death and it's mysteries

All great stories have an end; where the reader wonders what happens next in the character's lives.
The thing is, I am a story to be told. I am a living book without any bookish facades.  My story is full of adventure into the unknown. Pages of challenging tasks and daunting bridges to cross. My story holds secret tunnels and strange fragments of a mirror of myself.  There is no king or queen in my story. No heroine or hero. No fanciful creatures unimaginable. There is only me. A reflection of myself in my story. And no one can replace me.

I am the third daughter of four children born to a small town family. We were taught to respect our elders, to wash behind our ears, and to work hard. I remember the years of my childhood with a mixture of sadness and joy. I can honestly say that I am grateful for the experiences I had as a child because they made me who I am today.

I am a Hoosier. Born and bred Indiana girl. My dad didn't farm; he worked in a factory. My mom was at home and home schooled us kids all through high school.We played baseball in the cornfields after harvest. We swam for hours in the local swimming hole. We played board games instead of computer games. I can even remember when the internet went public. There was a quiet understanding that life was about working hard and spending time with those you love. 

My childhood wasn't all happy. My first experience of death was I was six. My Grandpa had passed away and at the funeral home, someone, who I don't remember, lifted me up to see Grandpa in his casket. I toughed his hand and remember thinking how cold they were and that Grandpa wouldn't like to be cold. My second experience wasn't as a dramatic event, but it was just as monumental as Grandpa's death. I had a beloved cat. My sisters were like the cat mafia. They each had their own cat, and when those two cats had kittens, the kittens became my sisters' sole property. My brother and I were not allowed to play with them or heaven forbid, pick them up! I cried for days to my parents that I wanted a cat of my own, knowing full well that the kittens would be taken to neighborhood farms and even the local pound. My dad wasn't overly fond of cats, but he tolerated them for us kids, I believe. Secretly I think he like cats but didn't want to admit it, because sometimes you would catch him scratching the ears of a kitty when he thought no one was looking. 

Finally, my parents had enough of me talking about having a cat of my own and made my sisters let me pick one out. I picked the cutest roundest furball of them all and named him Blue for his blue grey coat. He was my playmate and confidant. Whenever I was outside, where I went, he went. Together we made forts and played dolls; he often was found sleeping next to me while I would read a book in the grass. 

We both grew up. I knew about death. The experience with my Grandpa prepared me for someone I care about to be gone. Grandpa left an empty void in my little girl heart. He used to rock me and stroke my cheek until I would fall asleep. I had seen death in various forms, from squashed bugs to dead toads and snakes and mice that the cats would kill. I knew that death meant that the person or critter would no longer walk and talk and play in this world anymore. My mom explained heaven to me as a young child and I kept a wish that all my beloved pets were also up there with Grandpa to keep him company.

When I was twelve, my Blue got sick. My parents didn't believe or have the money to take a farm cat to the veterinarian. It wasn't that they were cruel; they hated to see an animal suffer. My dad kept a .22 rifle on hand in case coons or possums came around. He also kept it as a way to end an animal's suffering. Now, before you get all upset about this, my dad was a crack shot and he made sure that the animal didn't suffer at it's end. He saw no difference between a lethal shot and a rifle shot. Both had the same results. Us kids knew that death was a part of living. From the tiniest creature to our big farm dog, we knew that one day they would go just as Grandpa went years ago. I am proud to say that my family has a cemetery for all our beloved pets and we honor each one with a little burial ceremony. 

Blue got sick and I knew what that meant. He either was going to get better or dad was going to have to shoot him so he didn't suffer. At the time we didn't know anything about feline leukemia, but now looking back, Blue had all the symptoms of that disease. He would have died whether we took him to the vet or not.

The day dad decided to help Blue, we were all home at the time. Although I had begged for dad to not shoot Blue, I knew deep down that it was for the best. Now,  I am not superstitious, but I do find unexplainable things very intriguing. For what ever freak reason, dad took his first shot at Blue and it missed him. The animals weren't afraid of guns because dad was always target practicing. So, Blue just sat there and watched. Long story short for the sake of sensor, dad ended up shooting Blue nine times before Blue died. I know that sounds cruel and it was terrible. It was a freak thing that every time dad took a shot that was meant to kill, Blue would move just enough that the bullets would hit him, but freakishly missed vital organs!

My confession is this: I didn't watch all this happening. I heard about it from my siblings and mom. I didn't want to watch my beloved cat die, even though I knew it was the right thing to do. I had enough respect for life that I accepted that death eventually comes knocking. 

My third experience with death was years later when I was fifteen and our farm dog was so old that she couldn't walk. Her hips would give out every time she tried to stand. My dad was heartbroken and unable to make the decision to ease our dog's suffering. My mom called a neighbor and planned a day trip for us kids so that we weren't there when he shot and buried our beloved dog. It was a sober day. I remember thinking that when we got back home, we would no longer see our dog. For weeks it was strange to see the doghouse and know that it was empty. My parents waited a while before getting another dog, who also is gone now. 

I write these memories down because they are a part of me. They shaped my view of life and death. They taught me that some things can't be explained, like Blue's "nine lives". I look back and know that had these events not happened, I would be a different person. Some people do not experience death until late in life. Some people hide from the reality of death. Some accept death quietly, while others refuse to believe that they are mortal. Animals don't sit and ponder these things. (I think.) They live and breathe and die. It's a cycle that touches each creature here on earth. 

Me, I want my story to be told. I want to live well and learn to die well. I struggle with suicidal thoughts and ideations, but at my core I want to live. I don't want to give up my life for nothing. I want my story to be told and for it to have a happy ending, if even just a smidgen.

I hope that I am already learning to truly live.