Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

I found myself a little lost, or maybe a lot lost, yesterday.  I was not so much numb as empty, and restless.  I was missing my puppy, P, and that grief brings up stuff with regards to A for compounding, and for comparison, apparently.  My reaction is not the same to the two deaths, and I’m not sure why.  Furthermore, while I observe it, I’m not sure I need to analyze it.  Could I pinpoint it if I tried?  And if I could, would it mean anything?  Would I find it helpful or comforting in any way?  I’m not sure.  The deaths, and my grief for both, are simultaneously discrete and inextricably intertwined.  It’s strange.  

On one hand, I feel like it’s hard to deal with the loss of my dog on top of the loss of my sweetie, all in a matter of 9 short months.  And as with all crises, I feel the loss of my sweetheart-as-friend, who would’ve been there to support me.  Truly, I do believe he has been, in spirit, and I’m grateful.  But you know what I’m talking about; it’s not the same as someone being there to talk to you and hold you.  

On the other hand, I can’t help but think that what I have learned in dealing with life, death, grief, and the whole meaning of the universe, has been brought to bear on my grieving of my baby girl.  I am sad, but I am not falling apart.  Not this time, though there are moments when I dissolve into tears.  But overall there is a calmness now that wasn’t there 9 months ago.  It isn’t a happy, smiling-Buddha calmness, I’ll grant you, but it is calmness nonetheless.  Or maybe it’s resignation.  They feel a lot alike.

Right before I had to put my P to sleep, despite her illness, I was finding my way to a place that wasn’t so bad.  I was feeling a resurgence of creative energy, which is always a good sign for me.  I wrote a new poem, wrote a new song, played with clay, and I was making strides in my inlay project.  I bought some new clothes and was caring a little how I looked, some days at least, (although certainly not as much as I once did, which is fine.)  And I thought maybe I was turning a corner.  I don’t do any of those things when I’m down.

And then I had to let her go, and, not unexpectedly, I lost ground, and have been in a deep funk all week.  I spent some time googling and reading grief sites yesterday, trying to grab hold of something that would keep me afloat.  I ended up at a site called “Widows Wear Stilettos.”  It was kind of a tough site for me to read, I admit, and sometimes I felt offended by what I perceived was her vigorous “No moping!” tone.  She’s a big believer in not asking (forever, at least,) “Why me?” but rather “What now?”  But the more I read, the better I felt.  I felt like I had a choice as to how I felt, how I went on.  And of course I knew that, but it’s hard to remember it.  I mean, she’s right—I can go ahead and devote the rest of my life to feeling miserable.  It’s certainly my right, and I’m fully capable of doing so.  But is that really what I want to do?  Is that what I’m here for?  Is that what A or anyone else who loves me would want for me?  Is it going to help me?  I have to believe that if I spent the rest of my life in a complete funk, A would have some choice words for me once I got to the other side.  I can hear him now.  “Life is so good!  Too much good stuff!  Why did you waste it?  I didn’t want you to do that, and certainly not in my name!”  I mean, really, what good could I hope to get out of that choice?  

And yet it’s difficult to relinquish that pain and sadness, although why, I’m not sure, since I’m not enjoying it in the least.  If I’m really honest with myself, I would have to say I’ve made the classic mistake of the bereaved:  confusing the pain of grief with love, the extent of the former indicative to my confused mind of the depth of the love I had for the man.  If I feel better, which I desperately want, it means I’m fine with him being dead.  Wrong-headed?  Sure.  But hard to shake.  

I want nothing better than to not feel the constant sadness, the ache of loss.  But when I stray too far afield from that feeling, it’s like I reel myself in again, back to the suffering rut.  And intellectually, I know I’m not doing myself any favors.  Intellectually, I can tell myself that love between us did not come with a huge side dish of pain, sorrow, guilt, and sadness.  It was love, delight, laughter, understanding, and companionship.  None of that other stuff.  So why do I feel the need to tie all those other things to my love for him now?  

Hell if I know.  But I have to say, it does seem a bit nonsensical.  Can I not miss him without being miserable all the time?  Or is it possible that I can miss him AND have a good life?  I think that it must be possible, even if I haven’t figured it all out yet.

