The death of a hamster

You know the phrase, "truth is stranger than fiction."  Well, it's stranger and funnier and sadder sometimes, too.  I was retelling this true story the other day and I still laugh every time I do.  And, sometimes I cry.  I promise you -- I am not making ANY of this up.  I might not have all the dialogue exactly right, but it's as close as I can remember.  Maybe this story can add some joy -- and perspective -- to your Monday.

I'm allergic to dogs (actually, I'm allergic to anything with hair, except people, thankfully) so I did not give in to the kids relentless begging for a dog.  I did, however, allow them to get hamsters.  We started with one, then two, then three, then one died and we were down to two, and then another died and were down to one (the average life span of a hamster is 2 years).  And then we got Leah.  Leah was a teddy bear hamster.  We "adopted" her from another family.  She was unlike any hamster I'd ever known.  Really.  You could pet her, hold her, have her run all over you, and she'd never bite you.  As hamsters go, she was perfect.

But then she got sick.  Everyone was concerned (well, by "everyone" I mean my daughters and I).  I promised the girls she would get better.  It was just a virus.  But, unfortunately, she didn't get better.   I knew I had to do something.  The look of panic and concern on my daughters' faces told me I HAD to do something.  It was a Saturday morning.  I began calling veterinarians in the area (remember, true story).  I found one about an hour away that would look at her, but I wasn't sure she would survive the trip.  Then I found one here in town, and when I talked to his assistant she was so sweet.  "Bring her in.  We'll look at her right away."

So the three of us -- excuse me, FOUR of us, got in the van.  Me, Hannah, Emily, and Leah (in her cage).  We went into the doctor's office and waited until he called us into the examination room.  He took Leah out of her cage and placed her on the large, stainless steel examination table.  She couldn't even stand up straight.  She tried to walk and kept falling.  And there was a little bit of blood coming out of her mouth.  "She's a rodent" I kept trying to tell myself as I got choked up.  "A rodent."  But a really cute rodent.

The doctor picked her up and looked more closely, then placed her back down and said he wanted to try to inject her with an antibiotic.  As he got the needle ready, Hannah decided she'd had enough.  She left the room, crying, and went out to the van.  Emily (who aspires to be a doctor) hung in there, and watched as the doctor prepared the syringe.

But then Leah got worse.  She was having trouble breathing.  The doctor's assistant picked her up and began administering CPR (remember, true story).  Let me quickly add that it was the "hands-only" CPR.

It was Emily's turn to exit.  She'd had enough.  She joined Hannah in the van in the parking lot.

So now it was just the four of us:  the doctor, his assistant, me, and Leah the hamster.

The assistant kept trying to revive Leah.  You really have to imagine what's happening to get the full effect here.  This woman is literally giving CPR to a hamster, while the doctor and I look on, as if this is all quite normal.  "I'm trying, but she's hardly breathing.  I don't think she's getting any better" the assistant said.  The doctor looked at Leah, then back at me, then back at Leah, then back at me.  I realized the final call was up to me.  I had to say it.  Me.  So, I did. "It's OK.  It's time to let her go.  You've done all you could.  Really.  It's time to stop."

So, the assistant laid Leah back down on the stainless steel table and the three of us watched as within seconds she stopped breathing completely.

I realized I was actually lost in the moment when the doctor had to repeat his question to me again, "Did you bring anything to put her in?"  Did I bring anything to put her in?  What does that mean?  And then he said, "Like a shoebox, or something of that nature?"  And then I realized what he meant.  Did I bring anything to put her in, in case she died at the office.  No.  I wasn't planning on her dying at the office.  And I'm pretty sure that if I brought something like that with us my daughters would have been hysterical.

"Well, we do have a small coffin if you'd like it.  It should be just the right size for your hamster." I realize that anyone reading this now must think those last two sentences are absolutely absurd, and I would agree -- but I need to tell you that they didn't sound absurd at the time. 

When you are grieving, even if it's just the life of a hamster, you do things you wouldn't normally do.  At least I did.  I said, "I'll take the coffin."  Now, I had no idea if this coffin was going to cost $10 or $200, I just knew that my daughters were going to be crushed and I wanted to do something, ANYTHING, to make them feel better.

So the doctor's assistant went and got the coffin (satin lined -- remember TRUE story), and he gently laid Leah inside and closed the top.  It actually was just the perfect size.

They sent me back into the waiting room with Leah's empty cage and the coffin, and told me they would add up the bill quickly and let me know.  I braced for impact.  Tried to justify why we would spend a fortune on a hamster.

The assistant called me to the counter and said, "That will be $20.  The doctor is only charging $5 for the office visit.  The little casket is $15."  I gratefully wrote out a check for $20 and gathered all my things and headed for the door.

I walked across the parking lot to the van with an empty cage in one hand, and a small coffin in the other.  As my daughters saw me they could tell by my expression, and the empty cage, that Leah was no longer with us.  And they wept.  And I wept.  In fact, we cried and cried all the way home.  Over a hamster.  A rodent.  Something I would set a trap for if I saw it running around in our house.

What are the spiritual lessons here?  I'm sure there are many.  But probably what I will remember most is the way in which the doctor and his assistant cared for Leah, and in doing so, cared for us.  What would the world be like if everyone cared as they did?  What if we treated everyone we meet as well as they treated a hamster?  I wonder...