Tag: Death

• Dying Alone (with the Angels)

  I recently received the following heartbreaking message through my website. Normally this is the kind of message that I would answer with a private email, but the person who sent it did not give me her email address. So, I’ve remove some details to protect her privacy, but here’s the message:

  Thank you for the recent article “Memento Mori: The Contemplation of Death and the Wonder of Life”
  My daughter died from an overdose 2 weeks ago. I have horrible thoughts and visions of her dying alone, so suddenly with no one by her side. My faith and hope is always in God, but where was God when she was dying like that? Can you recommend any articles or books that speak to this. It seems all books on death and dying are for those who’ve passed knowing they’re on the way. I need to know God was with her while she lay in moratorium for hours before being found. Many thanks in advance.

  First of all, I am heartbroken for you and your family. Please know I am praying for you and I send you my deepest condolences. My daughter died eight years ago from natural causes, so on one level I know what you’re going through and an another level I have no idea. I know that there are no words for a time like this, so just know that I am so, so sorry.

  Where was God in your daughter’s hour of greatest need? I know it is a terrible mystery as to why God allows such things to happen. I cannot begin to speculate, other than to quote Julian of Norwich, who maintained that when God keeps something secret from us, our best course of action is to trust in God, hard as that may be. But as for where God was: that is easier to answer. I am sure God was holding her close, enveloping her with infinite, vast, unconditional love. For God is Love, and so Love must love.

  To respond to your request  for something to read: one book that I think might offer a bit of comfort and solace for you is A Message of Hope from the Angels by the living Irish mystic, Lorna Byrne. Lorna Byrne’s particular gift is a lifelong capacity to see and communicate with angels. She has written several books, you can also find videos of her on Youtube and other video platforms. She’s very down-to-earth, just a normal Irish woman, but with a deep heart for the love of God as expressed through angelic spirits who care for us and guide us. Only one chapter in the book directly deals with death, but even its title would, I hope, bring comfort to you and your family. The chapter is called “No One Dies Alone.” Back to your question, where was God? God — and the angels, and I believe your ancestors as well — were with your daughter every step of the way.

  I remember years ago hearing an Episcopal priest talk about a funeral he presided at. Only he and one acolyte were present. It was a dreary day as they blessed the coffin at the gravesite, before the undertakers took over with the task of lowering the remains into the ground. As the priest and his assistant walked away, the acolyte blurted out, “How said to be buried all alone.” The priest replied, “Alone? But we are surrounded by the angels proclaiming, ‘Make way, make way, for the image of God!”

  Death is such a mystery, and when we love someone, we can be gutted by our grief. Losses that are sudden, accidental, or the result of violence or substance abuse can be even more painful. But I for one am convinced that every loss is cradled in the infinite love and mercy of God.

  My great-grandfather, Carl Mattson, for whom I am named, died by suicide. He hung himself in the basement after fighting with my great-grandmother Serafina. This happened before I was born, so I never knew Carl Mattson, but I know his story, and it saddens me. But despite some stern messages I have received about the judgment of God, I trust that he died into the arms of mercy. I love Lorna Byrne’s simple message when she addresses the fear that so many of us have, that God will judge us (or our loved ones): “I have never been shown anything other than a soul going directly to Heaven.” It has been said of suicide: “Between the bridge and the river is the mercy of God.” I believe this with all my heart, and I believe it applies to all people, including those who die suddenly, accidentally, as the result of violence — or of overdose. We die into the mercy of God.

  Lorna Byrne suggests that Heaven is a place of profound joy, and that those who go before us continually pray for us and watch over us with love and care (which is why I believe they will be waiting for us when we die). While it is heartbreaking for us to lose those we love, perhaps we can take comfort in knowing that their suffering has come to an end and that they have found a new and larger life in the heart of God.

  A Message of Hope from the Angels is a very simple book, written entirely from the heart, with a message that is beautiful and filled with love. If you are also looking for a something that is a bit more philosophical in its approach, my favorite book on death and dying remains The Grace in Dying: How We Are Transformed Spiritually As We Die by Kathleen Dowland Singh. Singh draws from contemplative wisdom traditions around the world, combined with the best psychology of death and dying, to present a truly beautiful description of how death is truly a letting-go into the silence of Divine Love.

