Grief

Today started out normally enough, with the dash to get out the door with both kids, both backpacks, both lunchboxes, and both jackets before both schools started.

The phone rang at 9:30 and Megan's teacher told me Emily the guinea pig was not doing well. (Emily is Megan's pet, but when a hamster deal fell through early in the year I managed to convince Ms. Jordan that a slightly used guinea pig would make a pefect classroom pet. Talk about win/win!) I understood that I should come right away, and I did -- and immediately I knew Emily would not make it much longer. She was on her side in the fluff in the bottom of her cage, not moving except for small reflexive digging motions and an occasional loud breath.

I took Emily home and sat with her for an hour on the floor, petting her and talking to her. I told her what a great guinea pig she was, and how happy she'd made so many kids. I told her she was beautiful. I told her we loved her, but that Megan especially loved her. I told her we'd never forget her, and I thanked her for being so sweet.

When she died, I sat quietly for a few minutes, in a sort of disbelief. A bunch of practical questions swarmed in my head: Should I call and let Ms. Jordan know, so she could tell the class, or would that be disruptive of the day? Should I get Megan and bring her home? What could we bury Emily in, and where in the yard should we bury her?

I decided to go ahead and call Ms. Jordan, figuring that the kids were all worried about Emily, anyway. I trusted Ms. Jordan to handle the grief process with them, and I figured Megan would be better off with her friends -- who also loved, remembered, and grieved Emily -- than home alone, missing her lost pet. I found a small shoe box (okay, a largish one, as Emily was not petite) and put a soft cloth in the bottom, then carefully put Emily on it. I left the "where" question to Matt, as he has intimate knowledge of the sprinkler systems, rock/clay/dirt ratios, and other woodland creatures that might be interred. (We have one bird buried, to my knowledge: it hit a window and was laid to rest in a soft dirt patch alongside the house.)

Grandpa picked Megan up today, but they came straight home. When I opened the door, Megan was pale and teary, and she melted into my open arms with a fresh storm of tears.

In class, Ms. Jordan told the kids what had happened, then read them The Tenth Good Thing About Barney by Judith Viorst -- the classic pet grief book for children. She also had them all write a letter to Megan, Emily, or our family to express their condolences or grief, or to share something they remembered about Emily. Ms. Jordan's letter was on top, with a copy of the book and a packet of pansy seeds for planting. (I'll add the text of her very sweet letter to the right.)

This was Meg's first up-close brush with death, where she is fully aware of what is happening. She was 3 and 5 when my two grandmothers died, but she was fairly insulated from the raw grief; this time there was no insulation. ("I didn't know, then," she sobbed. "I know now. I understand!")

When Matt came home he dug a small hole in a quiet section of the backyard, and Megan said a final goodbye to Emily, petting her softly one last time. We lowered the box into the hole and Megan insisted on covering it herself, first laying a bunch of flowers she'd gathered on top of the shoebox. When the dirt was all on top, she carefully placed a heart-shaped rock and several more flowers on top and stood silently for a few moments at the side of the memorial.

We've talked about grief, and sorrow, and the pain of losing someone you love. We've remembered funny stories about Emily and shared laughter, and we've shared a few tears. We'll probably be dealing with this for a few more intense days, then tapering off to a once in a while sort of thing... But losing Emily brought another loss close to my heart, and that grief won't go away as quickly. In watching Megan struggle to cope, I realized she was moving further outside my protective circle. I couldn't insulate her from this pain, and I won't be able to protect her from future pains and sorrows. She's growing up, and these milestones are a part of living. It's like I told her about losing Emily, though: This ache in your heart is very much a part of the joy that love brings; without love, we wouldn't have this sorrow. And without sorrow, we wouldn't treasure love nearly as much.

By that measure, Emily was very, very well-loved, and very treasured.