Paws and Passings

Today I helped bury a cat.

She wasn't an extraordinary cat in any way. She didn't possess any discernible pedigree of purity or any sort of unique phenotype. Certainly, she did not lead an unusual life or exhibit any behavior. In truth, Cat was merely another feline that had come and passed the lifespan of another household cat.

But to the boy, Cat was so much more, and the loss of her utterly ordinary life created such pain in his being that I cried for him (because the boy can't cry). She was the first small yet significant life that he assumed responsibility for; the companion that provided comfort when he was grieving through the young and untimely deaths of his best friends; the forever-regal queen that lounged on the sun-soaked grass casually as she house-watched; and the warm bundle of love that kept the blues away on lonesome nights. What Cat provided wasn't anything unique in the universal experience of mankind and domestic pets, but in its own right, it was special and extraordinary in the mind of the boy. 

Death is terrifying to us as a human race. It is scary, I believe, because of its uncertainty and its permanence. What really weighs that heaviness and solemnity of death is the loss of the future. With death, no more memories can be made. No more opportunities for love, for new experiences, and for appreciation. What death robs us isn't truly the organism itself, but rather, it is the possible future of "us" that is eliminated from the equation. 

Death means that 

you 

can never make new memories with your loved one.

That you may never apologize for those mistakes

Or tell them how much you really love them.

It means the end of all future opportunities

And to us, that's deeply saddening. The condition of being human necessitates that we all experience this sort of loss as part of life, growing up, and whatnot yet we all experience it at an extremely personal and unique level. Just like that mundane and wonderfully ordinary organism we have lost, this death is not unique, but the experience is so painfully singular for each and every individual.

In this way, we see so much of this played out on the wards of the hospital. To us, it may simply be another 70+ year old male presenting with end-stage renal disease or another 50 year old female recently having failed her chemotherapy sessions, but underneath all these detailed descriptors, these are boring and mundane individuals that mean the world to their loved ones. While objectively, they are just another human being trudging along in existence, they are utterly irreplaceable in the eyes of their important people. It's a strange feeling, knowing that these everyday and in some ways insignificant people matter so much to a select few. Perhaps it's strange because we must strive to balance that empathetic catharsis of loss and the aloof compartmentalization that we often implement to not invest too much emotionally. If Cat can create so much sorrow in the boy, it is logical that a loved one's death may impact so much more negatively. We are so wrapped in treating the patient that perhaps we often neglect the people who remain living. 

As we pat down the clovered earth over Cat's grave, I look over the gorgeous view of the mountainside. It's peaceful, and though Cat is long gone from this world, it brings the boy peace that its remains overlooks such a serene resting place. I watch as he says his final goodbyes and think that perhaps many actions that we do as physicians are not for the patient alone, but we do them for the ones that remain living and involved even after our patients are long past expired. It blurs the line between the physician's responsibility to treat the patient and heal what's needed. How can we as physicians bring wholeness to those involved in the patient's illness and life? How can we provide closure and healing without overstepping the boundaries of paternalism? Perhaps, these are things that I will learn to do when the time comes and perhaps, I can do more than just treat an illness.

Perhaps, I can help heal some broken hearts.