Reframing death

For the last three years, my boy and I have had a pet mouse. We got her from a pet store, and he’s carried her in his hand through so many adventures in forests, beaches, and playgrounds. She sat on many little handmade boats down the creeks of New Zealand. Sand castles and Lego houses built just for her. Drawings and stories for and about her. You’ve never seen a mouse so loved.

The past six months, she’s been next to me on my desk, twelve hours a day, as I wrote this book. Moving slower and wobbling, looking like she’s in pain. This week, she kept falling over when trying to eat. Thirty minutes ago, she died. I’m surprised how much I’ve been crying.

As soon as she died, she looked at peace for the first time in months. It led to a thought that seems like a nice end to this book, and gives it extra meaning for me. Heaven is such a useful reframing. Maybe it’s the original reframing. Death can be terrifying or devastating, so no wonder every culture found a way to reframe it.

Some people avoid loving pets or even people, because they’re scared of the eventual heartbreak and loss. But avoiding sadness is like listening to music with only major chords. The minor chords are so beautiful. I’m crying, but isn’t that wonderful? It’s a part of a rich life.

And even that is reframing. It’s a useful belief that has helped me love people and pets, again and again.