At the age of 14, there was no way death could conquer determination. Invincibility to failure was all I believed in an ever growing society where people tell you that can do anything. Keeping a few baby mice alive would be a piece of cake. Little did I know how fragile life truly is.
We found them in the garage; so young they didn’t even have their eyes open yet; crawling around blindly searching for their mother, who had likely fought and lost a valiant, if rather one-sided, battle with our mouse trap. I couldn’t stand seeing another creature suffer; I would rescue them. I gathered information on raising baby mice via the internet and my mom took me to buy the supplies that I would need: a syringe, cotton swabs, and kitten milk formula. Their home was a tissue box that I kept on a heating pad so they’d stay warm. Hourly, I would feed them the formula with the syringe and rub their genitals with a Q-tip to stimulate them to go to the bathroom.
Although I was confident in my, albeit, nonexistent experience and qualifications as a replacement mommy mouse, my parents were quite skeptical. Despite the doubts that arose from the inevitable devastation they saw coming, I was determined. Their resignation was my drive; however, it wasn’t just the need for success to prove them wrong, I loved these mice. They were innocent creatures that were completely mine. Quite literally, I held three tiny lives in my hands… and let them slip through my fingers one by one.
The first two died on different nights during some of my few hours of rest; however, the last one, whom I had fittingly named Lone Ranger, was thriving. He outlived his brethren by a couple days, and it seemed to me that Lone Ranger was only growing in strength. He seemed lively and active and I was excited about the progress I thought he was making. My hopes came crashing down when the next time I awoke to care for him he didn’t eat or urinate, and he could barely crawl. I held him, trying desperately to get him to respond to me but he was dying. Soon, he ceased moving altogether. I started sobbing, begging Lone Ranger desperately to stay alive, but then, he gave one final spasm-like twitch, and died in my hand.
I will never forget what it’s like to watch life disappear. For the next few days I was devastated and consumed with guilt and grief. Although I felt responsible, I didn’t know how I could make up for the loss or fix it. There’s no bringing them back. My parents told me that I shouldn’t blame myself and that it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t have done anything better to change the outcome. This was a big realization for me. Up until this point most things were completely in my control; if I failed, I took responsibility and was always able to repair the damage caused by the failure. Death is different though, and no matter how hard you try, sometimes it’s all futile in the end.
This epiphany helped prepare me for later devastation. Earlier this year, I lost my father to cancer. It took a toll on me emotionally, as expected. As I reminisced at the memories, I also couldn’t help but think of everything we never got to do. All the missed opportunities piled up and would have buried me in guilt and regret if I hadn’t remembered the mice. As with my dad, there was nothing I could do to save them, and there was no way of knowing they were going to die. Death comes like a viper and steals life away when it’s least expected, and sometimes there’s just nothing you can do, and things are completely out of your control.