This is the last part in a three-part series about the death of my beloved cat, Jem.
Shortly after discovering Jem’s body at the top of my stairs, I contacted Adrienne who immediately came over to my home. In addition to confirming that Jem was dead, she embraced me tightly for several minutes as I wailed loudly. We then realized that we had to do something with Jem’s body, so I called his veterinarian hospital. The female receptionist could not have been more compassionate and told us to bring in Jem’s body which I cradled in my lap as Adrienne drove us to the hospital. When we walked into the hospital reception area — Adrienne now carrying Jem’s body — we were shocked when a male receptionist announced this aloud: “It’s the DOA!” Stunned, I looked at him and responded, “This is my cat, and his name is Jem.”
For several days following Jem’s death, I kept hearing in my head, “It’s the DOA! It’s the DOA! It’s the DOA!” How could someone have been so insensitive? After researching the website of the veterinarian hospital, I learned that the name of the receptionist was Kevin. Further, the website staff photo revealed that Kevin apparently struggled with a disability as he was the only staff member seated.
Admittedly, Kevin’s challenges, confirmed also by his cane, gave me pause, but I still felt that I owed it to Jem — and Adrienne and me — to call him out on his insensitivity. I decided to write Kevin a letter that I would personally had to him when I picked up Jem’s remains. Following is what I wrote to him:
Kevin,
With this note, I am extending to you the privacy and courtesy you were unable to extend to me or my partner on Wednesday, November 20.
Around 11:30 a.m. that day, I entered the reception area of your veterinary clinic with Adrienne close behind carrying the body of my cat, Jem. About 25 minutes earlier after returning home from a medical appointment, I had discovered Jem dead at the top of my stairs. His body was still warm. When you saw us, you announced aloud, “It’s the D.O.A.” I heard you. Adrienne heard you. Your colleagues heard you.
Your announcement was appallingly insensitive and hurtful.
I am assuming that your announcement was either a misstep or the insensitivity you have had to develop in order to cope with dying or dead pets and their obviously grieving caregivers. So on one level, your response is understandable. It is never acceptable.
With the passage of time, hearing my beloved Jem referred to as, “the D.O.A.” will fade. For now, however, your words are seared into my memory as deeply as Jem’s unexpected and shocking death.
The reception area of a veterinary clinic is very often a place of worry and heartbreak. Caregivers entering there need support that errs on the side of kindness. In the future, I hope you will extend to these caregivers the kindness you were unable to extend to Adrienne and me.
Thank you.
On the morning after Thanksgiving, Adrienne and I drove to the hospital to pick up Jem’s remains. Kevin was the only person in the reception area, and when I told him why I was there, he said to give him a few minutes. Then Adrienne and I watched as he slowly struggled to stand with his cane, holding onto his desk and chair. With great difficulty, he moved around the corner to the back, stiffly pulling his legs and dragging his feet. He was severely disabled. I looked at Adrienne whose face confirmed that neither of us had expected Kevin to be so physically compromised. He was gone long enough for me to struggle with whether or not to hand him my letter. “That’s one helluva a defense mechanism,” I angrily thought. “You can say any insensitive thing you want because who is going to have the balls to confront you?” Then, I’m not sure what happened, but I just could not give Kevin my letter. We left with Jem’s remains. I felt no comfort that I had not confronted Kevin. In my heart, I still wanted to slap him in the face.
I still kind of want to slap Kevin. I googled “forgiving the guilty” and came across this quote from Adam Smith: Mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent. “That’s right, Kevin, you cruel S.O.B.”, I thought. “I should have exposed you for the insensitive asshole you are, damn your disability.”
But then I thought about what my beloveds would have done. Would Adrienne have kicked somebody when they are down? Would Beth, Charlotte or Carol or others whose example I have tried to follow? And what about that verse somewhere in the Bible where Jesus talked about forgiving people for not knowing what they do? What choice did I have with Kevin in light of all the acts of kindness and forgiveness that have been unconditionally extended to me throughout my life?
I now keep my letter to Kevin in my journal for several reasons: to remind me that whenever I think about kicking somebody when they are down I could very well fall right beside them; to remind me that although I can be very insensitive at times, I can also be charitable; and to remind me that my purpose is not to judge the fallen, but to lift them up.
So Kevin, look at me . . . in the spirit of all my beloveds and all my creatures great and small . . . I forgive you.
Oh sweetheart. I am so sorry that you are experiencing yet another loss with the sudden death of sweet Jem. That’s how I lost my beloved Shelby – left her at home beautiful and fierce one Saturday morning and got a call a couple of hours later that she was gone. It was such a terrible shocking blow and hard to feel solid again. I can’t know your pain but I remember mine.
