Learning to say Farewell
On Mother’s Day weekend, Bunky, my 35-year-old African ring-necked parakeet was, as they say, “put to sleep.” He was partially blind and had experienced a stroke, which did not allow him to walk, fly, or perch properly. I had taken him to the vet in hopes of a temporary solution, but it was obvious he was sad and tired of the struggle. The nurse first administered him a pain reliever, to give me some time to take in the decision I was going to have to make. It allowed him to crawl along his cage to come close to the sound of my voice. He leaned towards me and stayed there until the nurse returned to administer his final injections. I was able to fold him gently in the blanket I had brought and hold him, stroking his neck and telling him one last time he was a “pretty bird.” I watched his eyes glaze over and imaged him in flight, free of his cage and his physical limitations. As with other pets, it was surreal to experience the final moment of release, his visage altering to that state of emptiness. He wasn’t asleep. He was gone.
I have struggled with loss over the decades of my life, the most severe, the death of my son, who lived with schizophrenia. We cope by building memorials. Bunky will go under the large stone in my garden, with Blue my basset hound, and a few of my son’s stones of remembrance. I sprinkled lavender leaves over his wrapped frame in the unearthed hole. I replaced the dirt, pressed it down with my hands and reset the stone. My Mother’s Day was emotionally muted, though I took comfort in the outpouring of sympathy and love by my children and grandchildren.
Learning to say farewell is part of our existence. My second son took pictures of his apartment before he moved out to join his girlfriend, in the new house he recently purchased. It carried him through new jobs, past failed relationships, as well as his brilliant new one, and the purchase of his beloved cat. The best decision to stop smoking and seek help for his drinking habit would always hold the greatest significance in this pleasant two-bedroom living space. An important time of his life.
At 72, I am teaching myself to gradually let go. I painfully gave away the tall, artificial Christmas tree I had decorated for 25 years. It was too much of a challenge to put up, climb a ladder to set each keepsake ornament, take down and haul to the basement. As I slowly dragged it to the curb, I placed a little note on it, hoping it would go to a loving home. I received a card in my mailbox a few weeks later, as it had disappeared from the lawn. A young woman from down the street thanked me for the free gift, explaining how she would not have been able to afford a new one.
Our family recently closed our Private Foundation, having completed the goals we had set back in 2008, when our son had his most severe relapse. It focused on mental health issues and became a therapeutic outlet for me as I navigated his condition. Now the focus would be more writing in these final years, another form of personal therapy.
There is a beauty in beginnings and in endings. Teaching ourselves to manage the pathway of hello and goodbye is a muscle constantly in need of honing. We learn how to hold onto the good and let the rest take flight.