Mourning in the morning

I’ve slept on the sad news about Chester, the false killer whale, twice. Twice I’ve awoken to the fact he really died and twice to the fact my heart is really broken.

I’ve written about grief before, I realize it is the price I pay for the awe I feel; for the love that fills and then breaks my heart; but it doesn’t make today any easier. So now I’m writing about grief again.

It’s been decades since I wore footed pajamas, years since my mother tried to save me from grief.  You would think I’d be seasoned to the emotion. I’m not.

When I was a child, way back in the fifties, we had a little turtle. He lived in a plastic dish that had a plastic island and a plastic palm tree – he was a cute little critter. From time to time mom would let us hold him while she cleaned his bowl. I can still remember the feeling of his tiny, damp feet scratching the palm of my little girl hand. He smelt funny, a little dusky and fishy – like the pellets of food he ate. I remember mom telling me to stop kissing his mottled shell.

It wasn’t until we were older that mom confessed that there had actually been a series of little turtles back in the day. That when one would die she would clean the dish and gently place the little creature on his plastic island and tell us kids not to wake him from the nap he was enjoying beneath the plastic palm. My dad would make a quick stop at a pet store on his way home from wherever his latest business trip had taken him and purchase a new little friend. We were never the wiser.

Like my granddaughters in their footed pajamas, we were saved from the reality of death until we grew too old to be fooled any more. It’s a tough lesson, this dying business, but it is a fact of life.

People have been telling me they are sorry for me as I’ve been trying to cope with the big emotion I’m feeling about Chester. They are sorry I am this sad. Everyone has been very nice, very sympathetic. It’s hard to put yourself into the shoes of another – hard to wrap your head around someone else’s emotion. It is actually hard for me to wrap my head around what I’m feeling right now too.

Chester’s story hit me square in the heart the moment I heard it. The darling little fellow, struggling alone on a beach. The frantic rush to rescue him. The hours of effort put into helping him survive. The dedication and commitment of the scores of people working around the clock. The miracle he became. I was overwhelmed every time I watched the video of his rescue, I swallowed tears on a weekly basis. I was drawn to him. I loved him.

I’ve fallen asleep for the past two nights wishing for footed pajamas again – wishing there was a way we could magically make Chester re-appear. It’s a childish wish, I should know better. But there is still a little girl inside this sixty-four year old grandmother – I carry all the phases of my life with me. That little girl wants wishes to come true and yesterdays to change. That little girl wants this reality to be just a bad dream.

I find myself comforted as the grandmother I have become tries to help the little girl inside me. The little girl wants to give up on this love stuff, to vow never to get attached again. The grandmother explains that this day would have come with or without the loving; that the little girl is destined to fall in love over and over again – it is her nature. That with great love comes a deep hurt, and that the hurt is actually a gift. It is a badge that says I loved this much.

My heart will mend, age has taught me that. But it will always hold a special place for things I have loved and lost; for Chester and his story. I will miss him like crazy and love him forever.