Advertisement
Commentary
When mid-life feels like a series of impending catastrophes — ‘remember this’
My New Year’s resolution is to ignore the ticking clock inside my head—the one that reminds me, second-by-second, of all my impending, middle-aged catastrophes. So far, I’m failing miserably.
Tick. Your dog is dying.
Tick. Your kids are leaving.
Tick. Your body is suddenly creaking, cracking and puckering like a rusted train on a runaway downhill track.
In my defense, there’s no volume knob, no off switch, and I’m pretty sure there’s not a set of earplugs on the planet that could block it out, mostly because it’s all true. My dog is, in fact, dying. Not imminently (I hope), but soon. When we got him, he was already six months into a lifespan that would, at best, last into the early teens. Now he’s grayed and slow, and I can’t help but hear the countdown. The sound threatens to ruin what little time we have left together. If I let it.
As it turns out, this unfortunate event will likely coincide with my youngest child leaving the house for college. Forget empty nest: This place is going to be like one of those cavernous, abandoned caves on the side of a desert cliff. Two thousand years from now, archaeologists will find my bony remains clinging to a decrepit photo album and a decaying leash. “Ah,” they will say to each other knowingly. “We can conclude from the evidence that she was once part of a cohesive family unit. And yet, here she lies…all alone.” Tale as old as time.
Like most people in their 50s, I’m no stranger to loss. We all know that goodbyes are inevitable, one way or another. Family members die. Children start new lives and leave us behind. Skin sags and joints creak. Pets cross the Rainbow Bridge and join their fluffy friends in the sky. I get it — this is natural and normal, the circle of life, blah blah blah. But for the love of all things holy, does it really have to happen all at once? How much goodbyeing and circle-of-lifeing can a mom take in one fell swoop?
Sadly, this won’t be my first ride on the dog-loss rodeo. My last pup was 75 pounds of black fluff and mischief—tough, smart and admirably independent. When her end came at age 14, it was blessedly swift; before we had time to process what was happening, she was gone. The grief, alas, was not as blessedly swift. I didn’t expect the strength of it, the pure, unrelenting intensity. I wondered, how can it be this bad? Several months later, a friend commented that I seemed “down.” I snapped back, “My dog just died!” And when the friend looked at me in surprise, I realized that my allotted grieving time had already ended, at least, in the eyes of others. We’re allowed to grieve our people for years. Our pets? Not so much.
I suspect I’m about to discover that the same holds true for grown-and-flown children. “Get new hobbies!” the empty-nest articles chirp cheerily. “Rediscover your passions!” Good advice, I’m sure. But what if your passion was raising children? What if you loved it, and were good at it, and aren’t ready to let it go? What then? On this point, the articles are stubbornly silent. “Embrace your new freedom!” they insist, as though they’ve never heard Ms. Joplin explain that “freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.”
[W]hat if your passion was raising children? What if you loved it, and were good at it, and aren’t ready to let it go? What then?
I thought the ticking sound had started suddenly, recently, then I realized it had probably always been there, somewhere in the background, drowned out by the raucous, joyous, maddening, frustrating, filthy, chaotic and exuberant noises of family life — clomping boots, barking dogs, smoke alarms and banging spoons. Squealing girls and Kidz Bop and minivan doors that get stuck open in the middle of snowy parking lots, ding-ding-dinging their warning into the cold afternoon air.
In my 20s, I wondered about my purpose. I searched for it everywhere, in all the wrong places. Then, suddenly, it was all around me, furry faces and pitter-pattering feet, all snuggled up in made-to-order perfection. It felt like solving a mystery. Here! Here is my purpose! I didn’t realize then that everything I loved was boiling in a pot, and that the water was slowly evaporating puff by invisible puff.
But I know it now.
After my first dog’s death, I vowed to stay more aloof with the second. This new pup would be a companion for the kids. A friendly presence in the household. That’s it. You can guess how that went, can’t you? Cut to today, and our friendly “companion” has 10 nicknames and five dog beds with varying levels of cushion. My husband built him a special window seat to improve his view of the street. He enjoys regular field trips to his favorite hiking sites. He has canine “friends,” expensive joint supplements and dog food with arguably better nutrition than anything you’ll find in my fridge.
It doesn’t take a psychology degree to spot the pawprints of transference here. The more my teens pulled away, the more I coddled the adorable, pliable short-legged sprite in my midst. About once an hour, he gazes up at me with the kind of adoration that this flawed human being definitely does not deserve. He keeps me laughing all day long. He’s my light and my shadow, all at the same time. I can’t imagine my days without him.
Years ago, when my mom lost her cat, she refused to get another. “I can’t go through that again,” she told me. And she never did. She decided to avoid the pain that comes with inevitable loss. And yet, when my beloved pooch dies, I’ll probably adopt another. I tell myself that it’s because I’m a “dog person,” but maybe that’s not the whole truth. Maybe it’s just simple math. When it comes to our pets, and children, and fragile orchids, what we get is greater than what we suffer. And so we willingly, incredibly, invite the wound.
As I write this, my 17-year-old daughter is laughing with friends in another room. I want to bottle the sound, keep it safe, and uncork it on those long, strange days in the near future when the quiet will have settled onto this house like a smothering fog. By then, even the ticking will be gone.
The dog, sensing my melancholy, leans his warm body against my leg. I reach for him with gratitude and sink my fingers into his fur. Remember this, I tell myself. Remember how you feel right now. In the end, that’s probably the only resolution I can keep.
