"All I'm saying is that there are an awful lot of things in the world we don't understand, honey, and hidden connections between things that don't seem related at all."
Libby from Donna Tartt's novel The Secret Friend
When my kids were just babies, toddlers, early childhood - I worked as a home hospice social worker. Every morning before leaving the house to take them to day care, I would say, "I need you to be quiet now, because Mom needs to call Death." And every morning they would know that 'Death' told me about which of my patients died over night and what new patients I was assigned to help next. I didn't keep the phone on intercom, they didn't hear the details. I simply called a voicemail system where nurses who'd worked overnight (and sometimes social workers and chaplains) would relay this important information. Telling my children I called Death, I think, was my way of whistling past the graveyard. I always felt a deep, strange pull - something primordial and magnetic - about this twinning in my life of beginnings and endings. Of life (young life!) and death.
I wonder what seeped into my kids from hearing so much about death from a young age, how this influenced them.
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Our dog, Pearl, died four days before we left for an 8 day family vacation. Our energetic, loving girl, who'd started showing a tumor in her eye (the tumor started in her skull) last July and was given a year to live, lived almost exactly one year from her prognosis.
The day after she died, my daughter said to me, "Mom, all the stuff you've always said about hospice is true."
You see, she died on a Wednesday, but strange things were happening on Tuesday. On Tuesday, I left my daughter home for a couple hours while I ran into work. My son was at camp and due home on Thursday. The weather that week had been terrible - stormy for several days.
When I got home from work, my daughter was curled up on the floor, using the dog as a pillow. She hadn't done that in a long, long time - though as a young child, she let Pearl lick her on the mouth ad nauseam (literally ad nauseam) and liked nothing more than to lie beside her on the floor, because Pearl was a big dog and there is something very fun and comforting about snuggling with a dog who is bigger than you are.
I commented, "I haven't seen you do this in a long time."
Later that day, she said, "Mom...how old is Pearl in dog years?"
"Just about 70, " I said.
"That is not old, but it is not young. She still acts very young. Much younger than 70," she said.
That night, as we were getting ready to go to sleep, we noticed a variation in the routine. Usually I 'tuck in' my daughter even though she is big, too big for it. We both know this special time is kind of coming to an end and we don't adhere to the routine with the strictness we used to - I sometimes read a little to her (A Tree Grows In Brooklyn...we decided this is our last book aloud together) and we say prayers and the dog lies beside her bed and follows me to my room when I leave.
But that Tuesday night, Pearl stayed in my daughter's room. I fell asleep and woke at 2 am and she was still there. I woke at 5 am and the dog had migrated to her usual spot in my room. "Hmmm," I thought. "That's strange."
About 6:30 am, I decided to go for a short two mile run, and Pearl and I did our own routine - she jumped around and pounced here and there when she saw me get the leash. I pounced back until I "caught" her. She ran two miles and I noted that she really was slowing down a bit. I could tell she was tired.
I left for work. My daughter was going to hang out with my mom that day at my mom's house and they were going to head back to my house at 3 to take care of Pearl and hang out till I got home. I'd gotten notice that my son's camp was going to end early and he would be home that night, rather than the following afternoon, due to weather.
At about 3:15, while I was in session, my phone started blowing up, but I didn't know it.
At 4, I called home to my daughter crying. "Pearl's eye is bleeding and she is shaking and nervous and I think you better come home."
After talking with my mom, I rescheduled my next couple of clients for later in the week, and tried to get in touch with my son at camp. Thankfully, I was able to, "Pearl's eye is bleeding," I told him. I could hear that he was crying, but he is one of those kids who tries to be super stoic. "Do you want me to wait to take her to the vet until you get home? I will do it."
We were told that if her nose or eye started bleeding we would need to have her put to sleep then and both the kids knew this.
"Absolutely not, "he said.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Don't do that. She shouldn't be in pain for any more time," he answered.
"Do you want me to send you a picture of her or take some of her fur for you?"
"Send me a picture."
When I got home, Pearl was shaking and jittery, but so glad to see me. She wagged her tail and looked at me like, "You will fix this. I know you will fix this." That was the part that made me most sad. Because that is the trust animals and people have in you when you really love them and they really love you. It is a big responsibility, but one you must carry.
I think she knew this was the end. I just felt that.
When we took her to the vet, it all happened pretty quickly. The vet put a blanket down on the floor and Pearl sat on my lap, because even though she was huge and long and awkward, she would have liked to be a lapdog. A lapdog was her spirit animal. She licked the vet's face and she licked my daughter's face and she died. And we cried a lot together.
And when my son got home a few hours later he wanted to know everything, but he didn't let us see him cry. I said I regretted that we couldn't wait until he got home and he said, "I would have been mad at you if you waited."
So the next day is when my daughter said, "What you've always said about hospice is true." And what she meant was that I believe sometimes we have a deep knowing, a deep sensing. There are connections we make that are beyond fact and rationality. I saw that play out many, many times in hospice.
Pearl didn't die while we were gone away, with a housesitter or family friend. She had a really good last couple days. I think she said goodbye in her own ways.
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Our trip was a big one. To Ireland. I hadn't been overseas in 20 years and my kids never had been. One piece of the trip I enjoyed unexpectedly, was our travel guide, Scott. He was college professor-ly, but in a more young, fun way. He told us about the history of Ireland, the people, and the folklore. He told us about Brownies, Leprechauns, and Fairies and showed us a tree that was fabled to be inhabited by fairies. Fairies are powerful forces in Irish lore and disturbing them is bad luck. They are blamed for changelings and various other misfortunes. They are not to be trifled with. When we saw this tree - an unassuming, but big shrub on the side of the highway, Scott told us that the Irish people were so opposed to cutting down the tree because of it's fairy connection, that they spent an extra $7 million to reroute the highway. Folklore, Scott pointed out, tells us something about the human need to understand, the convey cultural ethics, and identity. I admire the juxtaposition of the old and the new in the Irish culture. Most sane people would say that fairies aren't real, but as a collective they spent quite a bit of money to honor the idea of them.
What can it all mean? Scott also pointed out that there is a distinction between good sense and common sense. But for the life of me, I can't remember.
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Several nights into our trip, I dreamed of Pearl. She was young and happy. Her eye, whole and healed. I petted her in the dream and I could smell her fur. It was a dream, but I swear to you, I could smell her.
