The Unanswerable Questions

Herself contemplates the mysteries of death. 

The evening after The End, Beloved Husband and I drove past the veterinarian's tiny offices on the way home from an errand.  No cars were parked in the lot; the windows were dark, the 'Closed' sign hung by the door. We wondered whether Thorbert's body was still there, or whether it had been moved onward to be cremated as we'd requested.  

The thought of Thorbert's furry ottoman-shaped body being there in the building all alone yielded an abrupt and harrowing sensation -- like stepping on a needle-thin shard of glass.  All of a sudden I was sliced wide open, gasping at the sudden pain, panicking. It was as though all of the tiny moments of Thorbert's patient waiting by the front door for me over the past ten years had reappeared synchronously, coalesced into a thunderous, suffocating cloud of longing.     

MY DOG. HE'S ALONE. HE BELONGS WITH ME. 

I knew it was a nonsensical thought.  I clutched at the hope that Thorbert had known within his furry heart that I would never abandon him. I wrapped myself in the reminder that Thorbert is gone and no longer feels separation anxiety, longing, fear, or pain.  It was a thin cloak against the raging tempest that had so unexpectedly appeared.  I held my breath. The tornado passed me by, brushing me with its bitter and cold edges.  Exhale.  Wipe my eyes.  Breathe again. 

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. 

― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

The question remains:  where is Thorbert now?

As a scientist, part of me distinctly thinks that he is just No More.  His biological processes have ceased.  His essence is gone.

But is it? Perhaps his soul -- for there is no doubt that he had one -- has somehow merged with the greatness of the Universe.  If so, the Universe is a better place for it.  

Is he with God?  I would rejoice to know that Thorbert is with his Creator, in eternal joy. I am frustrated that my mind's eye cannot yet imagine it.  It is revoltingly, appallingly egotistic of me to have difficulty picturing him so happy without me, yet his unwavering dedication to me during his lifetime somehow makes it hard for me to envision.  Or perhaps -- and this is a naked, uncomfortable admission -- it is rather that I cannot yet bear to think that I am no longer the fortunate object of his unceasing devotion.  I was so accustomed to his unconditional love.  

Perhaps now, both he and I are taking our steps towards perfection.  As we recently noted:

When Love has matured and, through a dissolution of the self into light, become a radiance, then shall the Lover be liberated from dependence upon the Beloved, and the Beloved also be made perfect by being liberated from the Lover. ― Dag Hammarskjöld, Markings

You have gone towards the light, my treasured ottoman-shaped dog.  You are the light. You are free, and you are perfect.  Perhaps, if I am extremely lucky, we shall meet again someday.