On the Importance of a Small Death
Whelp, the fish finally kicked the bucket.
Or failed to kick it.
You know. The fish is dead.
We bought him last summer as a lark. Something fun and unobtrusive, like a step up from a house plant kind of pet for Little Monkey to enjoy. He named him Zeus, after his cousins' pet bird. He was a nice enough beta, and we loved him. You know, as much as one can love a fish. I don't even have a picture of the poor thing, because I never even thought to take one.
Anyway, I think all parents should get their two or three year old a fish as a pet.
Because they will die.
Monkey enjoyed feeding Zeus and watching Zeus, especially when he was healthy. There is no denying that he loved that fish, but is was a small kind of love; a minuscule attachment. Monkey, I'm sure feels more strongly about his stuffy Olly than he did about Zeus. I have felt more strongly about accidentally killing a plant than I did about Zeus' death.
Although that could be due to the manner of his passing. He had been fighting something, which I now think was fin rot, for a long time. I didn't realize it was anything serious until this summer, when it had progressed to his body and by then he had already developed a curved spine, which may or may not have been caused by fish TB. He was also super bloated for a month with pineconing (dropsy) and then lost it all very quickly. Needless to say the poor thing was very sick. I thought about putting him out of his misery, but instead I tried my best to heal him and make him comfortable.
I had been silently looking forward to the day that the poor little guy stopped swimming and finally he did. I was glad he was no longer suffering. I was glad that I didn't have to worry about him anymore. But most of all I was glad that it happened on a Sunday, during the time of year that we are thinking about the dead.
We were getting ready for church and I told Monkey that Zeus was dead. He was in a little bit of shock, I think. He asked to see the body, so we looked in the tank and there he was, lying on the bottom, the once vibrant iridescent blue-red faded to a reddish tan. He asked why, and I explained that everything dies, and Zeus was sick, and now he's not sick anymore. He was hurting, but now he doesn't hurt.
I told him that it's ok to feel sad, but that he's in heaven with God now and that he's having a good time. (I know this may or may not be true, but I'm not really looking to get into whether or not All Fish Go To Heaven. I'm more concerned with using the fish's death as a starting point to a discussion about death and how we, as Christians face it.)
He started to cry a little, and said "I miss Zeusie" Ever since he died, the fish has become Zeusie, not Zeus, which I think is pretty funny. Anyway, I told him we could pray for him at Mass, and asked if he wanted to bury him in the back yard. He agreed, and so we dug a small hole (in the rain, mind you) poured him in, said a few words, and covered him up. I explained that now Zeus would become food for the trees and flowers and grass and even the bugs, and he would help to make them strong.
When we got to Mass he knelt down and said a prayer for Zeus straight away, which amazed me, because I hadn't mentioned it since before the burial. I've been fielding questions similar to the ones above all day. Why? Where is he? Why do things die? What happens when they die? There has also been a lot of "I miss Zeusie". He has mentioned missing him more today than he has actually thought about him at all in the last two months. But grief is like that. Even small grief will sneak up on you, unbidden, and remind you of what you've lost.
There have been a lot of hugs, and a lot of back rubs.
This is why I didn't want to just flush "Zeusie" down the drain back in August when we realized things were really not right. Was it selfish? Maybe, but so is keeping chickens confined to laying boxes their whole lives so we can have cheap eggs. (I totally just typed cheep). I'm not going to worry too much about the moral implications of letting a fish die naturally over the course of two months if it meant that my son got to experience death on a small scale.
Yes, he's sad, but he's not devastated. It wasn't a beloved cat or dog or even hamster, it was an ornamental friend who lived in the corner. I think this was a good November/All Souls/Death Triduum/Remembrance Season lesson, and one that I don't think I could have approached any other way. *
Goodbye Zeusie, you will be missed.
*He had a bit of a crying fit during our prayers on All Saints day when I said I hope we get to go to heaven and be saints with God too. He didn't like that idea. He wanted to know where I was going and when I was leaving. I think he thought I was catching the train to Heaven Town right after he fell asleep. I told him not to worry, and that I wouldn't die until I was really really old. He agreed that I am not, in fact, very old and seemed to be mollified. I know that this is a promise I may not be able to keep, but little steps, people, little steps.
