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As a clinical psychologist with 24 years of experience, I thought I had a good understanding of empathy. I believed that I was as capable, maybe even more capable than many, of “getting behind the eyeballs of others” as someone once described empathy. I firmly believed that when people described their sorrows, pains, losses, sadness, and other feelings, I had a sense of what they meant.
Despite this, I have always made a point of not uttering, “I know how you feel.” I may think I have an appreciation of the feelings of others, but I always knew intellectually that I really did not and could not really know how any other human was feeling, despite my best efforts to be empathic.
But, I knew how I felt when family and close friends died, and I counsel people dealing with the loss of loved ones. Pushing 50 and having these personal and professional experiences, I started to believe that I might just have a better idea when it came to the grieving process. Maybe I could have a better appreciation for the feelings of loss and sadness being experienced by others.
At least that was what I thought until July 12, 2001.
My wife and I have been married for 16 years. In the second year of our marriage, we adopted our only child, Bunny, the cat we rescued from the animal shelter and certain death had she not been adopted. She was ill when we took her home, and we were not sure she would survive. But, survive she did, and she became an important member of our family. She did what so many pets do, she quietly listened when we talked about our day, she unconditionally accepted and loved us even when we made mistakes, she played and did cute things, and she willingly and graciously accepted the love we offered her.
In recent months, Bunny started to slow down. Her gait became unsteady, she would lose her balance, she did not eat as much, but our vet assured us it was just part of the feline aging process. After all, she was 16. But, then she could barely stand or walk at all, and seemed to stop eating.
We knew something was wrong and took her to the vet. Our worst fears were realized when he calmly announced that he had palpated what he believed to be a large, malignant tumor on her liver that had probably metastasized. He said she was in pain and would deteriorate rapidly experiencing even more pain and limited quality of life. While leaving the decision to us, he suggested “putting her down” would be the most caring thing we could do.
He left us to discuss it. We sobbed more than we talked, we held Bunny, we told her how much we loved her, we petted her, we hugged each other, and then we petted her as he injected her and she breathed her last breath.
We went home and cried as we passed the sofa where she slept during the day, the sofa where she slept at night, the ball she played with in the past, her grooming brush, her food dish, and we seemed to just keep crying.
When we told family and friends of our loss, the response was often, “That’s too bad,” and on to the next topic. There were no sympathy cards, no “comfort food,” no visitors. But, this was our only child! This was the “little girl” who had been an important part of our family for 14 years! This wasn’t “just a cat” for goodness sake!
What does this have to do with empathy? I will still never know how another person feels. I will still never say to someone, “I know how you feel.” But, on July 12, 2001, I gained an understanding of how little I knew about empathy when it came to feelings of sadness, loss, and mourning. I realized that I had only a limited appreciation about the heart wrenching pain that family, friends, and clients have felt when children, husbands, wives, siblings, and other family and friends have died. I gained at least a little better appreciation of what people mean when they say their “hearts have been broken.” I realized that to most of the world, when a pet dies, “it’s just an animal.” I realized that there is no socially accepted ceremonial process to mourn the loss of a pet as there is when our human loved ones die. I learned that there can never be any comparison between the pains of loss, and that neither I nor anyone is in any position to pronounce that the suffering of one person is equal to, greater than, or lesser than the pain of another following a loss of any type. Nor, is there some set format or predictable “stages” that we will necessarily experience. I learned that mourning is a uniquely personal event that requires time even if it is “just a pet.”
The next time a friend, family member, or client shares with me a loss of any sort, I think I’ll have a much better idea about how some small part of that pain feels. I know it may only be a fraction of the pain someone is experiencing when a spouse or child has died, but it will be a tiny fraction that will help me connect and be there with them. It will be a tiny fraction that will help me respond to a loss with something more than, “That’s too bad” or “I’m so sorry.” Next time, I hope I can remember the pain I have been feeling following Bunny’s death so maybe I can say, “What can I do to help” or “Would you like to talk about your loss” or “Please call me if I can help because I truly what to be there with you.” Maybe these will be more than some of the simple, perhaps even automatic phrases I have uttered in the past. Maybe I will recognize that for many people the pain associated with the death of a pet is no less intense than the pain associated with any other death.
Maybe, just maybe, after 24 years of clinical practice and nearly 50 years of existence, I have started to get a better understanding of what it is to be empathic. I think this was Bunny’s last and perhaps greatest gift of all.
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Nottingham is a clinical psychologist in solo independent practice in Memphis, TN.
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