Hard Pills to Swallow

only two things have really shaken me up this week, and possibly shaken me up more than anything else in my entire life.

1. My mom is allergic to onions. I have no idea why this news is so "life-altering" to me but I suddenly almost feel like the last 28 years of my life have been a complete lie. I'm sure it stems mostly from the idea that I could have lived my entire life with her and never known such a small detail about her. I've wrestled with logic for the last three days and can find none. All I know is it came as a bigger shock than finding out Santa wasn't real.

2. My fish is old. He's also sick, but more than that, he's old. I've had carnival fish before and they've all died within a month or two. But this fish I've had for years. Going on four years, two cities, four different houses, he DIED once already in an ice storm and came back to life after 18 hours.

I realize now why God didn't make it a habit of bringing things back from the dead. I guess I took a "Green Mile" mentality and assumed my fish would live forever. Out live me, even, so I wouldn't have to face the fact that he will eventually die and not come back.

I've been giving him medicine, watching him get smaller, less lively, less colorful, less alive... I've given him treats, new toys, more colorful gravel, a better view of the bedroom, I've put up pictures for him to look at so he won't be lonely, I talk to him every morning and night, I give him kisses (and he still swims up to the side of the bowl to give kisses back) and I feel slightly more sane than Tom Hank's relationship with a volleyball, but still not quite capable of grasping the fact that Picasso is not sick. He's dying. He will eventually be dead.

We live in a culture so obsessed with youth, with life, with saving someone form this "HORRID" thing called death. I've literally been to more than a dozen funerals in my life. That averages out to one about every two and a half years since birth.
I'm aware that people die when they get old and that's okay. Most people are not. My abuelo died last year on my birthday and while yes, I was very sad, I was very happy he lived to be so old. When I came back from the services, all my friends and coworkers told me how sorry they were and asked if anything was done to try to revive him. And really, I was more than put off by the question. He was well into his 80s, he wasn't mentally ever in just one place at the same time and he was happy to go. And we were happy to let him.

I guess I've just come to expect too many Elijah's in my life. My great-grandmother was my best friend growing up and one day she "moved off to Texas" and eventually she died. Yeah, it was hard, but I didn't see it happen. My great-grandfather moved off to Mexico almost 20 years ago and he was in his 80s as well. I never heard from him again. I know logically, he probably passed on a very long time ago but in my mind, there's a chance he might still be out there at 107 or whatever. When I moved here 7 years ago, I had to leave my cat behind with my parents. After 18 years, she passed away. I know she's gone and my parents showed me where they buried her but in my mind, she just moved off to Mexico to go explore.

Picasso is different. He's MY fish. he's only ever been mine. No relation to anyone else, no one else helped raise him, no one else has the attachment to him that I do. We're a team. When he dies, it will be "my fault" for not being able to make him live forever.

I'm not sure how to reconcile with this thought.
It's just hard watching him die.