It is a time of death, apparently.
Well, perhaps a year of death would be more accurate. The last 12 months have
brought the death of my brother, my father, my uncle, 2 family dogs and a
family cat.
All of them have been male.
We're mostly a gathering of women now, with the men scattered few and far between, working best they can to keep the torch lit. My brother went first, unexpectedly, then the cat. Then my uncle, one dog, then my father. Lastly, the other dog.
How strong our love is for animals. In my heart the grief is real and profound for the latest of the deaths, a charming dapper fellow named Wolfgang that lived his life full of the wit and whimsy that Lasa Apso's bring to the world. He lived longer than his body would allow, keeping going with a persistent insistence that kept him moving well past when he should have stopped and laid himself to rest. My father did the same thing. Both of them held souls that were greater than the sum of their body's parts.
And both of their deaths were expected. They had practice runs, medical care, near misses and long stretches of simply inadequate health. There were vigils in hospital rooms as my dad went through surgery and long phone calls about different treatments for dogs, and everyone knew that eventually they would die. We talked about it, did the logistics of it, even cried in advance discussing what it would be like when they were gone.
But I never realized the loss would echo so deeply in me. This last death, the death of Wolfgang, has driven home the end of an era. My last memory of Wolfgang was sitting down near him and petting him very lightly as he completely ignored me, his focus on his beloved Gwendolyn and her movements around the room that he could perceive. My last memory of my father is our exchange of I love you's as I walked out of his room at the care center and his focus on getting the words right and loud enough to be heard. One worked hard to keep his love in sight, and the other worked hard to let his love be known.
And who will do that now? Who will focus on us, perservere for us, push himself to be heard? Where will the women of our family turn now for the things that we could get only from the men that were so much a part of our everyday life?
I still pick up the phone to call my brother, dead almost a year now, to tell him about my mother's latest adventure or compare notes about raising an only child. I still feel that rush of chill deep inside when I realize that he's gone, that my father is gone, that so many have left and here we are, women. Strong, capable, creative women that mourn each day for the death of men nearby.
All of them have been male.
We're mostly a gathering of women now, with the men scattered few and far between, working best they can to keep the torch lit. My brother went first, unexpectedly, then the cat. Then my uncle, one dog, then my father. Lastly, the other dog.
How strong our love is for animals. In my heart the grief is real and profound for the latest of the deaths, a charming dapper fellow named Wolfgang that lived his life full of the wit and whimsy that Lasa Apso's bring to the world. He lived longer than his body would allow, keeping going with a persistent insistence that kept him moving well past when he should have stopped and laid himself to rest. My father did the same thing. Both of them held souls that were greater than the sum of their body's parts.
And both of their deaths were expected. They had practice runs, medical care, near misses and long stretches of simply inadequate health. There were vigils in hospital rooms as my dad went through surgery and long phone calls about different treatments for dogs, and everyone knew that eventually they would die. We talked about it, did the logistics of it, even cried in advance discussing what it would be like when they were gone.
But I never realized the loss would echo so deeply in me. This last death, the death of Wolfgang, has driven home the end of an era. My last memory of Wolfgang was sitting down near him and petting him very lightly as he completely ignored me, his focus on his beloved Gwendolyn and her movements around the room that he could perceive. My last memory of my father is our exchange of I love you's as I walked out of his room at the care center and his focus on getting the words right and loud enough to be heard. One worked hard to keep his love in sight, and the other worked hard to let his love be known.
And who will do that now? Who will focus on us, perservere for us, push himself to be heard? Where will the women of our family turn now for the things that we could get only from the men that were so much a part of our everyday life?
I still pick up the phone to call my brother, dead almost a year now, to tell him about my mother's latest adventure or compare notes about raising an only child. I still feel that rush of chill deep inside when I realize that he's gone, that my father is gone, that so many have left and here we are, women. Strong, capable, creative women that mourn each day for the death of men nearby.
