I wrote last week that I was surprised to get a number of grieving artifacts in the box from the crematorium that contained Rose’s ashes. These included a candle with Rose’s name on it, several packets of Rose’s hair, and a cement pawprint, as well as a tin box containing the ashes. This cost approximately $300. I said I hadn’t asked for most of these things, and I didn’t need them, and I said sort of jokingly that Rose would almost surely gag at the idea. Some people wrote me suggesting I was being a little hard, perhaps being a little too male. Some suggested women might be more comfortable with some of these things than I was. Maria was, in fact, comfortable with them, and she is saving the pawprint for the garden of our new farm when we get there. She brought out the Rose commemorative candle over the weekend.

I am continously struck by how individual a thing grieving over death is and also how conditioned we are to thinking about it in a particular way. I was shocked when the book tour for “Going Home” began in Ohio and I found myself looking out at a room filled with 200 people, many of who were laying out tissues in preparation for crying. No way, I said, I am doing a month long book tour like that. And I didn’t. By the end of the tour, we were doing some crying, and a lot of laughing.

Since few people like to talk about death or consider it, whether it involves animals or people, there is often great shock and confusion when it comes. Grieving for animals is sometimes even more complex, as we do it alone, without guides or guidelines. A friend e-mailed me a message recently saying he was sure my Christmas was sad and painful. It wasn’t, I wrote back. It was wonderful. He was surprised In his mind, the script called for intense and prolonged grieving. How could I have a joyous Christmas if Rose had died? We all live by the scripts we know, and when somebody goes off of the script, it is confusing.

Another friend wrote me about Rose and also talked about her mother’s long “battle with cancer,”and I was struck at the terminology, the idea that we can turn chronic illness – or death – into a conflict that can be won or lost. If we succumb to cancer, does it win, and do we really lose? Or is this, like the death of Rose, something that will happen to all of us, human and animal alike, in one form or another? I do not see death as a defeat, I guess, but as the conclusion of life, or at least life as we know it. Rose did not lose, and death did not win. I lost a friend recently, and I see no victory or defeat there, surely no battle.

I think Maria was right to keep the candle. It’s lit by me now as I write this, and I like having it. Talismans and rituals are important. By lighting it, I mark Rose’s life, remember her, and smile at the memory, experience what we call closure. I vote for tossing the rest out.

It seems to me that illness and death is about faith, love, connection, compassion and strength. The ultimate spiritual experience, not a combat experience. We are all heroes in this way, in that we will all face what my friend or my friend’s mother faced, and what Rose faced. I hope when my turn comes, I do not go to war. I believe my life- any life –  is itself a triumph, and a celebration. I hope the people around me see it that way and that there are no sad Christmases in my memory.