Fear of the unknown: Coping with death when what comes after is a mystery
Death. It’s one of the few things we have in common with every other person on the planet, something everyone experiences, both directly and indirectly—and yet, one of the few things no one fully understands. It brings out the best in people and the worst, coaxes out the full range of human emotions and capabilities, and inevitably sparks the unanswerable questions we have all contemplated but ultimately try to avoid.
When I joined this blog, I didn’t expect the first “fucking feelings” I shared would have to do with death. I figured anger or anxiety or disappointment—or maybe something sarcastic, if it were a good day. Not death.
But that’s the thing about death. You never expect it. Not even when you expect it.
Earlier this month, my parents lost their dog—the day after her ninth birthday. Phoebe was a yellow Lab and the sweetest dog I’d ever met. Even after she got sick, she was always there to comfort her people whenever they were upset, snuggling close with her soulful brown eyes wide and concerned. She barked when cars turned into the driveway, not because she was being protective, but because she was just so excited to see who had arrived. She greeted visitors with a tail that wagged so hard her entire body waved back and forth, as she distributed kisses by sneak attack. She nudged your arm out of the way so she could attempt to snag your dinner right off your plate (and succeeded on a number of occasions). Her official household duty was to retrieve the newspaper from the end of the driveway (a job that she did with great enthusiasm), and she was so pleased with herself when she returned that my parents often had to wrestle the paper away from her. She loved bully sticks and chasing tennis balls until she could barely breathe and having her ears rubbed and “going to the zoo” (i.e., playing in her baby pool, which she loved so much it needed a code name or she’d pester you until she got her way).
The cancer came out of nowhere. It was aggressive, fast moving, unassailable. Malignant. Multiple tests, surgeries, X-rays and ultrasounds; regular exams and a constant vigil for new tumors; prayers and crossed fingers and hope—nothing and no one could stop it.
But she was still there; she was still Phoebe. Though she had trouble moving around, she still barked at visitors and greeted them with a sly lick across the cheek. Though she no longer nestled her way under your arm to steal a bite from your plate, she still sat at our feet and eagerly accepted the bully sticks and raw carrots we offered her. Though she didn’t go to the zoo or chase her tennis ball, she still wagged her tail when we talked to her—a happy thump, thump, thump against the hardwood floor.
They said she wasn’t in pain—uncomfortable, yes, but not in pain. She was still there. We knew the end was near, but we thought we had more time.
But that’s the thing about death. You never expect it. Not even when you expect it.
Though I was raised in a religious household, I wouldn’t call myself a religious person. I think spiritual is a better descriptor. There are things I believe — that there is a higher power, for example, and that everything happens for a reason — and things I don’t believe — that someone literally lived in the belly of a whale for three days, or that going to church every Sunday is what makes you a good person.
And there are many things I’m not sure about. Death is one of those things.
As those who are left behind, we grieve no matter whom we lose; we feel the same feelings in the same intensity, whether it’s the death of a human or the death of a pet, whether it was sudden or expected, whether it was caused by illness or accident or nature. We grieve because suddenly, we know we will never see them again, this loved one who was so vibrant and full of life and real, whom just yesterday we could see and touch and talk to—and it is unimaginable. And yet, it is.
But what’s even more unimaginable is that one day, that will be us. The idea that one day, I will cease to exist is terrifying and hard for me to comprehend. Everything I have learned and accomplished, the people (and pets!) I have loved, the things that have happened to me… All gone. Like Phoebe, like everything and everyone on this planet: Here one day, gone the next. Living, breathing, seeing, feeling, thinking — and then, nothing. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, and isn’t this matter? Doesn’t it all matter?
Or at least from the side of the living, it feels like nothing. Maybe it’s not nothing, but no one knows what’s on the other side. People claim that they do, but let’s be honest here. No one has been there and come back in a way that definitively proves they were indeed dead and saw The Great Beyond, in a way that doctors can’t explain through science and biology, in a way that doesn’t make that person sound like a delusional lunatic. (Or maybe there is, in which case, please leave me a comment, because I would love to know about it.)
Despite all the unanswerable questions I have and the doubt I struggle with, I realize there are so many things I don’t, can’t, and will never be able to understand. Eleven dimensions, or however many they think there are. Time travel. Parents who voluntarily give up their children for no defensible reason. Why men put an empty milk carton back in the fridge instead of throwing it away. And, death.
I know there is no way to answer these questions, but I guess that’s where faith comes in. Deciding what you believe and embracing it. Looking for something that makes sense in things that don’t make sense. Watching for signs to guide and comfort you.
The day after Phoebe passed—almost 24 hours on the dot—I received art for an upcoming publication from one of my organization’s advertisers. The ad, titled OHIO_YELLOW_LAB.jpg, was for a company that offers supportive services for people coping with the loss of a pet.
Curious, I opened it up. It was a picture of a smiling woman hugging a yellow Lab. The tagline read:
From beginning to end, you were there for them.
The implication in the ad was that we as humans are there for our pets, caring for and protecting and loving them, from the time they are born until the time they die. And that’s true; we are. But I think it’s truly the other way around. They are there for us, from beginning to end: Supporting us through the bad times; bringing us pure joy; showing us what true, unconditional love looks like. They are there for us, from beginning to end. No judgements, no questions, no conditions, and no faltering. They are there for us. She was there for us.
And now I believe… She still is.
What is dying? I am standing on the sea shore. A ship sails and spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.
She is an object of beauty and I stand watching her till at last she fades on the horizon,and someone at my side says, “She is gone.”
Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all; she is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.
The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her, and just at the moment when someone at my side say, “She is gone,” there are others who are watching her coming, and other voices take up a glad shout, “There she comes,” and that is dying.
— Henry Scott Holland
