The Way We Go

In a near or distant future, I may, or may not, explain the reason for the darkish nature of these posts.

Meanwhile, picture a three-year old child kneeling by her bed. After asking God's blessing on her parents and little sister, she lispses, "and dear God I pray for a happy death." I am not kidding. Catholics, who understood the psychology of the confessional, may also understand the psychology of dying. That is, the importance of the manner of death.

Wil would have been 88 last October. Architectural designer, writer, fine artist, landscape artist, wit, collector of specialized and antique books, photographer, limericks and song writer, father, several times a husband, countless times a friend. A genius by any standard. Superb cook, and host. Said Yes to everything. Generous, tolerant, adventurer. Natty dresser to the end, wore hats well. He loved animals, and his flower garden. He lived alone. His death certificate reads: self inflicted stab wound to the chest.

"It was just a few moments," a friend said quietly to me, "Think of the whole life!" But a few moments takes up all the space. None of us -- his family or friends -- can write an obituary, honor him and his amazing life with even a simple announcement, because of the how. Memories, stories, anecdotes -- all silenced because of the how. At least for now.

And Shadow. There's a part I left out in my post about the death of my beloved dog. Here's what happened. At the clinic parking lot, I waited with the hatchback open for the vet to come to administer the euthenasia shot. This was my first experience of putting down a pet. It was very clear that this was it, Shadow's legs and internal organs had given out. He'd been blind and deaf for months, but his eyebrows always spoke his alertness. His brows spoke to me now as I stroked and kissed him in our last moments. At last the vet arrived with his assistant and the needle. They stuck it into a foreleg and I felt Shadow flinch. They tried another place, and in it went. What happened next ... my sweet mild angel who never hurt a soul your whole long life, forgive me! he twisted and stiffened his body in a paroxysm of what could only be agony. "It's just a spasm," they said, "it will be over in few moments."

What I would give to rewind this tape.

The last moments can obliterate everything else, it's what stays. The manner of leaving touches those left behind in very particular ways. It demands the most sentient attention of she who suffers the loss. Extremely foreign and hellish sensations will be felt in the mind and heart, pleading for us not to medicate or escape, but to stay and be with them. As neither enduring marriage nor parenthood are my destiny, life brings other fires to forge the soul. Particular kinds of loss are my personal initiation into late-blooming maturity. We all have them, and all are the bitter-sweet manna of love in the end. The manner of leaving of two intimate beings in my life was unexpected. A few moments, times two, has forever changed me, though I'm not sure how. I'd like to say these ineffable experiences have made me wiser, kinder. Not really. With the man, we're growing a new relationship, free of the contractions of incarnation, but it's still gnarly. With my dog, grief is magnified by the horrible guilt of having betrayed my sweet innocent dog by my ignorance, and fury toward the vet who does not inject a pain-killer before the poison.

Some weeks after Wil's passing Faby and I met in his apartment. We'd both been married to him long ago and become close friends. We sat and sipped coffee and talked. His books and paintings filled the room, an intense presence. My friend sipped and talked, tapping her foot nervously against a shopping bag under the coffee table. Suddenly, I remembered. "Um ... Faby?" She followed my eyes, then gasped, seeing the bold letters of the funeral home on the bag. "I think he was enjoying that," I said. We both cracked up. His ashes.