  Again, I am heartbroken for your loss. Be gentle with yourself, you are on a long journey of grief and healing. But I trust and believe with all my heart your daughter is safe in the arms of Love. I hope you will find comfort from that same Love.

  

  September 7, 2022

  Death

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• Memento Mori: The Contemplation of Death and the Wonder of Life

  Twice this week I have learned of the death of an acquaintance. I hesitate to say “friend” because neither of these people were friends in a close sense: one of them I hadn’t seen or been in contact with in almost four years, the other not since the mid-1990s. But they were both men I liked, and both I knew through church. One was a Jesuit priest at my parish from 2017-2018, the other the organist at Fran’s and my wedding, at the Episcopal Church we attended in the 1990s.

  Fr. Rudy Casals, SJ was 47 years old, and died in his sleep a few days ago. About a month before that, organist Randolph S. James passed away peacefully (I don’t know the details). He had just turned 61.

  Both of these guys were younger than me.

  Remember, You Are Dust…

  In her classic book Mysticism, Evelyn Underhill bragged that mystics tended to live long lives, noting that Hildegard of Bingen, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and John Ruysbroeck all lived into their eighties — no mean feat in the middle ages. We could add to her list St. Anthony the Great, who is said to have lived to 105, Thomas Keating who passed away at 94, and Ramon Panikkar who died at 91. But let’s be honest and acknowledge that other mystics died way too young: Thomas Merton died at 53, John of the Cross at 49, and Thérèse of Lisieux succumbed to tuberculosis when only 24. Underhill herself passed away at 65, only four years older than I am now. It is humbling to consider these things.

  But having lost a friend who lived to be 101 (Fr. Luke Kot, a dear old Trappist monk who knew Thomas Merton), family members ranging in age from late 30s to early 90s, friends at various ages, and my daughter Rhiannon at 29, I’ve come to see that, no matter the cause, no matter how expected, every death feels like it comes too soon. I do not think this is a bad thing — on the contrary, bereavement and mourning are shaped by the depth of our love. And while I was hardly intimate friends with either Fr. Rudy or Randolph, both of them touched my life and both were people whom I genuinely liked. That, apparently, is enough for me to feel the pang of grief.

  

  In his Rule for Monks, St. Benedict dourly proclaims “We must then be on guard against any base desire, because death is stationed near the gateway of pleasure.” (RSB 7:24) But beyond that, the great teacher of western monasticism makes few references to death in his rule, mostly quotations from scripture. It flies in the face of our popular image of gaunt, emaciated monks, decked out in hair shirts and given to self-flagellation, sleeping in coffins and keeping a skull on their desks to remind themselves always of their own eventual demise. Indeed, the concept of Memento Mori — be mindful of your mortality — became something of a trope in western art, as the image above (Philippe de Champaigne, Vanitas, c. 1671) and below (N. Johann Strixner, A Monk Contemplates a Skull at Candlelight, late 1500s/early 1600s) illustrate.

  I suppose like most people, I’ve always rather thought the idea of meditating on a skull to be creepy if not downright macabre. An exercise like that seems to belong with extreme Calvinism and Jansenism, based on the rejection of life’s wonder and offering no real benefit to the person doing the meditating. But these days, I’ve become a bit less judgmental of this idea of memento mori. I’m not rushing to put a skull on my desk, mind you! But the older I get, the more death shows up in my life. When I shared the news of Randolph’s passing to Fran, just a couple days after reeling over the sudden death of Fr. Rudy, Fran simply said, “We will be dealing with this a lot in the years to come.” She’s right. I still remember talking on the phone with my mom when she and dad were in their 70s; it seemed like every time we talked, she was telling me of another friend or loved one who had died. Eventually, I noticed that didn’t happen as often, and I realized it was because my parents had lived long enough to get to the other side of the bell curve.

  

  Where, O Death, is Your Sting?

  When Rhiannon went into hospice, I read several books about death and dying, such as Final Gifts by Callanan and Kelly and Knocking on Heaven’s Door by Katy Butler. But the one that really made an impact on me was The Grace in Dying by Kathleen Dowling Singh. I can’t remember how I stumbled across that book, I thought it was mentioned in Final Gifts but that’s not the case. Somewhere, maybe online, I read a reference to Singh’s book that described it as a truly contemplative reflection on death and dying. That was all the encouragement I needed. I downloaded the book the week after Rhiannon went into hospice. When I opened it up, I encountered these words:

  This book was not written to be read if death is very near—a few hours or a few days or a week away. If you are the one who is facing death this soon, put the book down. And know that you are safe. If your loved one is facing death this soon, put the book down. And know that your loved one will be safe.

