Mark White

In our world death has a negative stigma. We're all wary of it; we'd do anything to avoid it.

We ask, “Oh, how'd they die?” when it happens to someone close to us, as we make a mental note: well, I should definitely avoid that.

I haven't dealt with death much in my life — at least, untimely death. Maybe I'm lucky for that.

I first saw death around age 7. A funeral for my great grandmother. I vaguely remember a dark wooden room, flowers placed on tables, probably a casket. (And really this wasn't seeing death, but its ripple effects.)

I later heard of death in my early twenties — my grandfather's failing health. I was away at college. I didn't see him before he went, but I was around for my mom and her siblings dealing with the aftermath. This was the most apparent result: the effect of death on everyone who knew him.

A few years later, my grandmother went. The effects went farther — she wasn't a grouch, hadn't inflicted a life's worth of mental damage on her children and grandchildren. She also headed for the door in a very visible way, losing her mind and memory, no longer recognizing her own kids by the end of it all. I witnessed the decline, which affected me more than her death.

At her funeral I remember not really comprehending everything about the situation. I saw her lifeless body in the casket, in a room full of live people, which really didn't sit well with me. The situation didn't afford me the mental space and quiet to contemplate what it all meant. So instead I joined the group-grieving and drank copiously, smoked cigarettes, and talked about her life between the tears among us.

I'm thinking about death because I had to put my cat down the other day. It was my first direct encounter with death, rather than his ripple effects. Some might say you can't compare the death of a pet to the death of a human, but to me it's all the same. I'm not so arrogant as to think that our lives matter more than other species on this planet.

An indoor cat all her life, her health had been going for the past few months. She'd started peeing in the house, and was having trouble getting around. Besides not wanting to have my things peed on anymore, I assumed she was getting towards the end of her rope, and I wanted to ensure she enjoyed the remainder of her life. So I started letting her live outside in the backyard.

Like any cat, she always loved sitting in window sills, watching the world on the other side of the pane. This cat also enjoyed one large house plant I had, often settling into the dirt of this potted money tree for a nap. The first time I put her outside in the grass, she lit up — a tall posture, wide eyes, twitching nose and whiskers; senses alive and engaged.

When I had to bring her inside after leaving her out for a while, she didn't want to come in on her own. No rain, heat, air conditioning, or food could sway her. At my beckoning, she'd stop, calmly sit, and slowly close her eyes to half-mast, obviously content with where she was.

In the days leading up to her death she was noticeably worse than the week before — thinner, weaker. She wasn't eating or drinking. I'd usually check on her, pet her, talk to her a bit whenever I went outside, and every time she seemed content and happy to be out in the fresh air and sunlight. But a few days before she went, for the first time her eyes told me something different: she was finished.

On the day she died, I had brought her inside from the heat and put her in her favorite spot in the window. She didn't even stand up, as she normally would, and just looked at me. She let out a meow I'd never heard from her — and as a vocal cat, I'd heard many before. I thought for a second, pacing the room, before realizing that I couldn't put it off any longer. She was ready to go.

I put her in her carrier, leaving the lid open — an opportunity for escape that she would've taken as a younger cat. This time, she let out only a small meow, instead of her normal cry whenever she's put in such a confined space. I put her in the passenger seat of the car and pet her the whole way to the vet. I didn't know what would happen, but assumed the worst. So I drove and tried not to think about anything but comforting her.

The vet confirmed what I already knew from her behavior over the past few months — likely some kind of old-age disease; rapidly declining health now. He said they could run tests and fight the uphill battle to restoring her health, but that euthanasia was something to consider. I finally had to confront the future that was awaiting me on the drive over.

I looked at her, curled up in a ball on the exam table, looking back at me. The sterile room we were in, bathed in florescent lighting; I had wanted to her to fall asleep peacefully among the grass and butterflies — not be put in a box and shuttled to a place like this; I didn't want to have to make a decision like this.

But confronted with the reality before my eyes, the decision came easily. I answered the questions I never expected to answer, like what to do with her remains and whether I'd want to stay in the room, and signed the waiver.

The vet returned after a few minutes with three syringes — I'd decided to stay for the procedure. I didn't know why I'd decided that up front, but would learn why afterward.

He told me he'd be injecting a sedative, which should go into effect quickly since she was so sick. I pet her one last time and silently said goodbye as she looked on, held in place by an assistant. She barely fought or twitched as he inserted the needle, pushing the liquid into her veins. I didn't mark the moment she was gone, but for once I saw the absolute truth that is death, as it happened.

They gave me their condolences and a moment alone with her, where I touched her one more time, looked into her wide open eyes that no longer looked back, and tried to comprehend everything.

I held it together as I walked out of the office with a now-empty carrier; at the oddness of handing someone a credit card right after an event like that; as I drove home, empty carrier beside me, with the vet's words, “she's in a better place now,” in my head.

I wondered if the universe felt her pain leading up to her death, or if it was just hers (and mine) to bear. I wondered if the universe only feels our lives when they impact others; when a life reaches outside of itself; when someone cares enough about you to feel your pain (or joy) right along with you; when someone is around to hear the tree that is you falling in the forest.

Experiencing a raw truth in life, like death, has a way of bringing sudden clarity. In the car I realized that the “cold, uncaring” universe does feel our smallest pains and joys; our births and deaths. It feels it because other beings feel it.

I felt my cat's presence and life; I felt her pain. I can no longer hold her and look into her eyes. But she's permanently shaped my life, both in her life and death (if you must separate the two). As an example, she's inspired this writing, which might then carry on into another mind and shape a life in untold ways, and so on. Life is connected and intertwined in too many ways to count; it finds a way to be felt, and to carry on. That “place” where my cat is now is in my head, in the minds of my friends that have known her, and in these words.

There was no eternal bliss in heaven waiting at the end of her life, but rather something better: she remains among the living.