Death has its day

A birth day and death day, and so on...

Yesterday a dear friend navigated the last living moments of her beloved, cat, Izzy.

She let me keep her company.

It was a deeply sacred day.

It started with a late night text the night before.

Then the early morning call.

Both offered familiar lyrics—a well known, ancient song.

“I think it’s happening. How can this be happening?”

Death’s tune is singularly recognizable.

Apparently, I’m a grief expert.

But also a human—also a griever.

Naturally, I brought my friend Matzoh ball soup, mac & and cheese—and, inexplicably, roasted Brussel sprouts…don’t judge. Death makes you weird.

We were quiet and weepy and our words lacked significance.

We recalled the impact Izzy had on so many of us.

She was all 70’s free love, throwing her affection around without discretion.

That it was for her own pleasure more than your joy diminished nothing.

Mostly we waited.

For the vet to call.

For the vet to arrive.

For the administration of the first shot.

Than the second.

For the last breath, last beat, last looks.

The day passed like a waltz.

Slow, Slow, quick, quick, quick.

A broken heart invites an impossible kind of becoming that defies description.

It is as sacred as birth.

“Where is she now?” My friend asked.

I remembered asking each of my babies just seconds on the scene, “where did you come from?”

A modulation of key. Same tune.

Old tears and new tears.

My tears, her tears, their tears.

Your tears.

Tissues tucked in every pocket—even one shoved up my sleeve.

I caught myself in a mirror leaving, and gave my grandmother’s face a cheeky wink of gratitude (and her mother, and her mother’s mother).

Is it a side note that today is my father’s birthday? Honestly, I am not sure.

He’s been dead nine years, but also only about three weeks. I know you understand.

Time and grief are not linear.

I am no longer waiting on an apology for the universe’s very public mistake. My father is dead. It was always going to be this way.

Next week is his death day

The following week father’s day.

A trifecta of reminders that he and I have always belonged to each other.

A gift, which defies description.

“Where is he now?” I sometimes wonder.

And I am more myself than ever before.

With gratitude to Izzy, and her human who let me stitch my love and loss to theirs.

Meghan Riordan Jarvis is a psychotherapist, author, and grief expert who has spent twenty years doing the thing most people won't — telling the absolute truth about loss. She is the author of End of the Hour and Can Anyone Tell Me?, host of Grief is My Side Hustle, creator of the Grief M.E.N.T.O.R Method®, and founder of the Grieftastic Book Fair.