  At the time, we thought Rhiannon only had about three weeks — but since that was more than just a few hours or days, I kept on reading (she actually lived another seven months). Far and away, it is the best book on the dying process that I know of. Here’s just one of many treasures:

  There appears to be a universal, sequential progression into deeper, subtler, and more enveloping dimensions of awareness, identity, and being as we begin to die—a movement from the periphery into the Center. Further, I realized that the transformation I was observing in people who were nearing death was the same psychoalchemy—in a greatly accelerated mode—that I had noticed in myself through two and a half decades of practicing contemplative disciplines and in the people with whom I had worked as a psychospiritual counselor.

  In other words, a contemplative practice — like Centering Prayer, Christian meditation, or the Jesus Prayer — functions in the soul to create a process that mimics the experience of dying. When we place our attention in contemplative awareness, we are entering into the same vast, spacious, loving silence that will meet us all when we die. We do this not because it is morbid or macabre. We do this because, as Singh points out, it is safe. All of our moments spent in Centering Prayer or other types of silent meditation are gentle, kind “dress rehearsals” for the final act of every life: the exhalation of death, the consent our bodies will finally make to release our spirit into the silence of eternity.

  To attend to the silence between and beneath your thoughts and feelings and mental images is to engage in memento mori — not a grisly obsession with death, but an open and spacious relaxation-into the truth that death is the completion of every life. When we think about this, we are caught up in our words — and the emotions they invoke, usually ego-driven feelings like anxiety or fear. “Words are the most powerful form of selective attention,” notes Kathleen Dowland Singh. Words are, by their very nature, dualistic: for they all signify something, dividing our attention into “this” and “not-that.” But beneath and beyond all our words is the vast haven of divine silence, and silence — which is not an absence, but a presence — does not rely on this dualistic machinations of discursive attention in order to be present to us. Silence, like God, simply is. In silence, we can rest, we are safe, we are invited into calm and peace. As great contemplatives down the ages have noted, we often bring our own lack-of-peace with us into the silence, often our sins and traumas and passions that need healing or at least need calming-down. Silence is a generous host and a compassionate healer, so when we allow silence to meet our inner frenzy, we are invited into a place of regeneration and renewal. I think we can trust that this dynamic, available to us every time we sit down for a few minutes of silent prayer, will be infinitely available to us when we consent to our death, and move out of time and into eternity.

  

  I’m heartbroken about Rudy’s death, so young and so full of life. And while I hadn’t seen Randolph in years, the fact that he and I were so close in age hits home as well. I’m sad for both losses, and I also trust the wisdom of our spiritual traditions that help us to see death not as an enemy, but truly as a gift. That’s cold comfort for those who grieve, and grief needs to be fully felt and lived through, for as I said, it is a dimension of love. And love, of course, is what makes life wonderful. A good death only makes sense in the context of a wondrous life. I know that Both Fr. Rudy and Randolph lived life well, and while I won’t attend either of their funerals, I know they will be packed with mourners and friends. Of course, the measure of a life well-lived isn’t just how many people are saddened by our passing. A person can die all alone at the end of a wonderful life. What matters, it seems to me, is always the present moment: here and now, to find whatever it is that makes life wonderful for us — to find it, and to immerse ourselves in it. I suspect love is always at the heart of a beautiful life, for love, after all, is how God is manifest in our lives. So we all need to make it a priority to calibrate our lives toward love.

  With that in mind, I hope your life is filled with love, today and every day. If you are lonely, I pray that you may at least find the love of God in your heart, and find some way to express it. If nothing else, love yourself. Trust that love has been poured into your heart by the God who is Love. And then look for ways to pass it on. Love well, and live well, and your life will be wonderful. And take time for silence, silent meditation and/or silent prayer: for that is your best preparation for a lovely death at the culmination of your wonderful life.

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  Click here to read Randolph James’s Obituary.

  August 6, 2022

  Death

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• Concerning Sheep, Goats, and the Unconditional Love of God

  I received this email today. Thought it might be worth exploring here on the blog.