I’m sorry Kevin was insensitive and abrupt. I have no idea what to do with that. They all say forgiving is a good thing but I’m not very good at it. It’s hard to get over being kicked when you’re down. I too have been given so much grace and forgiveness myself I try to pass it asking but as I mentioned, not my best thing.
I love you. You are a precious light in the world even when it’s dark around you. I love Adrienne too and I’m so sorry your family is being forced to face the physical absence of another cherished member. Shelby visited me afterward too – I could hear her and also feel her soft fur against my ankles.
Dear Neola — you keep late hours and I keep early ones, and for that, I am thankful because of our mutual love and respect arching over the entire country from you on the West coast and me here on the East coast.
I remember your Shelby and how attached you were to that beautiful animal. I did not know — or had not remembered — that she died while you were away. I’m so very sorry. That kind of shock really does knock one back on their heels. It takes a while to reorient yourself; actually, quite a while.
I’m lousy at forgiving others. Just lousy. Like my mother, I can hold a grudge for a lifetime. However, unlike my mother, I am held in the embrace of beloveds who inspire me to be my best self. It’s not always easy, but perhaps it’s one small way of paying their love forward.
Thank you for your own love and encouragement. I love you, too, and love that we can still connect across the miles. What I wouldn’t do, however, to be able to walk across the street, knock on your door and say, “Hey, let’s check out the sunrise together.” xoxo
Oh I’d love to be able to hang out with you! Yes, my mother also held grudges for decades. I do not want to be like her in this way but damnit.
I feel less alone when I read your writing. Such a gift. 💕
Shelby wouldn’t eat her favorite snack that Saturday morning. It scared me so much I took her to the vet immediately. He checked her over and said she seemed fine – “bring her back Monday if she’s still not eating.” I took Shelby home but then had to go take my mom to the airport with my sister so she could fly to visit our other sister. It took both of us to get her through security and to the gate. After our mother was successfully launched, I went to my sister’s to hang out with her awhile. Carole had been out somewhere but when she got home she found Shelby, already gone. Carole called to tell me and I remember screaming over and over and then throwing up. I love all my dogs and cats, past and present. But Shelby was my daughter, my familiar, my soulmate.
Oh my Dearest, I am so sorry that in the middle of shock and grief Kevin kicked you. What a terrible blow. I am so glad you wrote the letter. Kevin’s outside disability is a mirror of his inside disability. I don’t know how you did it: you decided not to do to him what he did to you. In the midst of overwhelming grief you let go. Wow, who knows if any of us could do that? Bravo you. I am so proud of you.
Well, Charlotte, I have you to thank in part for my reluctant willingness to let go of how much Kevin’s announcement pierced my heart. As I wrote in my post, you are one of the beloveds I try to follow when it comes to all things benevolent. Sometimes I really wish I had more shallow and self-involved friends so I wouldn’t have to live up to who I was created to be.
I’m kidding, of course (kind of), but now I’m blubbering again. Yeah, I just re-read your comment. There you go again, quietly cheering me on. xoxo
Since writing this post, I’ve been pondering my encounter with Kevin — it’s hard to forget. However, now that I’ve reflected more, I have remembered more details. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how much the look on Adrienne’s face the moment we saw Kevin’s profound disability told me to back off; to try to be kind. Her face did not have the look of judgment. It had the look of mercy. It’s actually hard to describe, but when I saw it, I knew that, at a minimum, I needed to let go of my pain. I whispered to her, “What should I do?” She responded, “I wouldn’t give it to him.” I wasn’t happy about it. Not at all. But Adrienne must have sensed that confronting Kevin would only add to my pain — and hers — about losing Jem.
I woke up this morning knowing that now that I’ve written and published these posts about Jem, it’s now time to get back to REAL writing, the writing of MY story. Then I thought, “Wait a minute. What the hell have I been writing about all week?”
Such a beautiful piece! Such presence of mind and heart on your part as you stood before Kevin. A moment of grace that calls to all of us.
Thank you!
I feel your hurt, as I did when you first told me of that insensitive comment. It was a harsh & terrible thing to endure at any time, but especially at that moment. You did a beautiful thing for another human by not giving the letter (as well written as it was) to him. Would it have helped him, changed him, made him a better person? Would you be less angry or upset? In time, I think you will know that what you have done about your letter is the right thing, & feel better about it. I very sorry you experienced it. I hope you never do again.