By Eve Pearce
I’ll never forget the first time I encountered the subject of death in a
positive light; it was during my freshman year at University when, one
lazy afternoon, I sat in on a class that intrigued me because of its
name: Death and Dying. I took my seat with curiosity
and watched as the lecturer placed a film in the VCR: it touched on the
work of Elizabeth Kubler Ross, taking neophytes through her
famous Stages of Grief and presenting interviews with terminally ill
patients. Some patients were despondent, feeling like their
impending demise was no less than one last, final blow delivered by
Destiny. Others presented a rare calm; one patient said that for him,
death was just part of the journey of life. As a kid just out of
highschool, that idea frightened and fascinated me and
that class remained in my memory as one of the most important moments
in my university education. It remains fresh and inspiring in my mind’s
eye, despite the fact that it took place some 20 years ago.
Just last month, while surfing on the Internet, I came an essay that
would mark me just as strongly; written by Dr. Thomas Attig, PhD, it was
entitled Meanings of Death Seen Through the Lens of Grieving. Attig
spoke of ‘disenfranchised grief’, the kind we experience
when those around us refuse to allow us to grieve as we need to for a
painful loss. Grief is disenfranchised in a number of typical
circumstance, including:
- When we were in a non-traditional relationship with the person who
has passed away (a homosexual or extra-marital relationship, for
instance).
- When society deems our loss ‘too small’: this often occurs when we lose a pet.
- When the person grieving is a child or is mentally challenged (or an elderly person).
- When the cause of death is rare (for instance, suicide).
Dr. Attig identified disenfranchised grief as no less than “a societal
failure” involving “serious neglect and abuse”. It disrespects the
person grieving, and, more importantly, it deprives them from finding
meaning through death. Grief allows us to gain a
deep understanding of death, human existence, life and even love. Yet
people often attempt to wrestle our right to grieve in a number of ways:
when a pet dies, they may tell us to “get over it”, mock our loss
because it is just too ‘insignificant’ or fail
to understand our struggle to find a positive, meaningful outcome.
These ideas often come to my head; they do so daily, in fact, always in
connection with my dog, Lily. Lily turned seven on March 26, and we
celebrated her birthday with her favourite meal and plenty of hugs. But
she gets lots of hugs and kisses daily, anyway.
Although I have a husband and child and wonderful friends in my life,
deep down, I know that when it comes to loss, the one I will most
logically encounter the soonest, is that of my dog. She is alive yet I
grieve her loss every day, little by little, and
to me, just like the Kubler Ross patient, that can only be a positive
thing. I celebrate her importance to me daily: we go for walks to her
favourite spot (by the sea), we spend most waking moments together (I’m
lucky enough to work in a pet-friendly office,
where Lily is welcome) and we even snuggle together at night (I made it
a point to invest in a great steam cleaner when she was a pup; our
nightly cuddles are something I cannot bring myself to forego, despite
my long-suffering husband’s complaints about ‘hygiene’).
I feel like by keeping present in my mind that her life (and mine) are
“but walking shadows”, we are able to live every day as if it were our
last together. By not shying from the subject of death, I also avoid
“brushing the future under a carpet”, as if my pet
will never fall ill. For the first time in Lily’s life, I actually started researching into pet policies and possible long-term
conditions that could require special care or treatment. Lily is my
family; in exactly the same way that I attempt to save for my child’s
future education or for contingencies like braces, or extra-curricular
activities, I do the same for Lily, because
if she ever develops an illness that requires long-term care or even
expensive medication, there is no way on earth that she isn’t going to
have it. Not only am I financially preparing for the inevitable, I also
plan to have a talk with Lily’s vet, to discuss
preventive measures I can take to keep her in tip-top shape (e.g. teeth
cleaning, blood tests, etc.). As she gets older, I also find myself
more and more intrigued by alternative therapies like essential oil
massages for age-related conditions like arthritis.
I am prepared for even cherished friends to perhaps not be there in the
way I need on the day that Lily passes. By saying goodbye to her little
by little every day, I hope that I am slowly building the courage to
face what comes with my own heart and soul.
Some people don’t understand the extent to which an animal can heal,
fulfil, and complete us. Rather than change society, it is best to start
from within; nobody can take away what we refuse to give and when the
time comes, I know I will grieve as I need to;
and I will find positive meaning from the most beautiful thing Lily can
leave behind – her legacy.