A Goodbye

 Dear Cees,

I held you on the first day you were born. 

It was April 22nd, 2022. Benjamin ran in from outside and said “I need help! A lot of babies are coming out of Sans.” I ran out, and sure enough, there were a lot of babies. Ten little Voldemort-looking pink wiggly things, all piled on top of one another inside a cardboard box too small for them. 

We carefully gathered up your mother Sans’s removed fur and put it in a more steady box, and we hoped she would know enough and care enough to take care of you. Your father, Timmy the Destroyer, never took much interest in you kits, but Uncle Tucker would set up camp outside the box and check in on you now and again. 

After your runt sibling didn’t make it, something seemed to click in San’s head because she started feeding and caring for you remaining nine. 

Every day, I would go out and take a video log of how you were growing and changing. 

I saw as your eyes opened, and your little bunny ears. I watched you take your first tentative steps outside your nursery hutch, began to explore the world around you on shaky little legs and too-big feet. 

You were curious. You wanted to see the grass outside the hopparena. That is how you ended up on our radar, distinguishing yourself from your brothers and sisters. Because an old woman, long since past her bearing years, had been watching the new mother and her babies with longing, and she just wanted to be a part of it, too.

Mikasa didn’t mean to hurt you. She just scooped you up because you were the one outside the cage, and she so wanted a baby of her own. She could have chomped down on you like a chicken nugget, but she carried you in her mouth with such tenderness and care until Ben found you and rescued you.

You were a bit crunchy and curly from dog saliva, and so very thankful to be alive as I checked you for injury. 

Ever after that, you lived for moments with us, your humans. You never again ventured outside the cage, even when your siblings got bigger and went exploring. The only sojourn you would make was to the backdoor, where you would lay on the cold cement by the screen and wait for it to swing open. 

Whenever we did come out for a visit, you would be our little shadow, following behind. Setting up camp in our laps or by our feet, showing us how you bathed and binkied. You liked it when I read to you or sang, making your tiny little contented noises. 

After your ordeal, you also had your name: C.S. Lewis. I had been telling my friend Andrew about you, and he called you C.S. It stuck, even if I always called you Cees. 

You were the last one. As your brothers and sisters got older, they moved on to their forever homes. Some we lost along the way. Rabbits are so strong and still so very fragile; they were not meant for environs such as these, with its relentless heat and wild predators. There is a reason God made bunnies to reproduce like they do, as only 40% of any litter will make it to adulthood.

You knew you were safe, though. Because you had us, the ones that had saved you before. You trusted so fully in us to save you again. 

As you got older, I worried you would be lonely without other bunnies in your hutch. You never seemed to suffer for it, though. When the weather was nice, I would lay out in the grass with you. You were my quiet place--I would press my forehead to yours, and you would close your eyes and rub my nose with yours in little bunny kisses. At night, I would bring you in to lay down with me and cuddle before I went to bed and you went back to your hutch. Every morning, I would take you around and you’d wake up the kids with me. You liked your family, your yard that grew so wild and full. 

When you got sick, I was so scared. You were so scared. But I sang to you and you remembered: these are the people that take care of me. You moved toward the sound of my voice, even as you struggled for every breath. I raged at God, accusing Him of making such a cruel disease for such a helpless animal. I called Him unkind and told Him that He better make my rabbit well again. 

And He did. 

You got better. 

You had lost half your body weight, just a little wisp of a guy. But you were still my joyful boy, fighting to stay with us. 

The sickness ended up costing you an eye and two teeth. It looked like it was so painful, but you were still you--binkying, purring, chattering you. 

I took you to school with me, tucked into my jacket as I taught. The kids asked about your eye, and learned how brave a fighter you were. They all wanted to pet you. You liked getting the attention, and you liked not being left home alone. 

After you had been given the all-clear, we brought home three little bunny girls for your companions. How happy you were! They were already, at three months, so much stronger and healthier and bigger than you at a year, but they doted on you. Merry Berry nurtured you; Seafairy played with you. 

