This past week, I faced a personal heartbreak…the loss of my beloved kitty-cat, Pangur. He was in many ways my dearest friend- unconditional, faithful, loyal, and loving. Pangur and I had been through many seasons of life together; college, my first teaching job (and subsequent changes in positions), and most recently, graduate school. Over the past few months, Pangur began to show signs of an illness which ended up being diagnosed as feline lymphoma. As it turns out, the silent killer of cancer was inside my kitty’s body, and though we tried hard with the best medicine, chemotherapy treatments, and lots of prayer, Pangur’s little body grew very tired and it was time for him to go home to Heaven. On Friday morning, January 28, 2011, Pangur surrendered in his brave fight with cancer.
My students had known about Pangur’s illness for some time. They often left me little notes to tell me they hoped he would get better soon, and that they knew how much I loved him, and that they wanted me to let them know how he was doing (as of course, third graders love to include “write back soon” in the post-script of their letters). We had many conversations about life that began with Pangur- thoughts about how wonderful our animal friends are, and how they teach us to be responsible and love without reservation, and how much it hurts when we lose a four-footed family member. Pangur had become known throughout the school… last year’s third graders vividly remembered the stories of when Pangur used to sleep in the bathtub and in the bathroom sink. They asked daily as I passed through the lunchroom how “the big white kitty” was doing, eager and hopeful eyes waiting for a good report. My students, present and past, loved to hear reports that he was eating his tuna and sardines, and hung their heads with me when I shared that he wasn’t eating well anymore.
The morning Pangur departed from this life, I entered my school building with a heavy heart, praying for strength to endure the day ahead. My students immediately knew something was wrong, and walked with me, somber and silent, to our classroom. I shared with them that I would be very sad that day (and likely for many days to come), and I needed to let them know why. Their intuition had already revealed to many of them that the very saddest moments had occurred that morning with my baby-boy-kitty, and I spotted a tear coming down one of my dear little friend’s faces. As I haltingly told them that my Pangur had passed away, the girls, without prompting, gathered to hug me, and the boys sniffled back the tears they were too “tough” to share. My students took care of me that day, as I struggled to make sense of the grief that threatened to consume me. They tenderly encouraged me, shared stories of their own losses of family pets (and even people, too), and in the innocent manner of children, took on my pain as their own. A little girl from my class took on the burden of sharing the sad news with my fourth grade friends, who approached me with silent hugs, knowing that there were no words that would heal but wanting to offer comfort somehow.
These expressions of love throughout this longest of days taught me something precious, a lesson I never want to forget. In sorrow and grief, we become more like children, questioning and struggling to understand this thing that hurts so much. And yet children, when faced with a friend’s sorrow, are wise beyond their years. They know, as adults often forget, that words are just words, but “being there” is the most important part of grief counseling. They know that a hug can heal. And they know that sometimes all you can do is let your friend cry, and cry with them. So, with a heart that is still a little broken, I say thank you to these precious cherubs who so willingly loved on my broken heart. May I demonstrate such child-like love, and child-like faith, as I walk this journey of life.
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