Life’s Hardest Lesson

September, 2007

Reprinted from The Day because it’s been a tough summer.

Death is tricky. Tricky, and unavoidable. It’s tricky because when you are dealing with little kids, you need to be careful how you handle it, explain it, characterize it, deal with it yourself. Unavoidable because, well, death is part of life.

Up until this year I managed to dodge the subject of death with the kids. Sure, people died, but either the children were too young to really understand what we were talking about, or it was someone on the periphery of our lives and therefore had no real effect. But my philosophy about pretty much everything is attack it head on. This means that in our house, body parts and bodily functions don’t have cutesy names. It means when someone dies, they haven’t become a star or a flower. They died. Why sugarcoat it? It is what it is.

This year, my philosophy was sorely tested. Death hit us right between the eyes, twice.

The first was in March, and it was the tragic kind. My parents’ dog, a lovely little Sheltie named Sera, was staying with us for the month while the folks were in Florida. We have hosted this sweet and shy dog on many an occasion, and we loved her as if she were our own.

We had to be out of town for a Saturday during her stay and made arrangements to have someone come in at suppertime to take out Sera and our Lab, Cobi, and to feed them. When we arrived home from New York City late that night, there was only Cobi to greet us at the door, and a note from the woman, saying that Sera had escaped the house and run off down the nearby railroad tracks. She gave chase, but quickly lost sight of her.

My husband and I grabbed flashlights, leashes and dog biscuits and headed out into the rain. Nearly a mile down the tracks, I found her. She had been struck by a train. Death had obviously come quickly.

My son, exhausted from the long day in New York, had fallen asleep by the time we returned. My 9-year-old daughter, however, who loved this little dog so much, was awake, sitting up in her bed. “She’s dead,” I told her. “Sera’s dead.”

We sat on the bed, held each other and sobbed. My grief and guilt were nearly suffocating me, but I had to hang on for my girl.

On and off the next day, we cried. That night, as I tucked in my son, he held my face in his hands and whispered, “I don’t feel as sad as you do about Sera.” “It’s OK,” I told him. “Everyone is different.” “When will you stop crying?” he asked. “Soon,” I said. “But I need to cry for a while, because I do feel so sad.” “OK,” he said. “You will be OK.”

My daughter was inconsolable. “Why?” she kept asking. “Why?” “There’s no reason,” I told her. “Things just happen.” “I want her back,” she cried. “You need to get her back.” “I can’t,” I told her. “Once you are dead, you stay dead and you can’t ever come back. But we can remember her, and talk about her, and look at pictures of her. And she will always be alive in our hearts.” “I don’t want to do that,” she said. “I know,” I told her. “But pretty soon you will.”

A couple of days later, she asked me to tell her a story about Sera, my favorite story. So I did. And it was OK.

Five months go by, and our Lab Cobi, who turned 12 in May, begins to fail. There are trips to the vet and medications. One night in early July I think he is dying, and before we take him to the doggie emergency room, I get the kids out of their beds to come down and pet him and tell him they love him. I will be damned if death is going to take us by surprise again.

The first week in August, he takes a sharp turn into decline, and tests show that he has a lot wrong with him. We bring the kids with us to the final vet appointment, and while I wait with the dog in the exam room, my husband breaks the news to them in the waiting area. They come in, my boy somber, my girl with tears streaming down her face.

They say their goodbyes, and go back out to the waiting room until it is over.

This dog has been with us since he was 7 weeks old. It’s one of the longest continuous relationships I’ve ever had. He was truly my first baby. I am heartbroken by this loss. I cannot stop the tears, so I just let them go.

On the drive home, we are talking through our tears about which dogs will be at the gate of Dog Heaven to greet Cobi when he arrives; Sera, and Clara, and Tobey, and Kosy.

My son interrupts. “Did you know that in dog heaven, it rains biscuits?” he asks. “How do you know that,” the 9-year-old demands. “I read it somewhere,” he says, and it makes us all laugh.

At bedtime, I lay with my daughter and we cry. “Did you and Daddy do the right thing?” she asks. This question pierces my heart, but I do not hesitate. “Yes,” I say. “He was very old. He was getting sicker. And Daddy and I did not want Cobi to ever feel pain, or to feel really bad, or to be sad. He had an excellent life, he was with the people he loved the most at the end, and he knew that Daddy and I would never hurt him.”

“I feel so sad,” she says. “I know,” I tell her. “I do too. But tomorrow, when you wake up, you will feel a tiny bit better. And the next day, you will feel a tiny bit better than that. And every day after that it will get easier. And pretty soon, when you think of Cobi, you won’t feel sad, you will smile and be happy that you knew him.”

After I turn out the light and leave the room, I can hear for quite some time, crying quietly in the dark. The next morning, when she comes downstairs, she hugs me and whispers, “You were right. I do feel a little better.”

This is the opinion of Elissa Bass.