Suicide's Gift

    Gus is a big, soft sack of white feathers or so he seems when his furry 100 lb.-body is curled up at my feet. He’s my most cherished companion, comforter, jester and teacher.  Over the years I’ve come to respect the wisdom of his way of being in the world.  

There was a time when the tree of my life with its gnarled trunk nicked with lessons and loss and its deep rings reflecting a resilience of spirit just evaporated and with it my identity. Gone. The landscape of my memories was clear-cut and unfamiliar. My 23-year-old son committed suicide. 

   What was left of me was unidentifiable remains, disembodied pieces that had fallen off the whole. I could only sense life, nothing fully formed, just a petrie dish kind of sensation. The journey to becoming an integral part of existence again seemed far beyond my capabilities.  But there was Gus, so gentle ands so present. He was totally dependent on me to meet his needs - being fed, being walked and kept safe. He reminded me that life’s basic responsibilities were still there.  If I didn’t feed Gus, he barked and acted out. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t punishing me. It wasn’t a judgment, just the natural consequence of not being fed. If I didn’t walk him, well, I knew the consequences. He wasn’t telling me to stuff my grief and sadness, that he came first. He was just reminding me that for every action there’s a reaction. Slowly, I felt a sense of balance return. I was still deeply sad and at times overwhelmed but I knew I could meet life’s basic needs. Routine could be a life saver. My canine angel was showing me that not everything is personal, not all cause and effect is a judgment. Life happened to me not because of me. 

   Gus also taught me a universal language that allows all life to communicate. It was a language without words that I had dismissed as foolish, irrational and childish many years before. It was the language of instinct and intuition. It seems I’d known it all along. 

I knew just what Gus was telling me when he circled and growled rather than barking a greeting and approaching to be petted. I knew what he meant when he placed himself between me and a stranger with his tail perfectly still and straight. And he was always right. Gus helped me recover a gift of birth - to listen to what isn’t said and trust what isn’t seen. He’s the unconditional love that kept me safe until I learned to laugh again, to hope again and to see life as a circle of events that unites us even in our grief. He was my son’s final gift to me and I am grateful.