Opinion | There’s never a good time to die

I’ll just put it simply. There’s never a good time to die.

This might sound obvious, or maybe even unsettling, but it’s the truth. I should know — I’ve dealt with three losses in the last year, and it still hasn’t gotten any easier. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m doing this grieving thing right.

The first one to leave this world was our beloved dog, Ella. A 12-year-old sweetie pie. The light of every room. Loud, playful, comforting and silly, we took her to the vet right before Father’s Day after a concerning spell of not eating. 

She’d been losing weight — visible weight, her ribs were showing — and we were scared. She was also lethargic, sleeping all the time, and her breathing was heavy and laborious. My dad and I took her in, my mom had a doctor’s appointment and my sister was sleeping.

My dad and I sat in near silence in the waiting room for what felt like an eternity — words were too heavy to muster. We were waiting for our girl to come back with an understanding that things wouldn’t be the same.

The vet confirmed our fears. She had been suffering from an extremely aggressive splenic cancer, which was pushing against her stomach, causing nausea and pain. In the fight against the cancer, her lymph nodes swelled, pushing against her heart and lungs. We were told she would pass from internal bleeding and fluid buildup within a few days.

My mom was sitting down when we came home, already distressed. She broke down when we told her Ella’s news, because she received news of her own.

That same morning, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. It runs in her family — her mom, aunts and sister all had bouts with this strain of cancer, and at a routine check up, they identified a mass. They caught it early, so it was treatable — she had a mastectomy to have it removed later that summer — but hearing Ella’s news made her a wreck. There’s never a good time to die.

We called all of the at-home pet euthanasia services, to which the only opening was the next day at 3 p.m. That left a day full of sorrow, grief and love. We made the most of the time she had left with us, and I’ll never forget how happy she was right before her book closed — she stuffed her face with pretzel sticks. We called our family, letting them know that their favorite grand-dog-ter was leaving, bringing tears to my grandma and grandpa’s eyes.

As the final injection kicked in, I was the last thing she saw, and her face is with me every day, as is the noise our cat, Tami, made. When the injection was administered, the cat came behind us and let out a screech we had never heard before, telling us she was shouldering the grief too.

At least we got to say bye to Ella. 

Four days before this past Christmas, my mom was out doing errands and found herself at TJ Maxx. While looking for a little extra gift for my grandma, my grandpa called her. Grandma fell, and he called an ambulance. Get here ASAP.  My mom raced to the hospital, but my grandma’s fate was sealed.

Brain scans quickly revealed my grandma suffered a terminal brain bleed. Even if my family opted for a surgery to prolong her life, my grandma wouldn’t have been able to talk, walk or likely be conscious. She was gone. She succumbed to her brain injuries 12 hours later.

In the blink of an eye, my grandma left this world, and no one, not even my mom, got to say goodbye. We didn’t know the last time we would see her was at Thanksgiving, a month prior to her favorite holiday. My grandma was having some trouble connecting her hearing aids to her phone, too, so no one had an at-length phone call with her since Thanksgiving, the thought not even crossing our minds.

When it happened, I was comforted by the cat, watching TV, plugging myself with as much basketball and college football as I could. I was numb. The darkness and cold of December only amplified my feelings. I found myself sitting and doomscrolling most of the day, which certainly didn’t help.

As a family, we found solace in watching our aggressively mediocre Chicago Bulls and the new “Wallace and Gromit” movie by the fireplace, but it still lingered. It was still there.

The days leading up to Christmas were hard. How were we going to celebrate Christmas without her? There’s never a good time to die. She lived for Christmas, when we all came over, filling her house with joy. This year, she had set the table a week in advance, and the base of the tree was lined with presents for us. But she wasn’t there to celebrate.

In Christmases past, Ella would go racing to see her grandparents when we arrived, and Grandma and Grandpa would be in their chairs 10 feet from the door, greeting us as they got up. This time, only one chair was occupied, and there was no bullet racing by our feet. 

Have you ever opened a — recently — posthumous gift? It’s hard. 

We found some silver linings though — this event brought the family in from across the country for Christmas whom we hadn’t seen for a few years. We laughed about the 15 bows and ribbons we put on Ella last Christmas, and the costumes Grandma would dress her up in when she watched Ella for us. While still difficult, the laughter and joy shined through, offering some respite from our sorrows.

They quickly came back. Services commenced after the New Year at the church at which she taught for 20 years. I was baptized but haven’t been to church in over 15 years, and it brought me to tears, multiple times. It was here that I realized grief is cyclical. There’s no end, beginning, peak or dropoff. Its timing strikes everyone’s clock differently. For the first few days, I felt like it didn’t really happen — a state of denial. I was sad, but couldn’t “produce” sadness. I was wondering if something was wrong with me, if my emotions were broken. 

They quickly proved me wrong. Emotions came down on me hard, and it finally hit me. It was hard to fall asleep. The blistering speed with which she left us still hurts, because there are many things we’d like to tell her and say to her.

Things like, “Grandma, I finally got an internship!” — she was always asking me about that, and she was so proud I became a writer. My mom and I were waiting to tell her the news at Christmas. How were we to know that Thanksgiving would be the last time?

It hit my mom very hard when the next death came. Our cat, Tami, had to be put down two days ago. She too hadn’t been eating for a few weeks and was super weak, unable to jump up on the couch or our beds anymore, despite antibiotics and two separate steroid treatments hoping to stimulate her appetite.

Scans suggested that Tami had a tumor that collapsed her lung, swelled them and filled the area with fluid. She was running a very high fever, and with her age and lack of success on the other treatments, the vet told us it was untreatable. My dad called me Saturday afternoon to tell me the news, and FaceTimed me in to the goodbye an hour later at the vet — I was the only one not in the room.

Every day since it happened, I’ve wished I was afforded the chance to say goodbye like my family did, but I had a feeling when I left for school three weeks prior that it might’ve been the last time I saw her — I took notes from my grandma’s unexpected departure.

My mom texted me today that she can’t believe she won’t see Tami jump on my bed in the afternoon sun as she works, and my dad can’t picture his desk without her lying all over his papers and books. Her death is so surreal too — three days to the month mark of my grandma’s passing, we lost another one. How does this happen? 

Writing this elicited some precipitation on my keyboard — after three losses, I still haven’t found something that “works.” I’m not sure if there is something that does. When the grief and sorrow come knocking, let them in. Grief compounds itself. It doubles down and arrests you, keeps you up at night and even affects health. 

We are reminded that to know is to love, and grieving is part of love. Tell your people — and animals — that you love them, and leave every goodbye on a high note. Take nothing for granted — as Joni Mitchell says, “You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.”

I’ll leave you with a poem by Donna Ashworth.

Love Came First

You don’t move on after loss, but you must move with.

You must shake hands with grief, welcome her in, for she lives with you now.

Pull her a chair at the table and offer her comfort.

She is not the monster you first thought her to be. She is love.

And she will walk with you now, stay with you now, peacefully. If you let her.

And on the days when your anger is high, remember why she came, remember who she represents.

Remember.

Grief came to you my friend because love came first.

Love came first.

Jake Vasilias writes mostly about politics and sports. You can write to him at jpv25@pitt.edu.