Thank you, my friends, for the words of kindness and support these past few days. It is obvious that I’m surrounded by many good and loving people, and I am blessed.
Having lost Kermit brought something to the forefront of my mind. While other people may sympathize, loss of any kind is truly personal. You feel like a foreigner in your own land; your world is a little off-kilter. Your routine becomes the enemy, reminding you of what you once had. You sense that people are vaguely uncomfortable around you; they needn’t be. You feel betrayed by the amount of time and energy you put into a thing -- and lost it anyway. In essence, loss makes you confront how you define yourself. After years of doing so much of one thing, it is hard to adjust to not doing that one thing. But adjust you must, and if Kermit taught me anything, it is resilience.
Kermit was with me essentially my entire adult life, which is something you don’t recover from quickly. He was a small creature, but as my sister Carol reminded me, love isn’t measured in pounds. But for years, our schedules were dictated by a demanding regimen of hydration and medications, which does not constitute a normal life. So you start searching for normal; folding laundry and changing light bulbs; and the stupidest things catch you. Your husband chops some onions and you remember how that irritated the cat’s eyes.
But I look around me, limbs and wits intact, and still feel rich in life’s most important ways. Thank you for reminding me.