I used to spend a lot of time rehearsing people’s deaths. When I was babysitting I would imagine my charge taking a fatal tumble down the stairs; or succumbing from an ill-timed swallow—baby face turning blue then white, choking on a handful of pesticide-free fruit. I’ve imagined my friends slipping in the shower or tripping while cooking and accidentally impaling themselves; I would mentally practice being calm and reassuring as I called ambulances and applied pressure. At one point this tendency was borderline obsessive: what are all the ways someone could die in this room and how will I react if they do.
In school I wrote a paper about my “death rehearsals.” In typical undergrad Mia fashion I attempt to pull way too many strings together—Plato, Savonarola, Montaigne, and Milton are cited as well as whole chunks of Genesis—but I do come to a funny little conclusion: I do find solace in knowing there is no preparation for the deaths of those I love…whether it comes as a shock, or I am by his bedside for days, the grief will be unimaginable—not necessarily insurmountable, just that it will take a shape I cannot, so far removed from the event, imagine. Thank god, the subject of this paper is still alive and well so I don’t have to compare what I dreamed up to reality, but I also recently reread an early newsletter where I considered my, then alive, dog’s death.
Sherlock died almost a year ago. He was in a lot of pain and, as seems to be the case with many of the pets that have far outlived our childhoods, it began with an emergency run to the animal hospital and ended somewhere in the middle of the night with an empty dog bed in the backseat of a silent car. We got Sherlock when I was nine. Technically he was Sherlock II: I wanted the same dog with the same name as my mom had when she was a kid. His ears were bigger than his body. He couldn’t jump up the single step to get in the house; he was frequently bowled over by the blue and white children’s soccer ball we played with in the yard. He looked like a bunny in the winter, taking great leaps to plow through feet of snow. He teethed on a very expensive set of furniture my grandma bought me.
There’s not a lot of time when you’re putting your animal down. I mean there’s a lot of waiting, but once it’s in motion…He was whisked away, hours later we were told he was dying, moments later he was being injected with whatever gently lethal cocktail they’ve come up with. My mom asked me the next day if we had done the right thing. We made the decision, the last decision regarding this creature we cared for for fifteen years, so quickly.
A few nights ago I got into a conversation about the existence of souls. I was surprised to realize how certain I am that we have souls. I don’t think the question had ever been posed to me, only the further, messier propositions: where do we go when we die, what God do I believe in, why are we here. But the fact of the soul suddenly appeared to me as so elemental as to be indisputable. In the moment I couldn’t explain why, I’m still not sure I can. The best I’ve been able to come up with is that I know it’s there because I can feel it when it’s agitated. It isn’t an emotion, it’s like a pressurized internal explosion. It’s what I imagine when I think of an underwater volcanic eruption, something deep and terraforming. Locating my soul is like stumbling over a familiar piece of furniture in the dark. There are these things that nudge at it—smelling a baby’s head, singing at a concert, ice skating backwards, making someone laugh until they cry, holding my dog as he died—and then I’m reminded. Yes of course, there’s that chair there. I don’t know, explaining it makes me feel like a sentimental alien. It reminds me of a hovering Berenger trying to teach a skeptical crowd how to fly in Ionesco’s A Stroll in the Air:
…everyone knows how to fly. It’s an innate gift, but everyone forgets. How could we have forgotten the way it’s done? It’s so simple, so clear, so childish.
I’m always astounded that it’s all the same stuff—clouds, saltwater, dying leaves—that’s the exact same nonsense we’re made of.
Bonus video of adult Sherlock thwarted by snow:
I’m crying during a U of L game! Recovered and smiled on the snow video. Deep thoughts on death, Mia. It is part of life, but somehow one can never really prepare for that final goodbye.
I can relate to your thoughts on death Mia. It is a fascinating sometimes terrifying subject. However, I have come to believe that my soul belongs to the one who made me and returns to Him when He is through with me here. So death, in my mind, is not a "goodbye" but a "hello again" instead.