I glanced over an e-mail from the Vice Provost for University Life last Tuesday evening. In light of the "unusually high number of extraordinary local, national and international tragedies" in our recent past, she asked that we make sure to look out for one another. I hit delete, and moved on to other e-mails without much thought. I had more important things to worry about, such as an exam the next day.
Later that night, my mother called to tell me that we would have to put my cat to sleep.
She was your typical family cat -- black and nondescript. We bought her at the sort of small old-time pet shop that one now rarely sees. I was rather uncreative at six years old, so I named her Dusty. Eventually we added another cat and two dogs to the household. Dusty was always just sort of there, constantly in my lap or at the foot of my bed, but without quite as forceful or quirky a personality as the other three animals. Nonetheless, she was always my favorite -- it was a simple relationship of reciprocal affection.
I was taken aback at my mother's call, unaware that Dusty had been sick. I was walking with a friend to the Fresh Grocer as my mom explained the situation. She offered to wait until I could come home over the weekend. I didn't know how to react.
"OK," I said matter-of-factly, "I will come home Friday night and we will go on Saturday." I started tearing up on the phone, but I wasn't really sure where it came from. I loved Dusty and had imagined taking her with me when I graduate, but I hadn't really seen her much over the past three-and-a-half years. Was I really emotionally devastated about this? Was I crying because I felt like I was supposed to? Did I just want a hug from my friend? Was I allowed to laugh at a joke once I wiped away my tears and we went to the frozen food aisle?
Grief is an awkward thing.
My friend invited me over for some tea, but I think he felt a little awkward too. After all, what was he supposed to do? I didn't need reassurance -- the decision had already been made. I didn't need to hear the bright side -- it didn't matter if Dusty would be better off this way. And I didn't need to reminisce -- it was just a cat, after all.
I just wanted someone to wrap their arms around me for a little bit and tell me that they care. Yes, I knew it would all be fine. But I didn't want to dry my tears, I didn't need to talk, and I didn't need to get over it.
I had an exam the next day and I eventually got back to studying. By Thursday, I was wondering if I should go home or not. I certainly had enough work to keep me busy all weekend. Could I really afford to spend all day Saturday dealing with this? Was it worth it to go home?
I went somewhat of of obligation; it felt like the right thing to do, and I didn't want to leave my mother alone with such a gloomy task. When I arrived home, I sat and read with Dusty on my lap for several hours. When it was time to take her to the veterinarian, I held her throughout the entire procedure. There were streaks of tears on my cheeks throughout it all.
I could have sworn I still felt her purring under my hand after the veterinarian pulled away the stethoscope and said it was over. All I wanted was to grab her warm body and clutch it against my chest for another five minutes, to continue stroking her glossy coat. She still seemed so alive. But I was afraid the vet would think me morbid, so I just stepped back, watched her taken away and accepted the carrying box a few minutes later.
When I got back to Penn Saturday evening, I felt overwhelmed by the work I still had to do and upset by the day's unpleasantness. But I was immensely glad that I had gone home and set aside my usual calculations of cost-benefit and concern for my studies. I felt as if I had rightfully acknowledged the sadness, and dignity, of Dusty's death.
This misfortune is trifling in the context of the tragedies that have affected many at this University over the past few months. But no one's sorrow is inconsequential. Heed the call of the University to support one another through difficult times, but don't forget that grief is OK -- it's not just something to get over and push aside.
And remember how far a hug can go.
Shannon Jensen is a senior real estate, business and public policy and urban studies major from Annapolis, Md. Above Board appears on Mondays.
