Chicago Rat Funeral

We all live to die.

It’s winter, and if I could slough off all my skin and run around as bones, I would. I’m tired of being cold—of having this body that has such tender needs. I’ve been vaguely sick for the past two months. I’m prone to illness in the winter on account of my anemia and the residual lung damage from my fourth-grade bout of pneumonia, but this year feels particularly worse.

Every morning, I spend 5-10 minutes coughing up gobs of mucus, stored while I slept uncomfortably. Then, I look in the mirror and survey the bags under my eyes and my skin that looks dull and, well, old.

I don’t think I ever felt old until this year, and I know some of you may balk because I’m still so young, but this is the first year I truly feel older. It feels harder to get around, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s my age, the advanced winter weather, or a combination of both.

It’s true that for the past few years, Chicago winters have been mild. When I moved here in 2020, there was a bad winter ice storm, but I was getting my MFA remotely, so it was easier to avoid the outside. Afterwards, we had mild, snowless winters. I used to wax poetic about those years, equating the lack of snow with a lack of any lovers in my life. I love snow, but it just feels harder and harder to trudge through its endless piles.

On Saturday, bravely bundled up to attend yoga class, I looked down on the sidewalk to discover a small bundle of fur, nestled between the crack where concrete met brick building. It was as though the little rat was trying to burrow underground. Not moving, I thought it had frozen to death with its nose smushed into the crevice. I nudged it with my glove, and it blinked at me. I felt really sad for the creature then, knowing it was going to die. It was -2 degrees outside, and a rat, no matter how sturdy, could not survive those temperatures alone.

If this had been a fully grown rat, perhaps I would have paused, but it was a tiny thing, resembling one of the hamsters I had in my youth. I thought I could at least try to help it survive, so I picked it up and walked around the corner. Under someone’s back porch, covered in snow and leaves, was a stroller. I set the little rat down in the stroller, took some trash out of my pocket, and attempted to make it a nest. The little rat perked up when I placed it in the stroller. It moved slightly and looked at me with shiny little rat eyes.

I truly did think it was going to live. I left to catch the train to yoga, assuming that when I checked back, it would be gone, having built up enough strength to disappear into another crevice. But when I returned, the rat was dead. It had moved somewhat, but I could tell without touching it that it was stiff, having rolled over on its side.

However silly, I felt sad that I had not saved the rat. My father mentioned later that it had probably been poisoned, which is why it was out on the sidewalk during the day. It never had a chance.

Several of my friends thought it was funny that I would work so hard to save a city rat, and without trying to sound vain, I am reminded of the Rudy Francisco poem, “Mercy”:

I think of mercy, then, as I survey myself in the mirror. I’ve always been critical of my appearance, but my looks have taken on new meaning since beginning a new relationship. At its simplest, I fear being unworthy of love. If I look perfect and act perfectly, then love will never leave me, right?

When I finally went to the doctor, I discovered that I had gained 10 pounds since the spring. The doctor also prescribed me an antibiotic and an inhaler. I felt so disgusted with myself in that moment. How had I been living this year? I worked myself into the ground, subsisting on bagels and tacos from the truck outside my work, refusing to take sick days when I didn’t feel well. I hadn’t been taking care of myself, and if I didn’t find myself worth caring for, how could I expect someone else to?

However rat-like I feel, I cannot lie down and die. It’s a good problem to have, maybe: the desire to become better. It’s funny when you like someone so much, you want to like yourself. It feels so impossible to be in love during the winter, but I still cling to its warmth, happy to have such a thing despite feeling unworthy.

I hope to thaw out by the spring, so that I can exist mercifully.