Bogey

It is with great sorrow and regret that I must report, Bogey the beta fish has passed away. Nearly three years ago, my husband brought home two betas, one for each of our boys, and reviewed the basics--feed them three to five pellets of food once a day, change their water every seven to ten days, and they should live about six months to a year. I was on board because the two chores related to Bogey and Birdie were not mine. When Birdie passed away a year and a half later, my son was upset his little brother still had a fish, and he did not. Thankfully, Josh piped up and suggested he and Nate could now share Bogey. A few weeks later, my husband passed the task of cleaning Bogey's bowl to me, and for the past year and half I have cursed that stupid fish, threatened that stupid fish, and changed that stupid fish's water on a weekly basis. In the early fall, I noticed Bogey had a white spot on his back and a quick Google search revealed he had "Cotton Wool Disease"--common, treatable, and not necessarily fatal. Seeing as Bogey was living on borrowed time; he was an overachiever who had nearly tripled his life expectancy, we opted for no treatment. I felt it was the compassionate thing to do. Numerous visitors leaned against our kitchen counter, peered into the bowl, and suggested Bogey was dead as he lolled on his side near the surface, but a quick flick of my finger against the acrylic bowl sent him skittering about his tank-- no such luck. Knowing and hoping his demise was around the corner, we began to prepare the boys for his passing. "Bogey's not looking so good boys." "Do you know how old Bogey would be if he were a dog?" "Do you know how old Bogey would be if he were a human?!"

Early Saturday morning, I made some coffee and graded some assignments while the house was still quiet. The boys came down about an hour later and commenced their morning routine of playing on their Ipads. As I went to put Nate's breakfast in the toaster, I didn't see Bogey lolling on his side near the surface. My eyes dropped to find Bogey at the bottom of the bowl. My first thought was how excited my husband was going to be by this news. My second thought was how excited I was to clean that stupid fish bowl for the last time. And then I thought about how I would tell the boys, and then I wasn't so excited..

My boys have been insulated from death. By the time I was Josh's age, I had already attended numerous funerals and viewings with my parents who both hail from families replete with great aunts and uncles, first cousins and second cousins twice removed. My self-employed plumber father routinely still pays his respects for recently deceased customer's relatives, and having been a member of an age-diverse congregation during my childhood, I had seen elderly members succumb to illness and old age. Growing up in a tight knit, devout religious organization that routinely discussed death, I don't ever remember fearing it. I was frequently reassured by a promised resurrection at "the end of days" in sermons and at weekly Bible Studies. In my early twenties, when I left my faith behind, I abandoned most of my beliefs. And death just became the opposite of life-- like up is to down, light is to dark, near is to far. No concerns about an eternal reward nor an eternal punishment.

As of right now, we have made the decision not to take our children to church. The few times I have gone to church since leaving behind my faith, I find myself squirming in my seat. In our house, our "religion" is following the Golden Rule and doing good because it feels good. On the rare occasions, when one of our boys is physically hurt by the other and sobs about the injustice of being punched, the suggestion of an "eye for an eye" or more accurately a punch in the belly is met with giggles by the offended. Even at six and eight, they recognize the absurdity of cruel retribution.Our purpose in life seems solid. But what about death?

A few days before Christmas our friend, who my husband started his teaching career with nearly two decades ago, lost her mother. While my husband and I typically take turns representing each other on such occasions, we realized we both needed to go; we both wanted to go. I made arrangements for our boys to play with their buddies. As we drove the boys to their playdate, Josh, who knows our friend's daughters, asked, "Why did their grandma die?" 

"She was very old and very sick." 

Josh's voice filled with panic. "Am I going to die? I don't want to die. Mommy, I don't want you to die. Are you going to die?"

I quickly began to make promises I knew I couldn't necessarily keep--something I try not to do as a parent-- but I reassured Josh, "Mommy and Daddy are going to live a very, very long time. And so are you."

Josh pondered and then asked, "Well, what's going to happen to their grandma? Her body and all?"

I quickly ruled out talking about a coffin being buried in the ground--terrifying to a six-year-old. Cremation--equally terrifying. And so I said, "Well, Josh, some people believe the soul of a person, the part inside you that makes you who you are, goes to heaven." We talked a little bit about what heaven might be like, and Josh was tentatively reassured at the notion of heaven being a lot like earth. My girlfriend, who was watching our boys, lives only about a mile away, but we covered a lot of ground in roughly eight and a half minutes. For me, the idea of heaven, at least in terms of a place where a person's soul floats around making polite conversation with other souls while looking down as friends and family make foolish, disastrous choices without me being able to give my expert opinion does not sound "heavenly." But I appreciate the comfort found in believing in such a place, especially to a six-year-old.

In literature and life, I love looking at juxtapositions. When you place two objects, two ideas opposite to one another side by side. The longer you stare at them, study them, you slowly begin to see they aren't in opposition but rather connected. The black initially contrasts with the white--they are, after all, opposites. But then again the white isn't really white; it's actually a light shade of gray. For years, I have merely dismissed death as being the opposite of life. But now that I've stared at these two opposites for a long time, their meanings have mingled creating a new belief and maybe a new faith.

When I was sixteen, I traveled to England and France and toured many old cathedrals and churches. The tour guides always noted how the architecture draws one's eye up towards the sky, so one thinks of heaven. In the 1890s, William James, an American psychologist and philosopher, first wrote about his observations regarding eye movement in relation to memory. Depending on the location of the memory one is trying to access, one's tendency is to look up. Maybe for all those centuries those people sitting in church weren't so much looking up at heaven as they were perhaps thinking about, remembering, recalling those who were no longer physically present but not necessarily gone.

Last year, at a family birthday party, I had a conversation with my younger cousin. Separated by thirteen years, our shared memories are few. As we sat chatting, we started talking about our great aunt. As a little girl, I remember laying side by side with my great aunt on her living room floor coloring in a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse coloring book. I remember her laughing as I scrambled to put all the pieces of Perfection in the game board before it popped. And I remember the second drawer in her lower kitchen cabinet where I would find my favorite Keebler French Vanilla cookies. And after my conversation with my cousin, years after my great aunt's death, I know I'm not the only one who looks up to conjure the memories of my great aunt's kindness, her goodness and her warmth.

After I told the boys Bogey had passed away, my Josh asked with sparkling eyes and a husky voice, "Does it hurt when you die?" I reassured him Bogey wasn't in pain. He was just kind of sleeping. "Is Bogey in fish heaven?" I responded with my own question about what Bogey could possibly do in fish heaven. I've found when I ask the right question, my boys usually find the answer they want--the answer they need in the moment. Josh suggested swimming with other fishies, which we both agreed sounded like a lot of fun, and that was the end of the conversation. I packed Bogey's bowl away in the basement and feel my boys have already forgotten about him. They've moved on-- left him behind. And that's okay. After all, he was just a fish.

Life does end.

And life goes on.

And maybe in the business of living and dying--maybe where you go after your life ends isn't so important. Maybe it's the intangible parts you leave behind that really matter. But then again, maybe they are tangible--all you have to do is look up.