It was my first time scheduling a death. I’d never called around to get death quotes, trying to find the best deal on the killing of a beloved family member. The time, however had come and it was up to me to make the arrangements. “How about Thursday at 4?” “Yes, that should work,” I replied through tears. Thursday at 4. Our place.
Mushu is my step-cat. She and her adopted cat brother Mau came with my husband thirteen years ago. Mushu liked to hang out in our backyard hunting mice and voles. She would often deliver them, usually headless at our back door. (I know, I know - gross - but she’s a cat, so…) She liked to lay in the sun and keep guard in the garden. She had that classic cat side-eye thing down. She kept Mau warm at night (he’s super skinny and crazy, she was not,) and while he would often pick fights with her, she usually won. Then we would see them cuddled together on the couch, her giving him a bath. Theirs was a complicated relationship.
A few months ago, my husband noticed she was losing weight and not eating very much. A few weeks after that, she started to get some swelling on her face. We thought maybe it was a tooth infection so after a visit with a veterinarian, then another visit with another veterinarian and a shot of antibiotics, nothing changed and she ate and drank even less. It was becoming clear that the swelling was a tumour and we would have to take steps. We held out, selfishly probably. She still purred when we pet her, her personality seemingly unchanged. It’s hard to pull the plug on a life that still seems very much alive. But over the next couple weeks, things really started to look like a struggle for her and eventually she stopped eating altogether. Euthanasia – “an easy death” was the solution to a problem that many a pet owner has faced.
Thursday at 4 came. My husband came home from work early, my daughter sat outside petting Mushu, her sobs very audible, which of course set me off too. My son, waiting for the vet to arrive, popped off a quick round of Fortnite - his happy place, I guess. I made a pot of chamomile tea and put on some appropriate music – instrumental, sad. We all came inside and sat in a circle around Mushu, petting her in all her favourite places while our vet, the picture of compassion as I imagine any vet in this circumstance has to be, explained to us what would happen. Mushu seemed ready for it all. She never tried to get away, she seemed peaceful. Even Mau, who had been with Mushu for all of her 15 years sat and stayed with us through it all.
I know I’m talking about an animal here and about a very subjective experience that will have a different meaning to everyone reading this, but this occasion was moving not only because of my personal connection to the situation, but because of the space it afforded my family in dealing with the complicated subject of death. We’ve had death in our family before, but never with a being so close to all of us, never with a member of our household. While we knew in our hearts that this was the right thing to do, it was important for our kids to know why we were doing it. Sometimes the most compassionate thing to do is the hardest thing imaginable. I was proud of the kids for being there (they had the option to leave and refused,) I was proud of the incredible empathy and kindness they showed and the fact that they didn’t run from death. They sat there, crying, feeling, being with it all. They did the hard thing.
Death is tricky. This was a “little” death for us, it was a pet who was suffering and to be honest, my relationship with the cats has been a difficult one, to say the least. But the whole situation opened up a bigger part of my heart than I thought it might. It surprised me. Our “feel no pain” culture has been trying very hard to avoid or delay it at all costs and the trickle-down effect is that some of us can’t even face it when it comes. The truth is though, death is hard, it’s not something we should ever get good at. I’m not making a case for death to become “easy” for all of us – compassion, empathy and our attachments will never make it so. But can we move through death with grace and acceptance, even when it feels like the bottom just dropped out of our lives? Can we approach death with love instead of fear? What would our world look like if we truly understood that the finality of death is not all there is; that the purpose of another’s life is measured just as much by the journey it took to get there?
Last night before bed, I habitually went to the back door to check that we didn’t leave Mushu out. These habits will fade eventually, I suppose. I only hope the memories and lessons of her life and of her death, will not.