But to Kelda, you were her bunny. She was born blind in her left eye, and you had lost your right. You were probably the first half-blind rabbit she had met that was like her. She would set up on your blind side and you would watch out for each other. She got aggressive if she thought anyone was taking your attention away from her, and would fight her sister to keep Seafairy away from you. 

Even with repeated procedures, you weren’t getting any better. We knew every day with you was a blessing because most rabbits would have died if they had gone through half of what you did. But you still looked up at me like I was your world, put your forehead to mine and gave me those little bunny kisses.

After you died, I asked Amber if she believed in heaven. I am still learning and growing, because the Things Unseen part of the Bible, the mystical part…it is harder for me. Whatever I believe or do not believe about the Afterlife does not alter the reality of what is yet to come. I figure any imaginings I have therefore are for my own comfort, and I will otherwise have to wait and see. 

After I lost you, I like to imagine that you ran into my vision of heaven. It is a quiet stream, a place of rest, because you so need rest. You were so tired. If Heaven can be anything, it can be simultaneous and timeless. So you didn’t have to wait for me at all. You ran right back into my arms. You put your little forehead to mine. And you gave me your little bunny kisses. And I sang you Home.

I love you, C.S. Lewis. Thank you for everything. I won’t ever forget you. 

--Andie 

I have been taking this week hard. I have cried a lot for a sweet creature that made me his world. How strange and awful and wonderful it is to be human, so that we can experience such levels of grief over something so small, so fleeting. There has been a lot of feelings of guilt. He trusted me to save him, and I wasn’t able to this time. That maybe if I wasn’t so selfish, I wouldn’t have let him suffer this long. I bargained and broke. I just wanted my bunny back. 

Sad as it is to say, I resented the other three rabbits for being the wrong rabbit. They, of course the little perceptive creatures they are, picked up on it. Seafairy hissed at me, Kelda whimpered when I came close, and Merry Berry tried to box me. I have been working to rebuild the trust and relationship with them--I’m not ready yet to sing, but I have read to them. Kelda came and sat by my foot, Seafairy came and put her forehead on mine. 

This letter was recommended in an article I saw online as a way to process the hurt caused by the loss of a beloved pet. I didn’t get C.S. long enough, not nearly. But I am so very thankful to have had him in my life. He was what I needed, when I needed it the most. I hope wherever he is, he knows what he meant to me, and that he is at peace. I sat with my sweet boy as he took his last breath, surrounded by love. This letter is my goodbye.

The New Place

I am hurting a lot, and probably will be for a little while.

C.S. Lewis was important to me; losing him was hard. He was a superlative of all the best qualities. He lived both too short and so much longer than he could have, my beautiful boy. 

So I am allowing myself space to grieve for a little while, for something that meant a lot to me. But in the meantime, I am going to write. 

First, settling into our new house. 

We closed on the 5th of June, so we started moving in with intention on the 7th. On the 6th, we brought the kids to see it for the first time. They have mixed feelings. On the one hand, they are excited that everyone will have their own room. On the other, they are anxious about the change, particularly of schools but also because we were in the rental house for so long. 

The more we learned about the house though, the more it felt like we had made the right move. 

There is a big tree out front with a swing and a trampoline in the back. There are alarms on the doors and safety locks  that indicate that maybe a kid not so different from Gabe used to live here. 

Unpacking is, as it ever is, slow going. I think the kids got all their favorite things out and are content leaving the rest in the garage in boxes. Jokes on them, because if it is still there by the end of summer, it is going to be donated. 

Now, a couple weeks later, they are starting to adjust. Gabriel was the most anxious at first and required a lot of reassurance and support. He wanted me to hold him a lot, and for the first week, he slept on a trundle at the foot of our bed. But he is nearly exclusively using the toilet here, with frequent reminders, because the master bathroom has a more enclosed accommodation that makes him feel safer. After 14 years, I am hesitant to say it for fear of jinxing it, but it feels like there may just possibly be an end in sight to the diapering situation.  

