Grief and Love

For Seamus

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, crying and writing over the last five weeks. Here’s where I am with grief and love, for my little boy and this country.

I wake up every day, and my first thought is that Seamus is not here and I’ll never see him again.

The second is that I live in a fascist country.

And then I cry.

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Grief

Last month, I lost one of the greatest loves of my life, our cat Seamus. It doesn’t matter that he was a different species; we had a bond, and he was part of my family, more so than most of my blood relatives. His death has left me feeling empty, flattened, broken, and heartbroken — like half a person.

I know that for those of us who choose to end a loved one’s suffering, the decision is often met with guilt. No matter how morally correct it might seem, witnessing someone you love so much go into a permanent sleep is torture. I keep replaying the second the vet pressed her stethoscope against his heart and said, “I’m sorry.” That, along with carrying his lifeless body to her car, laying him down in the alter she created in her hatchback, looking at him with his big green eyes still open, and pushing my nose against his, as we always did to each other, for the last time, were among the three saddest moments of my life. I’m in tears as I write and reread this. Saying goodbye to Arnold, my last cat was the third; I’ve learned to live with his loss but love him the same 25 years later, as I will for Seamus.

I always knew that when the time came, I’d be shattered, but I underestimated the depth of grief. I’m not sure if the loneliness of his absence will ever go away, and maybe I don’t want it to because this void serves as a connection. I haven’t been able to listen to the music I was into around the time he got sick; it triggers a feeling that I should have realized something was wrong with him when I was stressing out about work. I’m forcing myself to go to movies, meet up with friends, and take long walks, but it’s an effort. Laughter and other distractions are welcome, even necessary, but I’m always aware of the sadness I carry with me. I’m not the same person I was before we lost him, and I will never be again.

Strangely, grief is also life-affirming. Seamus’ illness coincided with my decision to get off anti-depressants. In the 23 years I was on them, I cried maybe a handful of times. I wonder if the enormity of this loss would have broken through the emotional blunting regardless; I wouldn’t want to go through this experience without the catharsis of crying. Is this constant stream of tears not just for Seamus but also a release of years of pent-up sadness? All I know is that I miss him terribly and can’t imagine what it would be like to grieve without crying. As painful as his death is, it makes me feel excruciatingly alive.

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My deep, personal grief over Seamus has been joined by another grief; I feel a deep sense of loss for the promise of this country and a realization that close to half the people who voted do not have a problem with a mean-spirited, bigot, rapist, criminal, fascist leader. Many of us are guided by kindness, but the prevailing winds are not. I grieve for a future stolen by those who callously ignore or just don’t care that their vote for Trump will hurt and deprive a lot of people of fundamental human rights. I grieve for those of us who believe the arc of the universe bends towards justice and now feel like it has snapped back and hit us in the face on its way to the 16th century. I know I’m not alone in this grief.

We grieve for the loss of a future where anyone who doesn’t conform to white, heteronormative America can live in peace and safety.

We grieve for a future where children will not know the complete story of American history because to do so would expose the ugly truths of racial capitalism and foment dissent.

We grieve for the LGBTQ+ community, especially transmen and women, who will be murdered and marginalized by the hands of state-sanctioned homo/transphobia.

I’m worried about immigrants who’ve come here, regardless of the means, to escape dire circumstances, in many cases a result of heinous American foreign policies, who now face uncertainty and possibly death. We grieve for a country that glorifies mass deportations.

We grieve for the Ukrainians and Palestinians and others around the world who will die because we elected someone who does not give a shit about human rights and democracy. Every American president has had blood on their hands, but most were countered by doing at least some good for humanity. The new administration is motivated by selfishness and malice.

Many people who did not vote for Trump may not be personally affected by the US move to fascism, but we hope they will stand in solidarity and be part of the resistance. Inevitably, some won’t, and we grieve for their future apathy.

Cruelty was on the ballot on Tuesday, November 5, and it won. I’m reminding myself that many people are not cruel, and cruel people can become kind. Still, my disillusionment with humanity makes me miss Seamus even more; his love and companionship helped me through difficult times like 2016. As we move into the darkness of winter, I’m trying to find flickers of light and reminding myself that nothing burns brighter than love.

Love

The solace I receive now is the same as the salvation I found right after we lost Seamus: love. Grief is a process; it cannot be expedited and has no expiration date. But love softens the jagged edges, offering hope and comfort in the midst of sorrow.

Love is a mirrored prism; loss is one of its sides. That loss expresses and reflects grief, making it harder to accept that your loved one is no longer here. I know I’ll always love Seamus, but not having his daily affection leaves a void. Nothing can fill it, but the outpour of concern and kindness from friends and acquaintances has kept my spirit from falling into a deeper abyss. I’m overtaken with appreciation towards those who’ve regularly checked in on me and respect and understand he was my kid, not just a “pet.”

No one will ever fill Seamus’ place in my heart. Seamus didn’t take over Arnold’s, but the wonderful thing I discovered when he came into my life is that our hearts can expand and make room for new love without diminishing the love that exists for someone who is no longer here. Love is an infinite resource.

As many of us hunker down for a bleak foreseeable future in the US, we need to make an extra effort to have love and joy in our lives. I feel like joy is an overused word, but it is another side of the prism. It’s a feeling of happiness that we don’t just take but radiate back to the world, and it peaks when we share it with others.

Joy is also an act of resistance. The MAGA crowd gets off on the idea of “owning the libs.” It’s so boorish and mean, but really, that’s on them, and one of the best ways to clap back at the hate is to unabashedly accept and express joy. Of course, we’ll have to find other ways to resist, but for our mental health, we need to make sure we have fun, relish beauty and laughter, and forge connections with those who share our values. We need to welcome people who are struggling with open arms; many people feel isolated. Make new friends and let vulnerable communities know you have their backs. These simple expressions might make someone feel a little bit less alone and give you a new sense of connection. We find love in community with each other.

Witnessing the American electorate largely repudiate all the social progress we’ve made on every front and endorse authoritarianism, on top of losing Seamus, has tested me. Some days, I wonder if I’m crying not only for him but for our world. Both losses are devastating, though in different ways. I learned the only way to face grief is just to walk into it, be exposed, lean into the love people have showered on me, and try to give it back or pay it forward. Love helps me to get through the day and will ease our paths in the coming years.