Gravediggin'
Today I dug a grave for our cat.
The cat, Grendel, is still alive, but he has a cancerous growth on his spine that has been growing for some time. Although his behavior is virtually unchanged and his health appears to me to be otherwise fine for his age, my mother, who sometimes slips and calls the cat by my name, falls into fits of anxious worry whenever she contemplates his mortality. She is afraid she will arrive home one day, alone, to find the cat is lying on the floor paralyzed. She may faint or go berserk--would she get to the vet in time to save him? Would she be able to control herself in that situation? (Her anxiety recurs on itself in her anticipation.)
So my dad asked for my help in digging a grave. In case the ground is harder when the cat dies. In case the cat dies at home and Mom needs to dispose of it quickly so that she doesn't freak. These are actually some of the most unlikely scenarios; somehow, I think, dad realized that having a prepared grave would make Mom feel more prepared.
My mother would like to share her grief, make the family settle down together for collective, preemptive mourning. But my father is much more stoic and has not turned the cat into what amounts to a surrogate son; I am cut from his cloth. Digging the grave, then, maybe was also a way to demonstrate to her that we too were in the proper mood.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A friend called, and the gloominess wore off. My negative emotions have short half lives.
I just found some old modeling clay that's still good. What should I make with it?
The cat, Grendel, is still alive, but he has a cancerous growth on his spine that has been growing for some time. Although his behavior is virtually unchanged and his health appears to me to be otherwise fine for his age, my mother, who sometimes slips and calls the cat by my name, falls into fits of anxious worry whenever she contemplates his mortality. She is afraid she will arrive home one day, alone, to find the cat is lying on the floor paralyzed. She may faint or go berserk--would she get to the vet in time to save him? Would she be able to control herself in that situation? (Her anxiety recurs on itself in her anticipation.)
So my dad asked for my help in digging a grave. In case the ground is harder when the cat dies. In case the cat dies at home and Mom needs to dispose of it quickly so that she doesn't freak. These are actually some of the most unlikely scenarios; somehow, I think, dad realized that having a prepared grave would make Mom feel more prepared.
My mother would like to share her grief, make the family settle down together for collective, preemptive mourning. But my father is much more stoic and has not turned the cat into what amounts to a surrogate son; I am cut from his cloth. Digging the grave, then, maybe was also a way to demonstrate to her that we too were in the proper mood.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A friend called, and the gloominess wore off. My negative emotions have short half lives.
I just found some old modeling clay that's still good. What should I make with it?