Back to the move. It was a grueling several days. Michael’s father came down to help, and I had some friends and family that contributed as well. My sister really threw herself into it, helping me clean up the house and pack. My brother was in the process of relocating at the exact same time himself. But one way or another, we got it all handled. 

We have a few areas set up the way I want them to be. 

The living room feels big, probably because we don’t have a couch. Michael and I will buy one, but we are kind of on a spending freeze after a rather large purchase earlier this month. (Technically two, because a week before closing on the house Michael’s truck started acted a fool and demanded four new tires.) The living room has a wood burning fireplace. In the evenings, we watch Doctor Who with the kids and Michael and I play Call of Duty: Warzone while every cat in the known universe sits on me. They too are feeling insecure, and I am a warm spot. 

The kids rooms and Michael’s office are still a work-in-progress, but they are all happy to have their own “zones”, as am I. My room is a good size, with a separate shower and a garden bath in the master, as well as a big master closet. The only thing the room is missing honestly is a gigantic built in bookcase for all my books. 

The carpet is soft and clean and I like having a quiet place to go. I think I need a bigger picture for over the bed, but this one works for now. 

Also in my bedroom is my office. Before, I used one of the two closets in our rent house as my office. It was there that I was able to complete my schoolwork online and finish my bachelors degree. I wanted a set up here as well, but I moved out of the closet and into the room proper. 

Is it the best use of space? I do not know, because every morning I get up to do my masters work on my computer and the light shines directly onto Michael’s face. This does not seem to bother him overmuch, or he is too polite to complain, so we continue. I have my favorite picture hanging over it. 

The dining room is probably my favorite so far. 

So, we mostly ate in front of the tv because we never had a table big enough for all of us to eat around, and never had enough chairs. We sat where we had seating. It wasn’t my favorite.

When we were moving, Mom sent me another link (what can I say? She is right some of the time) for a picnic style table that was reasonably priced.

I reached out to the guy, who was an older carpenter here in town that was eager to talk to me about his work. He told me he was taught by his uncles when he was little how to build things, and he took a lot of pride in his work. We talked about what I was needing, and he invited me and Michael to come visit with him before we ordered anything so we could see some of his work. We ended up meeting with him on Mother’s Day.

This guy was a whole trip. He reminded me a lot of my dad, with his outrageous stories and his big ideas. But his work, like my dad’s, was excellent. So I ordered a custom, forest green picnic-style dining table from him. 

It came in early and we had some friends help drop it off at our house. The thing was enormous. Michael is convinced it is not going to fit in our little dining room. My mom is using her feet to walk across and guesstimate how big the room is across (she was way off). Michael is having me reach back out to the carpenter to see what options we have if the table doesn’t fit, can we shave a bit off the end or something, I am telling him I think it is going to fit.

Michael sure does hate admitting I was right. 

It is beautiful in the space, and I can’t wait to see it with all my Christmas decorations up. I think Rhonda and I need to go out on a special trip to plan my holiday centerpiece. 

I also decided that saving fancy china for fancy occasions that never occur in my house is a waste. Now every day is fancy, and Aunt Ann’s china with the pink and teal from Grandma Ruth and Gigi Roberts that match just fine make every meal a little more special. 

So that is our new house. I have been trying to decide if sending out new address cards is appropriate or if I should make a digital card or just not worry about it at all. I don’t know that I learned the protocol here. 

I can’t tell if I have talked excessively already and need to wrap it up, or if it just looks long because of the number of pictures I added. Either way, I am starting to droop, so I will leave it at this. Another day I will have to tell you about the overly exciting Father’s Day weekend with roadside assistance, a dogtor visit, and a broken butt. 

For tonight, though: Goodnight. 

--Andie