We're in a state of pre-mourning here in the Richmond household today. It's becoming very apparent that Cressida, the guinea pig, will be leaving us in the imminent future. She's lost a great deal of weight, her eyes look dull, and she's not eating well. Add that to the fact that she's getting to be quite an old cavy indeed, and it doesn't take a genius to realize what's around the corner.
If you've read this journal for long, then you know that I do not handle death well at all. When our previous two guinea pigs passed away, I was in complete hysterics, compounded with the raging guilt of being totally and completely unable to even come near their bodies. I have a sinking feeling that the guilt will be worse this time; I know full well that I haven't been as attentive as I should toward my little piggy, especially since Oriana, her cagemate died. Now I don't want to disturb her; she very obviously wants nothing more than to be left alone in her little wooden house in the corner of the cage. She whimpers at loud noises that intrude upon her peace.
I asked Eric if he thought we should take her to the vet. It's sadly apparent that there will be no cure but a final one for Cressida, but that final "cure" might be a mercy for her. He was reluctant, then reminded me that the vet closes early, so I would have to take her myself - with Sam in tow. Not something I'm eager to contemplate, not by far. We agreed to see how she was doing by tomorrow, then make a decision. I've never had to take a pet to the vet on Saturdays; I wonder whether they have weekend hours.
It sounds heartless to say it - it sounds heartless to think it. Please, please, God, let it happen when I'm not here. Please let Eric be here, and please relieve me from the situation of having to deal with it. Relieve me? Yeah, that's a laugh. I'm not the one in pain, and I'm certainly not the one cowering in a little ball. I feel selfish for thinking of my own discomfort in the middle of all this, and I hate myself for that self-centeredness. It's not about me; I know that. In my head, I know that. In the pit of my stomach, it's a different story.
I know we won't be replacing her with another pet anytime in the near future. Eric and I have agreed that we're just not up to the challenge at the moment, neither emotionally nor physically. Maybe when Sam's old enough to share in the care of a pet, we'll revisit the idea, but for now, we'll be a family of three again. Why does it feel so lonely to say that?
At the same time, I know full well how lucky I am. My sister-in-law's mother is deathly ill with metastasized breast cancer; she may not make it until Christmas. I'm not close to Patsy. I've only met her a handful of times - every Christmas since we've been married, and two or three times before that. Our personal closeness aside, though, her illness is obviously having a terrible effect on the family. People I love are hurting, hurting badly.
How can I compare the loss of a pet to the loss of a parent? They're incomparable, I know; the very thought of losing my mother is so horrific that my mind shies away from even imagining it. Yet there are similarities in the suffering, so far as I can tell. Patsy's disease is wreaking havoc on her, causing awful suffering and pain. When we cry for her, though, at least a small part of us is also crying for ourselves. How are we going to get through this? How can this be happening to us? Could I bear to hold my mother's hand while she cried and shook from the pain? If I couldn't, would it be out of sadness for her - or for myself?
If I couldn't be there for Mom with one hundred percent of myself, my self-loathing would have no bounds. The fact that I have to wonder in the first place disgusts me. It doesn't change anything, but the hatred remains.
It's going to be a miserable holiday season this year, I'm afraid, even if Patsy's still with us. I don't know how to be there for my sister-in-law, how to help her through this. I know there's nothing I can say to take away the pain of losing her mother, and if she's feeling the same fearful, self-hating reluctance, then I'm doubly unsure of how to help. A hug, a few kind words - they don't feel like enough. Would anything feel sufficient to the pain?
I'm human, as is made woefully obvious to me every day. Should I feel guilty for the weakness that makes me want to protect myself from the agony of loss at the same time as I want to protect my loved ones from a more physical agony? I don't think it's possible to remove or absolve myself from this guilt, whether it's legitimate or not.; just because a weakness is natural doesn't make it right.
When Cressida dies, I know how I'll react. I know I'll freeze up, not be able to look at her, not be able to cope. It will take every fiber of my strength to be able to clean out her cage, even after she's long gone. Even now, I cringe before I enter the room where she sits, wondering whether she's still there or not. I'm not happy about this, but I know it for fact.
I wish I could, at the least, forgive myself for the weakness long enough to be able to pre-mourn Cressida. Time enough for the self-disgust after she's gone.
Edited to add: Cressida died today, sometime between 5:30 and 6:30. Bye-bye, sweetheart.
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one year ago:
We've done road trips with Sam before, true, but not with this awful teething stuff being so much in force.
two years ago:
Hopefully in just a few weeks, I'll get that second trimester burst of energy, and I'll be able to be more of a partner than a dependant.
three years ago:
That makes 100% of my grandmother's children with thyroid problems. |
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On the Stereo:
Sesame Street
On the Bookshelf:
Rereading The Lord of Chaos
Gratuitous Sam
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