Or failed to kick it.
You know. The fish is dead.
We bought him last summer as a lark. Something fun and unobtrusive, like a step up from a house plant kind of pet for Little Monkey to enjoy. He named him Zeus, after his cousins' pet bird. He was a nice enough beta, and we loved him. You know, as much as one can love a fish. I don't even have a picture of the poor thing, because I never even thought to take one.
Anyway, I think all parents should get their two or three year old a fish as a pet.
Because they will die.
Monkey enjoyed feeding Zeus and watching Zeus, especially when he was healthy. There is no denying that he loved that fish, but is was a small kind of love; a minuscule attachment. Monkey, I'm sure feels more strongly about his stuffy Olly than he did about Zeus. I have felt more strongly about accidentally killing a plant than I did about Zeus' death.
Although that could be due to the manner of his passing. He had been fighting something, which I now think was fin rot, for a long time. I didn't realize it was anything serious until this summer, when it had progressed to his body and by then he had already developed a curved spine, which may or may not have been caused by fish TB. He was also super bloated for a month with pineconing (dropsy) and then lost it all very quickly. Needless to say the poor thing was very sick. I thought about putting him out of his misery, but instead I tried my best to heal him and make him comfortable.
I had been silently looking forward to the day that the poor little guy stopped swimming and finally he did. I was glad he was no longer suffering. I was glad that I didn't have to worry about him anymore. But most of all I was glad that it happened on a Sunday, during the time of year that we are thinking about the dead.
We were getting ready for church and I told Monkey that Zeus was dead. He was in a little bit of shock, I think. He asked to see the body, so we looked in the tank and there he was, lying on the bottom, the once vibrant iridescent blue-red faded to a reddish tan. He asked why, and I explained that everything dies, and Zeus was sick, and now he's not sick anymore. He was hurting, but now he doesn't hurt.
I told him that it's ok to feel sad, but that he's in heaven with God now and that he's having a good time. (I know this may or may not be true, but I'm not really looking to get into whether or not All Fish Go To Heaven. I'm more concerned with using the fish's death as a starting point to a discussion about death and how we, as Christians face it.)
He started to cry a little, and said "I miss Zeusie" Ever since he died, the fish has become Zeusie, not Zeus, which I think is pretty funny. Anyway, I told him we could pray for him at Mass, and asked if he wanted to bury him in the back yard. He agreed, and so we dug a small hole (in the rain, mind you) poured him in, said a few words, and covered him up. I explained that now Zeus would become food for the trees and flowers and grass and even the bugs, and he would help to make them strong.
When we got to Mass he knelt down and said a prayer for Zeus straight away, which amazed me, because I hadn't mentioned it since before the burial. I've been fielding questions similar to the ones above all day. Why? Where is he? Why do things die? What happens when they die? There has also been a lot of "I miss Zeusie". He has mentioned missing him more today than he has actually thought about him at all in the last two months. But grief is like that. Even small grief will sneak up on you, unbidden, and remind you of what you've lost.
There have been a lot of hugs, and a lot of back rubs.
This is why I didn't want to just flush "Zeusie" down the drain back in August when we realized things were really not right. Was it selfish? Maybe, but so is keeping chickens confined to laying boxes their whole lives so we can have cheap eggs. (I totally just typed cheep). I'm not going to worry too much about the moral implications of letting a fish die naturally over the course of two months if it meant that my son got to experience death on a small scale.
Yes, he's sad, but he's not devastated. It wasn't a beloved cat or dog or even hamster, it was an ornamental friend who lived in the corner. I think this was a good November/All Souls/Death Triduum/Remembrance Season lesson, and one that I don't think I could have approached any other way. *
Goodbye Zeusie, you will be missed.
*He had a bit of a crying fit during our prayers on All Saints day when I said I hope we get to go to heaven and be saints with God too. He didn't like that idea. He wanted to know where I was going and when I was leaving. I think he thought I was catching the train to Heaven Town right after he fell asleep. I told him not to worry, and that I wouldn't die until I was really really old. He agreed that I am not, in fact, very old and seemed to be mollified. I know that this is a promise I may not be able to keep, but little steps, people, little steps.
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