Fear of Death

I'm very annoyed with my vet right now.

I phoned her to see if she could call in a refill for Mambo's high blood pressure medication. She was extremely resistant and wanted me to bring him in for a checkup and another battery of expensive tests.

I refused. Adamantly.

Now, you might think I'm completely heartless, but really! This cat is almost 20 years old, he's blind, and deaf, and slouches toward Bethlehem all over the house, and he has high blood pressure and bad kidneys. But he's 20! He's an old man and he's on his last legs.

Now this cat has had a very good life. I rescued him from a shelter in 1992 and he has lived in New York and Colorado. He's been on a plane. I've lived with this cat longer than I lived with my parents.

I've rearranged my social schedule to make sure I could give him insulin shots, I've rushed him to the vet near-death in kidney failure, I've lifted him into the litter box while he was recovering, I've force-fed him antibiotics with a syringe, and I've spent the last few months helping him down from chairs. Over the years, I've spent more money on vet care for him than I've spent on my own health.

I'm a little attached to him.

So I was more than a little offended that the vet laid this huge guilt trip on me because I didn't want to stress him out by stuffing him into the Sherpa, putting him in a car, and subjecting him to poking and prodding and needles and razors, not to mention that I just can't afford a $400 vet visit right now.

She finally agreed to call in the prescription, but first she made me SIGN A WAIVER absolving her of liability in case he DIES.

A waiver! For a 20-year old cat! He's going to die soon anyway! All I want to do is make the next few months comfortable for him. Jesus, he's only got a few months left, do we really need to prolong things?

Honestly. It's like recommending quadruple bypass surgery for a hundred-year old man.

I read a story on Yahoo today about a family whose dog was hit by a car. They rushed this dog, with catastrophic injuries, to the vet, who recommended that the dog be euthanized because its injuries were so severe. The couple decided that it would be too traumatic for their children, so they insisted on taking the dog home. It had broken bones, was yelping in pain, couldn't walk, ate its own feces, and a few hours later, it died anyway.

This story absolutely enraged me. These selfish fuckheads needlessly caused hours of agony and suffering for a creature that was utterly dependent on them because they were afraid their kids would be sad? And then the fucking dog died in agony anyway? Well FUCK them. I hope their kids got a good look at their dog with shit on its muzzle dying in pain.

Has our society become so ridiculous that we can't even accept death, and worse yet, parents feel they have to shield their children from death? Of course we have.

We are surrounded by fear of death. Botox and plastic surgery are fear of death. Self-medicating our problems away is fear of death. Every new "it's bad for you! No! Now it's good for you!" proclamation by the so-called health experts is fear of death. Teaching kids about "stranger danger" (proven to be utter bullshit, by the way) is fear of death. If you have a glass of wine while you're pregnant, you will kill your baby, or at least seriously reduce his chances of getting into Harvard, fear of death! My 78-year old father, asking for my kidney, and me, offering it gladly, fear of death.

Someone once asked Shunryu Suzuki Roshi where we go when we die. He laughed and answered, "To the cemetery!"

We would all be much better off if we learned how to accept death, and taught our kids how to accept death. This does not mean that we aren't still sad when it happens, but Jesus, we'd at least be better equipped to deal with it, and we wouldn't have to cling to the utterly absurd and immature notion that people need to be protected from the fact that it happens. I just don't GET people who won't take children to funerals. What are they protecting them from?

Grow up, people. Pets die. People die. Learn how to be sad, and stop clinging to the insane notion that you're entitled to be happy all the time, and maybe you'll figure out how to be happier most of the time.

And just for the record, when Mambo dies, I hope quietly, in his sleep on his favorite chair, I will be devastated.

I love him, you see.