The Fish is Dying

Years and years ago, we acquired some fish--three little tetra types about an inch long--and kept them in a ten gallon tank in the kitchen. No one in my house can remember when we got them--we've had them that long. Our best guess is when the Boy was in third grade six years ago. We had them well before we got Fox when the Boy was in fifth grade.

The time marker for the fish was when the Boy was on a First Lego League (FLL) team and they had to create a team poster. Each boy listed their favorite movie, favorite book and pets. The Boy wrote "Three fish and two snails" when everyone else wrote about their cats and/or dogs. I felt sorry that he didn't have a real animal, one that required walks or could interact meaningfully with humans. Nope, we just had fish and snails.

It was better than nothing, I suppose.

Three weeks ago, one of the two remaining fish died. After I started working and became more busy, cleaning the fish tank became just another chore added to my long list of "To Do's" at home. Jack works all of the time, so stuff like cleaning the fish tank never makes his list. I consider myself lucky when he empties the dishwasher, makes dinner or takes out the compost, garbage and recycling.

Even though the fish tank had been neglected, the fish carried on like British subjects during WWII. They didn't seem to mind the algae covered walls after the snails died or the slowly dropping water level that would only get replenished when it was in danger of not reaching the filter intake tube. They didn't mind that the water was naturally de-chlorinated by leaving a bucket of water out over night instead of using the fancy fish tank chemical that adds vitamins and whatever to the water to keep the fish healthy.

I was getting kind of tired of taking care of these fish. It seemed kind of pointless. After the first fish died, I wondered why bother with one? I was kind of hoping the remaining one might have a quick demise.

It didn't make sense to have one fish the size of a quarter in a ten gallon tank. Like an elderly person losing their mobility, this fish needed a smaller domicile instead of the four bedroom, three bath house it was currently residing in. I found a smaller tank in basement from when the kids had water frog (life span: two months) and moved the last fish in there. Instead of sitting on the kids art table from when they were preschoolers, the fish bowl was now in the kitchen counter next to my tea kettle. 

I got to know this fish a little better. I sat him (her?) several times a day when I'd make tea or chop vegetables for dinner. I wondered if this fish had any idea of who I was. My dog recognizes me and the rest of my family, plus our dog walker. Did the fish know I was the one who cleaned its tank and fed it? Or, did the fish think I was a god, a mysterious force of the universe who makes things happen, for good or bad? Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

I was making scones for the kids this week for breakfast, and I saw the little fish belly up. I kind of freaked out and banged on the bowl. The fish wasn't dead yet and began furiously swimming around and around. It seemed to be revived.

Whew, I thought. The fish isn't dead. And then I felt regret for wishing it would keel over. Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

The next day, the Boy saw the fish resting in the bottom of the bowl, which is odd because fish don't really rest. He did the same thing I did--except way more gently. He softly shook the bowl and the little fish woke up and started swimming around again.

This morning, the fish is on the bottom of the bowl. When I shake the bowl, he stirs around for a few seconds--perhaps he fears being eaten by a larger fish--and then he sinks back to the bottom, and rests.

I read an article recently about a woman who bred dogs and kept a few on her farm. When one of her larger dogs was about to die, the pack circled around the ailing dog, protecting her from potential harm. Here, my little fish was going to die alone, not surrounded by the rest of his school.

Thursday night, I re-read In the Gloaming by Alice Elliott Dark, originally published in the New Yorker in 1993. It is a story about a mother reconnecting with her thirty-something year old son who is dying of AIDS. It is a beautiful and heartbreaking story that has had different meaning for me each time I read it, decades apart. When I read it in my twenties, I wasn't even as old as the son. Now, I identify with the mother and wife.

Yes, it is much easier to write about a dying fish instead of a dying child. Or dying parent. Or dying dog. 

So here I am sad about a little fish. "Sad" might be a bit much, but pondering. This week was rough. Jack wasn't home much, and both kids were using me as their emotional garbage can, dumping all of their frustrations and worries on me. They were not sharing their worries or talking about their frustrations. They were using me as their punching bag because they were worried and frustrated. A person can only take so much before they cry uncle. 

Right now, the idea of a no-maintenance little fish friend seems like a nice idea. Maybe I'll get a bright blue Betta to keep me company on the kitchen counter when this little fish finally dies.