  Hi Carl.
  Just listened to your two interviews and was blessed … You said in your interview that you didn’t like the, what I would call, the “us and them” attitude in evangelical circles like “I’m saved and you’re not.” And though I agree that we should not look down on others and be proud for we can’t claim any credit for being a follower of Christ, yet does not the Bible make a distinction between the “sheep and goats”? Also what about John 3:16  where it says that those who believe shall not perish? And John says a lot about the need to believe. And what about 1 John somewhere in chapter 3 where we are commanded to believe and love.
  It looks like I’m trying to KO you with a barrage of Bible verses as if I’m such an expert. I’m not, not even close. The purpose of my letter is a sincere attempt to find what God is saying in the scriptures. Maybe I’m missing something. Could you please help me? Evangelicals, when in a debate about who is saved and who is not will often quote the verse John 14:6 (I think) which in part says “no one comes to the Father but through Me”. Could you give your perspective on that verse?
  Like I said I’m not trying to debate you and prove you wrong. I value your opinions very much and thank you so much for your blogs.
  If you ever come to Perth, Australia please let me know.

  I’ll start with the easy part. I’d love to come to Perth sometime, and actually have begun conversation with a party about possibly coming to Australia in the future. So we shall see.

  Now, on to the heart of your letter. I can’t recall exactly what it was I said in the interview (forgive my feeble memory), but I do have concerns when Christians become too fixated on any kind of us vs. them way of thinking. Incidentally I see this in so many ways: Catholic versus Protestant, liberal versus conservative, contemplative versus non-contemplative, charismatic versus non-charismatic, emergent versus traditionalist, and on and on. And, of course, more relevant to the questions you’re asking: saved versus not-saved, Christian versus non-Christian, believer versus unbeliever.

  All of these divisions drive me straight back to Matthew 7:1-2, where Jesus said, “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged. For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get.”

  What I hear him saying is that, when we relate to the world with judgment, we end up experiencing judgment — if from no one else other than ourselves. To have a judgmental view of things seems to throw us back into the realm of thinking we have to somehow prove ourselves worthy of God’s grace. It reduces spirituality to a system of reward and punishment. God rewards us if we’re good, and punishes us if we’re not. Of course, what’s maddening about this is that different Christians have different theories about what constitutes behavior worthy of salvation:

  • Some say it’s being obedient to church teaching and reception of the sacraments;
  • Some say it’s having faith;
  • Some say it’s making a decision for Christ, accepting him as our Lord and savior;
  • Some say it’s totally predestined, but our behavior will reveal which side of God’s double predestination we fall on;
  • And I’m sure there are others that I’m leaving out (for those who are keeping score, the above represent traditionalist Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist and Calvinist theologies, respectively).

  So who’s right? Who’s wrong? What if by chance or circumstance I’m a member of the wrong church, and do the wrong things in order to be saved? Am I just out of luck? Is God really that capricious?

  And don’t all four of these theologies have this in common: that they put more emphasis on what I do than on what God does? What kind of theology is that, which pays more attention to human behavior than Divine acts?

  You’ve thrown a number of proof-texts at me, and certainly they add up to suggest that God really is in the business of sorting us into sheep and goats. But again, what about Matthew 7:1-2? What about Colossians 1:20, which says that through Jesus Christ “God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.” ALL things — not just believers, or the sheep, or the born again — are reconciled to God through Christ, and this pleases God! Or Romans 11:32, which notes that “God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all.” In other words, we are all disobedient — even the sheep and the saved! But God is merciful to all. Not just some, not just the “elect,” but all. Or I Corinthians 15:22: “As all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ.” There’s that word all again. Meanwhile, Luke 6:35 notes that God “is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked.”

  My point in quoting these verses is simply to show the limitations of proof-texting. I think it’s human nature to build a theological position out of whichever texts we find most appealing (or consistent with our existing world-view) and we conveniently ignore all the texts that challenge our perspective. This is how you can have both Catholics and Protestants appealing to Scripture to support their own respective theologies, as different as they are.

