To Forgive is To Forget? : The Problem in Letting You Go

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There is a flashing black line at the top of my that screen that mocks me with it’s knowing-what-to-do-next thu-thudding blink. My hands hover absently over the keys, hesitant of their next move. I fear admitting to the pain I feel because of the rawness of its existence on my soul. Knowing my pain brings me comfort, I feel an ache that reminds me that I survive, still, heart quickening in its beat as memories flash to the forefront of my mind. Whereas if I come to acknowledge this damage on my emotional state, and consequentially heal from this trauma, the feelings are unknown, daunting.

If I allow myself to heal, to write how I feel, to accept and carry on, does that mean I forgive what happened, and forget you in the process of finding me again?

***

When a child breaks a plate, or a rule, or some other level measurable wealth, they are scolded and/or punished, taught, and forgiven. This cycle, though repetitive and often wearisome on parents, is both necessary and productive in the raising of children. A child is born uneducated to the happenings of the world around them.

In order to learn to not touch the stove, a child must burn their hand. But, it just takes one burn to learn their lesson.

However, I ask you, my dear readers, what would you do if your child did something unthinkable, something hurtful and permanently damaging, to another being? How quickly are you to forgive, or at least, dismiss your disappoint?

What if this child wasn't human but a dog, and it's "burning of the hand" in this metaphor was the killing of your cat?

Thursday morning, we were awoken by an unwavering wall of sadness as we came to find a lifeless kitten sprawled across our garage floor. To preface, we foster kittens annually from bottle to "furrever" home because nothing brings us greater fulfillment that the joy of renewed life in otherwise helpless animals. Traumatic as this was, the bite wounds swallowing his neck and head proved to bring about a deeper humiliation and feelings of utter emptiness that I can confidently say I had experienced before.

I think back to that morning now, as I admit to myself the details I have been denying. My feet have never moved so quickly, though they felt like they were skimming needles as I ran. My throat was dry, opposite of my eyes which had already begun to sting. My voice was high pitched, something I know not because I recall a single thing I uttered but because my throat ached for days following. The opening of a door changed the way I view my house, my life, and myself forever.

As I scooped down to check for a pulse, a task which would obviously end in further heartbreak, or possible relief, depending on your point of view, I found myself softly rubbing the still wet nose of a baby. Not just any baby, but a kitten I felt like was my own child. I had fed him with a bottle. I had dosed out medicine for weeks to get him to this point of content health he was at. I had loved him like a child, and felt as though I had failed in my role as a mother to him.

This tiny nose. This wet, tiny, blush-pink, perfect nose was completely still. Motionless. His paws lay flat against the ground on which he had just minutes prior been playing with a shinny, silver ball of twine.

I had allowed this pure creature to trust me for protection, for comfort and shelter for his little pink nose from the cruel world outside. Yet he still found an unfathomable end in this place, a home I swore was safe.

It's shocking how quickly rigor mortis sets in. It was just 45 minutes after our discovery that the hole was dug, and the funeral was underway. As I carried this just-over-two-pound lifeless being to his final resting place, I found myself once more placing my hand over what would have been, should have been, his wet nose, had I done better. He was stiff, and shouldn't have been. He was at his prime play age. Just reaching his fullest potential and best days. But now he felt tight and cold in my numb arms.

He was laid to rest in a faded bubble-gum tinted blanket under a maple tree beside my childhood playhouse.

***

He lays there now, this peaceful night in June, because I didn't educate my oldest child well enough. The blame is not on the dog, but on myself.

Yet, part of me still hates the dog.

Perhaps this is where my fear of facing these moments lie. I do not wish ill on the dog, though I still have yet to speak to him, none the less touch him. I want to want to forgive him. I want to find joy in seeing cute dog toys in the isles of Target. I want to give him the scraps from my dinner plate because I don't want to hurt my sweet mama's feelings by not eating them, and smile knowing he'll never tell on me.

I want to want my dog again.

But I also want to touch that sweet, wet, pink nose again. I want to see him thrive in his "furrever" home. Receive videos of him next to his family playing in the tissue paper on Christmas morning from the gifts from Santa. I want to have succeeded, helped a creature in need. But mostly, I want to forget everything.

I can't forget, so I won't forgive. But if one day I chose to pet Pappy once more, or feed him my scraps, or even acknowledge his existence in our house, does that mean I am forgetting the suffering my baby endured? Alone? Because of me?

To these questions I cannot speak. I don't know my next move. I don't understand my next emotion, how to feel, how not to feel. I am numb and speechless and most of all sorry. To my baby and to my dog.

Despite my sadness, I am also reminded that life carries on. Stu, Phil’s brother, is still in need of his happily ever after. That’s not just a goal but a necessity to healing. Allan is going home in two weeks, and Doug is already settled into his new life.

Life goes on, so long as we remember we all break plates and burn our hands, but those things we break must me something by the learning of our lessons through their breakage.