I’ve ended a life with my bare hands. Killing something is a profound event. No, profound isn’t powerful enough. To take a life can shake the pillars of one’s soul, and to commit such an act without baring your soul for examination afterward is to be inhuman. To traffic with death can give the most headstrong and strong-willed of us pause.

A few years ago, one of our cats had kittens. Then there were four or five tiny bundles of fur in the house; they reached the age where they propel themselves everywhere on uncertain legs, at their speediest wobble, simply because they can. Between long naps they would scamper about, tail at mast, as they sailed themselves across the vast expanse of newfound territory, never tiring of exploration.

The weekend had arrived and we had company over. The small living room of our home was crowded with people, as usual. The kittens romped on regardless. The afternoon wound on to evening, time passing quickly with good company. One of our friends had gotten up from her seat, possibly to head for the kitchen or bathroom. She’s a large woman, and moves at her own methodical pace, one much slower than the jerky gait of kittens. On her way through, her path was intercepted by our old cocker spaniel, Cassie, who proceeded to lie down right in the woman’s path. She took an exaggerated step over Cassie to avoid tripping on her. As her sandaled foot came down, one of the kittens scampered directly beneath.

I’ve heard it said that the true worth of a person can be ascertained by observing how they behave during a crisis. I’m not sure how much stock I put into that. I agree that certain types of people react better during times of stress than others. However, people can’t be judged solely by how they face the unthinkable. Such situations strip away any false bravado; they call people on their boastful behavior. Easy to say what you would do under fire, not so easy to do it.

There was wailing. I heard screams and exclamations of disbelief. Deities were invoked. The sound I remember most is of something living being broken underfoot. I whipped around the counter from the kitchen in time to see blood and a tiny black form flopping grotesquely on the floor. Eerily, no vocalization was heard from the little thing. All the cries of pain came from observers. Every twitch and jerk of its broken body elicited new screams, sobs, exclamations. Yet no one did anything. My girlfriend’s daughter, who aspires to be a veterinary technician, ran screaming from the house. My loving girlfriend, the balm for all my pain, turned away, tears in her eyes, to find a corner with no view of tragedy. My male friends sat unmoving and mute.

• • • • • • • •

When I was ten years old, my Grandma Perez died. She’d been diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of 60. When she finally succumbed, the cancer had ravaged her liver and pancreas as well. I was living in Hawaii, she in Ohio. My family flew over for the funeral. Like everyone else, I took my turn going up to pay my last respects at the open coffin. I was certain there was some mistake. That poor, withered woman lying so pinched and pale amongst satin pillows was not my Grandma. My Gram was a strong woman, full of love and life and warmth. Nothing in that thin, cold, lifeless shell was my Gram. My denial stayed with me for months. An inner voice constantly urged me to call my grandparents’ number, sure that she’d pick up the phone and be pleased to hear from her favorite grandson. Instead I waited for her to call, knowing somewhere inside, that she wouldn’t.
I wonder if modern funerary practices have actually increased the impact death has upon us? In the days gone by, people died in their homes, among their family. Wakes were held in the parlor. Death was personal, familial, and dealt with on a regular basis. It was a part of life. Now, like a cancer, we’ve excised death from the body of our experiences. When people die today, they’re usually in a hospital room. Some of them were in old folks’ homes before that. Perhaps I should say “assisted living communities.” The new vernacular erases any thought of old age and what inevitably lies at the end of it. Many major textbook publishers do not allow the word “elderly” in their books any longer. The accepted term is “older people.” Which, of course, begs the question: Older than whom? We hide from the truth behind curtains of vague language. We hold death desperately at arm’s length and look the other way. All the arrangements and preparation of the body is detachedly and professionally performed by those in the funerary industry, happy to take care of all the details and leave the survivors to their grief, oblivious paying whatever price is named to keep death at a distance. Is it any wonder we’re hit so hard when we can’t hold off looking at it any longer? We take every precaution to remove it from our lives, and then we’re shocked and doubly injured when it finally intrudes.

• • • • • • • •

Every twisting convulsion of the kitten caused a wrenching in my chest. The hour was late. There was too much blood coming from its mouth and nose. I knew we wouldn’t be able to get it anywhere for help in time, and each passing second was a twisting knife. I acted. I scooped up the tortured animal and carried it to the bathroom. Then I submerged it in the toilet.
The sanctity of life. This is a term that gets bandied about a lot. Who made life sacred? If life is so inviolable, why is there so much dying going on? I’m of the belief that the state of being alive simply is. Shouldn’t we be more concerned about the quality of life rather than its mere existence? A person becomes remembered for how they lived, not simply for having lived. My dearly departed remain with me because of how their lives touched mine. My memories are the relics, the sacred icons. Had the kitten been hooked up to equipment to keep its lungs and heart working, had it been stuck with tubes to keep it fed, I would look upon its continued existence as more affliction than blessing. To not allow for an end to life other than that of fate or fortune seems incongruous. For some a timely death can be a blessing.
Despite its grievous injuries, the kitten nearly twisted out of my grip to fight for air. I was taken completely by surprise at this surge of strength. That such a young and damaged creature could fight to hang on was unthinkable. I nearly panicked, nearly wavered in my resolve to end its suffering. I’m thankful I didn’t. If I had faltered in my course the result would be a critically wounded and half drowned kitten. I couldn’t face that possibility. When it finally ceased its struggles, I was looking into its eyes. I saw the exact moment the light was extinguished within them. With the light went all my anguish, all my anxiety. The kitten’s departure brought the most profound sense of relief. Death became a balm.

After it was over I wrapped the kitten’s body in an old washcloth. I think by this time most of our company had dispersed. I wish they’d stayed long enough for me to share my newfound tranquility. My girlfriend had begun cleaning up the blood. Ever the pet undertaker for our household, I took the bundled kitten outside, grabbed a shovel, went to the corner of the yard reserved as a cemetery, and committed its body to the earth.

Gravediggers never give eulogies; that’s always reserved for others. I’ll make an exception this time. Turtle was a kitten. He lived his life as fully as he could and spent his days doing everything that could be expected of a young feline. I hope that when my time comes, the same can be said about me: He did everything in life that could be expected of a human being. Death is not a transgression; a misspent life is.

I ended a life my own two hands—a small life, to be sure, but life nonetheless. In the process came the realization that life is not a perfect state. Life can be a burden; death is a natural process. As a race, we rail against it—we rage, rage against the dying of the light, loudly proclaiming the sanctity of life—yet life is sacred only to the living, as far as I know. None of the dead seem to be speaking their opinions on the matter. Perhaps our time would be best spent making life good while we have it, allowing our moments spent on this earth to define the true sanctity of life, and understanding that death also has its place.

__________________
Shadowborn
To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.



To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.


I feel this way on DF...a lot.