  I’m very much like Julian of Norwich in how I approach this whole question of the four last things (death, judgment, heaven and hell). Julian said that she trusted the teaching of the church, and since the church taught a cosmology that included hell, she accepted it. But in her visions, she bluntly asked Christ how all things could be well, if not everyone is saved. His response: basically that this is a profound mystery, but that “all shall be well.” Which of course, has become the most quoted line in Julian’s book. So I have no interest in arguing against church teaching about heaven and hell, I don’t consider myself a universalist — for the simple reason that if we have no say in what our relationship with God looks like, then we are not free. And love, it seems to me, requires freedom. And yet, if we do have the freedom to say no to God’s love, doesn’t that suggest both heaven and hell are real?

  So I am clear that I am not a universalist, and I am also clear that I believe salvation has nothing to do with earning God’s love (whether through being born again, or living a good life, or believing the right things or whatever). I also believe that, taken as a whole, the message of the Bible is a message of mercy rather than judgment, of love more than wrath, of healing and wholeness rather than damnation and perdition. I also see this in the writings of the mystics, again taken as a whole. Obviously, the mystics are like scripture: you can find many passages in the great mystical texts that will practically singe your neck-hairs with all their talk of wrath and damnation. But thankfully, that is not the final word, or the whole word.

  Back to whatever it was that I said in the interview. I think Christians need to be careful to obey Matthew 7:1-2. Which means that I believe part of the job description of being a Christian is to love my neighbors and not judge them. Does that mean I have no standards? Of course not. But moral and ethical standards are invitations to respond to the love of God with dignity, respect, and compassion — which means that when people fail to behave with love, dignity and compassion, our response ought to be one of grief and pity rather than rage and wrath. It all starts with love, and it all goes back to love. And therefore my job is to love everybody — no matter what they believe, how sinfully they might act, or how alien their values might be to my own. In fact, if I am serious about following Christ, then it is my job to seek to love precisely those whom I find it the most difficult to love.

  Here’s an interesting quote from one of the truly great mystics, St. Isaac the Syrian, who said “It would be improper…to think that sinners in Gehenna are deprived of the love of God. Love is the offspring of knowledge of the truth which, as is commonly confessed, is given to all. The power of love works in two ways: it torments those who have played the fool…but it becomes a source of joy for those who have observed its duties.” (Ascetical Homily 28) Here’s my rather un-sophisticated way of interpreting this idea: when we die, we are all immersed in the unconditional, lavish love of God. We all have a choice: to accept it or reject it. But God loves us unconditionally either way, and our acceptance of such love is in no way based on merit. The love is freely given, unconditional. To those who turn toward it, who accept it, Divine Love is transfiguring light. But those who reject it, who turn away, experience it as scourging fire.

  So I think Christians who get fixated on who’s saved and who’s not saved have really missed the point. The point is simply to accept God’s unconditional love, and then pass it on — unconditionally — to everyone, whether they deserve it or not. And of course, we are all sinners, we make mistakes, we fail to love as we are loved. But we can always repent and try, try again. Because the love given to us is unconditional. Our calling is simply to accept it, pass it on as best we can, and when we fall down, to (by the grace of that Love) get back up, and carry on.

  You asked about my understanding of John 14:6: “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’” I think this is an invitation more than a threat. Jesus is one with God (John 10:30) and God is love (I John 4:16). So read it this way: Love is the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Divine except through love.” If we get hung up on “but what about all the non-Christians?” we’ve missed the point of the verse. The Gospel of John is a fairly advanced manual of mystical theology that was originally written for those who already believe. We have taken this verse out of that context and used it as a weapon against non-believers for too long. We need to stop doing that. How should Christians relate to non-Christians, non-believers, “goats”? Our job as Christians is to love like God loves (unconditionally) and not to judge. Our marching orders, once again, are in the Sermon on the Mount. Incidentally, where Jesus says (also in the Sermon on the Mount) to “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48), read it in context: he is instructing us to love perfectly (unconditionally), just like God who sends the sun and the rain to both the sheep and the goats.

  Now, since my blog is devoted to mysticism and contemplation, let me finish by saying that I think contemplative spirituality is the spirituality that places unconditional love higher than any kind of reward/punishment understanding of the Gospel. That’s not to say that contemplation equals universalism, for the reasons I’ve already stated. It’s simply a question of emphasis. It’s hard to love someone unconditionally when we’re busy haranguing them to change and be more like us. So the contemplative perspective is to simply love everyone as best we can, and trust that the Holy Spirit will help all of us (including ourselves) to change in the ways we need changing. We all need conversion, we all need repentance. But isn’t it easier to grow in grace when we’re surrounded by love? This is why I think our job is really to love each other, as best we can. That creates the best possible environment for the Holy Spirit’s work which is the call to repentance and conversion.

