I'm Not Sorry My Bird Died

A few weeks ago, my father called me. He told me that my pet bird, Jack, a deep-green and bubbly parakeet, had passed away. Dad told me that he had found Jack’s body on the bottom of the cage that morning as he had been feeding the small aviary that is my room. The news was a bit disheartening but not all that surprising. Jack was the first bird that I had ever gotten. He was over ten years old, had been through multiple wives and children, and had recovered from a compound fracture all of his own accord. The fact that he survived as long as he did was a miracle in itself. Still, I knew that I was going to miss the jolly little guy.

“I’m sorry,” my dad finished, and with these two words, something inside of me snapped. Sorry? What was he sorry for? I didn’t get it. Jack had led a long and very fulfilling life: He had loved and been loved; he had been spunky right up until the end; and he had propagated enough baby budgies to create a small, bird-brained army. It all seemed like a pretty great story to me. So what on earth was my dad sorry for? I did not understand it, and to be honest, I still don’t.

I have heard it said that we cry at funerals because we are selfish. While I do not fully endorse this statement, I do think that there is a certain bit of truth in it. When we mourn a death, we are often upset because we have ‘lost’ a person in our lives. Instead of focusing on the deceased, we focus on ourselves, wallowing in our own self-misery. Likewise, when we speak to the deceased’s relatives and friends, we often say that we are ‘sorry for their loss.’ Yet, is this really appropriate? Is this ‘I’m sorry’ attitude really beneficial? I personally do not think so.

We say that ‘we’re sorry.’ Okay. But what are we really sorry for? Are we sorry for the person’s life: sorry for all of the great things that he had done; sorry for all of the lessons that she had learned; sorry for all the trials and tribulations that made him a stronger and better person? No, we are not sorry for these things. That would be absurd.

Are we sorry, then, for the person’s death? Some may say that this is the case, but that also seems absurd. Death is a natural part of life. It is the only thing that is absolutely sure in life: You will die. It is a necessary experience: You need to die. If we truly care about someone, why would we ever try to take away what that person needs? Thus if the person needs to die, but we are sorry about his death, can we really say that we care about the person? No. Death is natural, necessary, and even wonderful. Without death, there could be no life—all life feeds on death. They are truly inseparable! To be sorry about someone’s death, then, is to be sorry about someone’s life. Surely, this is not what we mean when we say ‘we’re sorry.’

Perhaps we are not sorry for the deceased but are sorry instead for the living. Perhaps we are sorry that they have to experience such a profound sense of loss. Indeed, this is what many people would say that they are truly sorry for. Yet this, too, seems absurd if we really think about it. Yes, experiencing loss is disheartening, but why does that make it alright for us to be sorry about it? Loss has the potential to make people stronger. It can be the fuel we need to better ourselves. When we can accept loss and move beyond it, we can begin creating new meanings in our lives. If someone we love dies, our loss helps to teach us about the true meaning of love; it helps open us up to new possibilities to love and to be loved. In short, it teaches us how to love in a deeper and more meaningful way. Why should we be sorry for this? If we are sorry for this, are we not just causing the loss to fester, thus preventing ourselves and others from moving beyond this loss, from growing from it? It is like scratching a wound—if we never leave it alone, we can never expect it to heal.

My grandfather died a little less than a year ago. I miss him dearly, but I would never say that I am sorry that he is gone. To say this would mean that I want him back, that I want him to be alive again. But I don’t. My grandfather died due to complications of Parkinson’s. For the last few weeks of his life, he was in extreme pain, so extreme that he had to be continually medicated. In turn, the medication made him unresponsive. He spent the final days before his death lying in bed, phasing in and out of semi-consciousness. Yes, I miss my grandfather, but I would never want him to be back in this situation. I would never want him to suffer solely for my comfort of having him physically present again.

I suppose that I could say that I am sorry for the manner in which he died, that I am sorry he had to suffer. Yet, life is an intersectionality—an arena wherein many identities come together. Suffering was a part of my grandfather’s life; it was a part of him. To be sorry for his suffering, then, is to be sorry that a piece of him existed. I cannot do this. I loved my grandfather for the whole person that he was, even if it included suffering. His suffering gave us the relationship that we had, and I loved and continue to love that relationship. His suffering also taught me how to be strong, and I do not, could not regret that.

Apart from learning how to be strong, during his life, my grandfather taught me a lot of things. He taught me the importance of family, the meaning of hard work, and the need for compassion. I cherish these lessons, and even past his death, his example continues to inspire me. No, I am not sorry for what my grandfather’s life taught me.

My grandfather’s death taught me equally as much as his life. Seeing my family take care of his funeral arrangements reinforced what my grandfather’s life had taught me about familial solidarity: Family takes care of itself. Seeing so many wonderful people at his funeral taught me that it is possible to create lifelong friendships. And seeing my grandfather in his casket made me re-believe in the indefinable nature of the soul. No, I am not sorry for what grandfather’s death and all that it has taught me.

Now, a year later, I look back on my grandfather’s demise, on the night that my mother had called me to tell me of his passing, and I can still feel and remember the deep sense of loss that I experienced. But, I am not sorry for this. The sense of loss I experienced only served to reinforce the lessons that I had learned from my grandfather’s example. When I feel the loss, I am reminded to be the best person that I can; I am reminded to live as honorably as my grandfather did. No, I am not sorry for my loss; I am proud of it.

Life, death, loss, and mourning all go hand-in-hand. They are all natural parts of existence, all needed. To regret one of these, to be ‘sorry’ about one of these, is to degrade them all. When we adopt the attitude of ‘I’m sorry,’ we refuse to let ourselves—and to let others—move beyond the sense of loss; we refuse to grow. We become selfishly attached to our wallows. It is only when we let go of our ‘I’m sorry’ attitude that we can begin to heal, to learn, and indeed, to live.

Death is a part of life and all life can be beautiful if we create it to be so, and I am not sorry for this beauty.