Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Death, we need to make peace

This is the theme I keep coming back to, in my serious moments. Death and faith. My realization that I crave faith because I fear death.

I had another unexpected one today, the little rat we adopted Sunday. Victor took her to the vet last night, and when the vet confimed the lump under her arm, he decided to let her stay there over night so she could have surgery to remove it today.

I was anxious about this for many reasons...but I am always anxious. I mentioned that the other day, wondering if I should be on Paxil: I was anxious because I'd heard about a fatal traffic accident and I was afraid my sister or a friend might have been involved. Just like virtually every time I am anxious about the worst possible outcome, the outcome was fine (for me). Today it wasn't.

After Victor called to tell me the rat had died, I called my sister. I was sobbing so hard I could barely get the words out, explaining to her that I should have listened to my fears, I should have fought harder to change Victor's mind about having the surgery.

"Then you would have found her when you got home, and you'd be wracked with guilt now because she wasn't at the vet's," my sister said. "It wasn't up to you when she was going to die."

Appointment in Samara.

But...

Last night I was sick with worry. I put it down to being sick in general, and I tried to do some reading...Thich Nhat Hanh and Thomas Merton. I prayed, and as always I realized that my prayers are just requests. Dear Santa, please bring me a pony. Dear God, please let her be ok. That's why I took out the Thomas Merton, but it was too much, too deep.

I know I shouldn't just pray for what I want. If I have faith in God (for want of a better name) I need to have some faith...thy will be done. I tried praying that way last night, and tried to convince myself that if there is a God (for want of a better name), to be in constant fear like I am is to deny Him.

Or maybe I should just get Paxil.

Before you say Get a grip...it was a rat I need to explain. First, she was a small and fragile life for whom I'd taken responsibility. But more, my difficulty in dealing with her death is the difficulty I have dealing with death overall. One day on the Metro I read the paper and started adding up the death toll in the A section. There were some soldiers, and some civilians, and some accident victims and some victims of natural disasters. There was a father who'd shot his wheelchair-bound son and then himself; neighbors said the father had grown despondant over his inability to get help in his adult son's care. And I thought, every one of them...the individuals with names, the few whose lives were part of exact counts, the ones who were included in round numbers (over 100 people are presumed dead)...were just like me. Where are they now?

When I cried I know I wasn't crying so much for them as I was crying for myself.

Posted by Nic at July 30, 2004 05:47 PM