  So love, as best you can. And always remember how deeply and lavishly we are loved by God. No matter what.

  Disclosure: if you follow the link of a book mentioned in this post and purchase it or other products from Amazon.com, I receive a small commission from Amazon. Thank you for doing so — it is the easiest way you can support this blog.

   

   

  September 19, 2013

  Christianity, Death, Four Last Things, Heaven, Hell, Isaac the Syrian, judgment, Julian of Norwich, Universalism

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• The Lion in Winter

  My eldest cat, China, is well over 20 years old. She was a rescue kitty — she came to me when I managed the bookstore in Sewanee, and a fraternity boy at the college found her, a stray kitten, and took her to the local vet; the same vet who on the very next day I asked “Do you have any kittens up for adoption?” He brought China out to me, and it was love at first sight. The frat boy, who was a true animal lover, came and talked to me to make sure I would be a good “daddy” for the kitten; I must have passed muster, for he gave his blessing to the vet and China got to come home with me. This was in July 1989. I had an older cat, Julian, whom I loved but with whom I never truly bonded — not like I bonded with China. Whether it was just a matter of disposition, or truly a miracle of human-animal relations, China and I became heart to heart buddies. For years she slept next to my pillow; and whereas Julian was not much of a lap cat, China claimed my lap as her own natural habitat. When Fran and I got married in 1993, I swear China was jealous (she got over it, eventually). Up until the last few years when she has obviously become hard of hearing, she would even come to me when I would call or beckon her (please don’t spread this too widely, for I’m sure most cats would be mortified to learn that one of their own engaged in such dog-like behavior).

  

  With her naturally outgoing personality, China quickly would win over the hearts of pretty much anyone who came calling. She was a graceful jumper — my house in Tennessee was passive solar, with windows twelve feet high from the floor, and probably a good six feet from the nearest rail; China and Julian both would jump from the rail to the windows to bask in the sun, nearly giving me a coronary every time they did it. Even as a middle-aged cat when we first moved into our current home, China would climb onto the dresser and leap over to the bed, falling square onto my chest with terrifying force.

  Like the Grateful Dead song for which she was named, China was a true hippie, with a fondness for catnip and good company. But she was also a scrappy little street cat, and always maintained a contentious relationship with the other cats in our home; the introspective Julian, whom she quickly dominated; the much younger and amazingly good-tempered Clarissa, with whom she competed for years (and who now seems to have forgiven her for that long rivalry), and then our neurotic long-hair Furbie, who adopted us one chilly Halloween. China would hiss at one of the other cats just for walking near her.

  

  When I adopted China, she had an apparent infection in one eye, and it was slightly swollen and bloodshot and she would keep it half closed for the longest time. It healed eventually, although the eyelid remained slightly droopy ever since. But overall, she settled into a life of tremendous good health. She did get sick and lose weight in 2005, and a vet told me she was dying; but a friend suggested I change her diet and she promptly bounced back (I changed vets after that). Although she’s been an indoor-only cat here in Atlanta, in Tennessee she had the run of my two wooded acres, where she would routinely bring me “presents” — usually moles or mice, but one time she proudly brought a bird that she, the great huntress, had felled.

  When the younger cats arrived, in 1999 and 2002, China settled into the comforts of the second half of life; feisty and irascible with her feline housemates, but still loving to me and friendly to everyone. When Julian passed away in late 2007, she accepted the role of dowager gracefully. Julian had been troubled by arthritis and had not groomed herself for the last year or so before she died, apparently of a stroke just a few months after turning 20. China’s entry into her 20th year has been marked by different problems: in addition to being hard of hearing and increasingly incapable of jumping (with many heart breaking failures, saddest — and most painful — of all being when she couldn’t even make it to my lap without clawing her way up), she appeared to suffer from a bit of kitty-cat dementia, getting confused and lost in the house at night and crying piteously until one of us would get up, go find her, and bring her to bed with us, which would always immediately calm her down.

