zoethe

Yesterday evening we drove 2 hours each way to attend the memorial service of a woman we had never met. She was the mother of one of our dearest friends, Eric, and we went to be there for him and his wife Kat as they went through one of the toughest things a person must face: losing a parent. We had not initially intended to go down – my nascent understanding of Ohio geography does not extend very far south, and I didn’t realize that Mansfield was within “striking distance.” Then another couple we know called theferrett and asked him if he wanted to attend, as they were driving down and could give him a ride. He called me in a mild panic – he had never been to a funeral and was terrified of “screwing it up.” I assured him that he would be fine, then hung up feeling sad – I hated to not be there for our friends, but I had class. Before an hour had passed I realized that class had to be a secondary priority for this night, and made arrangements to go along (mostly consisting of racing home to be there on time).

It was the right choice. Kat said she had almost called just to hear Ferrett’s voice and that she needed a hug from me. It meant a lot to them that we were there. And it meant a lot to us, too. Friendship grows deeper when you share more than just the casual, good times. There is bonding in grief.

During the service I heard a lot about a woman who I regret never getting to know. The well-filled church spoke of her connections to the community and how many lives she had touched, as did the baskets full of cards from well-wishers. As the minister said, there was grief, but it was clean grief, grief for a light too soon gone, and not for unresolved issues that had to be buried. Her dying, a 16-month process, had been one that filled those around her with inspiration. She had met the most terrifying challenge of life and met it well.

I’m wrong, actually, when I say that I never met Eric’s mom. I’ve met her through the kindness and wry humor of her son, and I will know it more through the children whom he and Kat seek to adopt. He spoke of the gifts his mother gave him: a love of books, a kindly outlook, a positive attitude. I know that when he holds his babies in his arms he will remember her, when he selects favorite stories to read to them that the echo of her voice, her cadence, her turn of phrase, will color his own reading. He will pass on that legacy of love and laughter to his children, and they to theirs.

And thus will she live on, and the world will be a better place that she was here.

Scrappy, Ferrett's..uh..ferret, is dying. He appears to have suffered a stroke that has partially paralyzed his left side. His attempts to walk around end in stumbling falls that leave him tangled in awkward positions, unable to right himself. He looks perplexed and distressed and…resigned. Trying again is inevitable—he's a ferret, after all—but each time there is a period when he just lies there, regathering himself.

I have never really been fond of this creature. He is smelly and he bites. Even the better-socialized ferrets I have met are not particularly appealing to me. He was a pet who "came with the package" when we got married, and my tolerance has not always been entirely gracious.

But my heart goes out to the little guy, and to the big guy who is holding him now, comforting him while his own heart breaks. It doesn't help that Scrappy has outlived expectations by at least two-and-a-half years. Ferrett knows that tomorrow he will have to call the vet and do the right thing for a beloved friend who can no longer cope with this world.

His little light will go out. And despite it being the way the world works, the circle of life and all that, I find myself shedding a tear for him, as well as for Ferrett, who will miss his companionship. I'm sorry for your loss, dear.