it really meant when my mama said she'd "lost" a baby and her being so sick trying to "keep" a pregnancy broke my little pre-k brain.
I at the very least want them to be prepared and to not be afraid of death because they will know loss and have seen loss first hand at very young ages. I want them to be soft to the idea that there's no getting around it and to accept the beauty in blooming from birth just to perish and start again when our energy and ashes/dust carry on another purpose. I don't want them to be afraid of life without me, but celebrate and have joy in their voices when they speak of the memories they had of me. I want to know that THEY know how loved and cherished they were by me, that the very thought of losing them sucked the air straight from my lungs any time the possibility was there, waiting for me to loosen my grip on them.
We're all born to die, the trick is to truly love and LIVE between those two events.