  

  She grew thinner as she aged, as had Julian before her, so we thought nothing of it, especially since up until very recently she has always been the most assertive of the three cats in reminding us when it was mealtime. Furbie whines when she is hungry and Clarissa always seems to just politely wait by the food bowl, but China would complain, loudly and insistently, that it was time to get fed.

  But recently, that stopped. Fran and I were trying to remember just when China stopped begging for food — two weeks ago? A month? Between the hurly-burly of the Christmas season and my efforts to finish my book, we’re not sure exactly when China gave up on eating. But give up she has. Oh, she’ll still lick at food, especially if it’s rich with gravy; and Fran has bought her some baby-food that, again, she’ll lick at. But it’s clear that, as of this winter, our old lion has crossed a new, and final threshold.

  On Saturday China crawled up into my lap while I was reading, and stayed for almost an hour, purring. So many times over the last year or so, when I was writing, I would push China away when she would clumsily, claws extended, try to get into my lap where my MacBook was perched. Now I could kill myself for having done so. But at least on Saturday I had enough presence of mind to let the computer be, and just sit there, petting her as she purred raspily, until she decided she had had enough and let herself down.

  Yesterday morning I took her to the vet, fearing what I would learn. Weighing in at a mere four and a half pounds, her body temperature was a seriously low 96 degrees. The vet said that we could do bloodwork and figure out what is wrong, but at her age, even with aggressive treatment, the likelihood of recovery is pretty slim. Fran asked me not to put her to sleep yesterday, and I didn’t, even though the vet suggested that it would be a kindness to do so. I stammered that I needed time to say goodbye. So the vet gave her some liquids and kindly offered to keep doing so, every day until we were ready.

  So I can’t decide what to do. Part of me thinks there’s no point in extending her suffering, and that the kind, humane, caring thing to do would be to set up an appointment and give her back to God tomorrow. But another, smaller, part of me thinks that I won’t do that, just yet. Like Bilbo with his ring, I say it’s time to give it up, but then when I think no one’s looking I try to slip it back into my pocket. Worst of all, the grieving part of me is afraid I’ll never forgive myself for willfully and knowingly taking her to her death. How could I take her, the little warrior who always hated vets so magnificently, to that stark flourescent-lit chamber where two final needles will do their irreversible work? After such a long friendship, it feels like the most horrible of betrayals. And telling myself that it would be a far graver cruelty to let her starve to death makes sense only in terms of my Spock-like capacity to think logically, and does nothing to assuage my breaking heart.

  I knew this day would come, and I knew it would come soon. But I tried to push it away with fond hopes that China, always such a wonderful, amazing, beautiful cat, would prove to be as remarkable in her old age as she was as a kitten, and would make it to 22 or so. Or so I wished. But now cruel fate has dashed those hopes to shards, and I know that if, like Frodo at the last of it, I grasp her instead of letting her go, the Gollum of her suffering will just come and snatch her away regardless, and I’ll still be left only with my grief.

  Last night when I got home from work, Fran was sitting on the loveseat with China, petting her. Her eyes are still bright and aside from how thin she has become, and how unsteady on her feet, she still seems to have plenty of life left in her. I sat on the floor next to her, and began petting her along with Fran. Immediately, she started purring, her raspy old lady purr. Fran smiled. “She wasn’t purring for me,” she observed, matter-of-factly. “But then again, she always was your cat.”

  True enough. But underneath the signs of life is a body that is failing. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. So when I take a deep breath, and think about it, and manage to think clearly, I think that I’ll give her (I mean, myself) just a few more days. I want to buy her some fresh catnip and give her one last romp to the tunes of the band that gave her her name. Fran has already given her blessing to opening several cans of cat food every day in the hopes that something will taste good to her geriatric tongue. I’ll take her to the vet and get some fluids over the next few days and maybe on the final day it will feel routine to her. I’ll cry with her and I’ll pet her and I’ll hang on desperately to these last raspy purrs. I’ll tell her over and over again how much I love her and how spending twenty years with her has been such an unspeakably beautiful gift. And then, we’ll say goodbye.

  

   

  N.B. This is the first of four posts on the illness and death of China, and my grief over her passing. The next entry is The Die is Cast.
  

  February 2, 2010

  cats, China, China Cat Sunflower, Death, Family, letting go, loss of a pet, Pets

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