17 Feb Passings, Passages and the Empty Nest
This past weekend was a rather emotional one. Valentine’s Day was the 30th anniversary of our engagement to be married. The following day two beloved members of our household passed away.
Over 18 years ago I returned from work to find a long-haired, black and white kitten at our house. Ruth had been approached by children pulling a wagon full of kitties at five-year Tyler’s soccer practice. Needless to say this one came home and was aptly named Oreo.
Oreo’s beautiful long hair and graceful manner belied the fact that she was just plain feisty. She wasn’t one to be cuddled and lay in the sun, but was a cat of action.
Two-year old Marissa discovered that she could rile the cat by standing in front of it and extending her hand slowly toward its face. Our toddler watched closely until both ears when flat against a furry head, then ran away squealing. Oreo would chase our daughter down the hall, wrapping both paws around her hips and biting into her diaper. Ruth once managed to snap a picture of Oreo firmly attached to Marissa’s posterior as she ran down the hallway.
It should be noted that this game quickly ended when Marissa began potty training. It turned out not to be nearly as fun without the protection of Pampers.
Ruth and I both witnessed Oreo “angling” for gophers in our pocked acre-and-a-half in California. She wiggled her paw over a hole, tantalizing its inhabitant with the long hair between her toes. When the gopher latched on to the fur she flung her prey out onto the ground so she could pounce and devour it.
But she was a dedicated mother, too. I sadly recall when she came to despise all dogs, the night her kitten was eaten by a coyote in our yard.
Not too long after we adopted Oreo our friends gave us a naked little baby bird. It seemed like a great opportunity for our young children to learn to care for something so totally dependent upon their care. As we drove home, discussing the options for naming the pink little cockatiel, it was observed that it was missing part of a toe. Tyler, now eight, suggested we should call it Digit. The name stuck.
Digit was an immediate hit, though we underestimated how much care he/she/it would require of the adults. (It turns out we never did determine the gender. ‘Sorry, Digit!) Ruth provided most of the care, even getting up in the middle or the night to inject mushy food into its gullet via syringe. But as Digit grew feathers he/she/it grew on us.
Digit eventually became “my” bird, fond of hanging out on my shoulder. He (I’ll stick with “he”) became my own personal grooming assistant, straightening my eyelashes and trying to clean my teeth if I smiled too broadly. Bu the worst was when he would quickly snatch any stray nose hair, leaving my eyes watering.
Yeah, it’s kinda gross, but birds show familial affection by caring for each other, preening those things they cannot take care of themselves. So I feel honored…I guess.
Last Thursday night Oreo slept outside our bedroom door, something she’d never done before. Her frail, skinny body—generally hidden under her long fur—lay on the carpet. Seldom one to utter a sound she seemed to need something. She needed us.
We could see evidence that her kidneys were shutting down. She shunned food and water. She only wanted human comfort. All Sunday she lay on a towel in front of the fireplace, moving only to urge us to keep petting her.
I turned to look at Digit’s cage, and saw that he had quietly passed away. That was hard to take, as we had no inkling his age was taking a toll on him as well.
I woke at 4:30 Monday morning to find Oreo’s breathless body where she lay the day before.
I think these “passings” have been particularly hard because they align with an important passage in our lives. Marissa, now almost 20 years old, will be marrying the man she loves this July. For Ruth and me it marks the end of an era—the young family years of noisy kids, soccer games, diapers, and children’s pets.
We are wise enough not to try to refill our home, nor to try and hold on to our children. They are women and men now, and we are proud of the adults they are. We will resist the urge to live vicariously through them and through the grandchildren. Our roles are changing, and that is a good and lovely thing as well.
We have looked forward to our “empty nest” years, a time to grow even closer together. But right now, as I look out the darkness waiting for the sun to rise, this nest feels pretty empty.