Anyway, the more I read of that unusual website, I found her words to be compassionate, but also a tonic, despite my misgivings and mental defensiveness.  A kick in the ass I needed, I suppose.  And I felt a little better overall the rest of the day and today.  It didn’t change my life instantaneously.  But it did strenuously invite me to consider some things I was due to consider:

Who is helped by my refusing to enjoy this life?  
Am I content with the thought of moping through the rest of my life?
When am I going to get over the idea that my life is supposed to be a certain, perfect way, and accept that this is life, with all the ups and downs, and no one is exempt?

To the first question, I can say “no one.”  Not even me.  I don’t feel good when I’m stuck in “sad limbo” mode, and sometimes I even feel foolish for it.  I ask myself, “So, if it’s true you could get hit by a bus tomorrow (which it is), how many more days, months, years are you willing to watch slip by you as a martyr to grief?”  I don’t have an answer, but I ask the question, and I think that’s worth something.  It doesn’t help A.  It won’t bring him back.  He will not be pleased by my suffering.  He won’t feel honored by it; that’s not what he loved about me.  He loved me for my ability to enjoy the world around me.  It messes with my other relationships with friends and family, in that I’m not present to enjoy them.  I’m always elsewhere in my head.  And I’m not all that enjoyable.

To the second question, I have to say “no.”  I cannot imagine what I would become if I nurtured the pain of this loss for the next 40 years, should I live that long.  And I am aware that there will be moments of sadness, of sorrow, of pain, throughout those years.  I’m not trying to outrun those, or deny them, or refuse to give them, and myself, our due.  The feelings are real, as are the reasons for them.  But I’m also aware that I have a tendency to prolong those moments into hours, days, weeks, and that is what I need to watch out for:  turning a feeling into a lifestyle.  If I have the ability to shake myself up and adjust my attitude, I think I probably would be well served to do so.  Because when I feel bad, I feel bad.  No two ways about it.  There’s nothing to be lost from trying to feel better if I can; and if I can’t, I’ll honor that and ride it out.  But reality will provide enough tough moments in a lifetime; I certainly don’t need to manufacture extras.

On a bigger scale, I have admitted, over and over, that there is nothing special about me in my loss, other than I feel it more keenly because it’s mine.  People love and lose every day all over the world, and to think that somehow I should be untouched by experiences that touch all human beings is more than a little unreasonable.  I don’t know anyone who has been so fortunate as to escape tragedy and difficulty.  

"You’re crying. You say you’ve burned yourself. But can you think of anyone who’s not hazy with smoke?" — Rumi

True loves die.  Beloved puppies die.  I will die.  And I believe that we are not done with each other, that we will meet again.  So in between those two realities, what am I supposed to be doing?  Living, I would suppose.  Getting the most out of this life, including the most joy I can, understanding that the sadness comes with the territory and is non-negotiable.  Acceptance of reality is not the same as condoning it.  I accept the reality of crime and poverty in my world, but that doesn’t mean I like it.  I accept that A and P have moved on from this world without me, but that doesn’t mean I like it, that I’m fine with the loss.  It just means I pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep going, because to climb into the grave with them does no one any good.  It just doesn’t, and I know that.  There’s nothing I can do about their deaths.  That’s reality.  I can only control what, and how, I do after that.  

So I’ve got that, now.  Will I be able to keep remembering it?  We’ll see; there’s a reason I write stuff down.

Spared

Every bit of love and joy leaves the check
on our table, to be paid for in large bills
and change,
a currency of grief.

A lifetime of revolving debt.

Every moment of helplessness is
balanced by a scene in which
we reluctantly play god, all the while
wishing we could go back
to being the understudy.

The entire play is off book.

Pity this sensitive human heart,
so easily moved,
feeling first love and last goodbye
with equal intensity.
How could something this fragile be made
for everyday use?

I don’t recall agreeing to this.

Are we to be spared nothing, then?
Is it absolutely imperative we feel it all,
in all its exquisite sharpness;
in all its aching stillness;
in all its baffling contradiction;
in all its unanswered and unanswerable questions;
and feel grateful?

Can anyone tell me how?

It’s different this time, and then again it’s not.  The “why” questions are different, because it wasn’t a surprise.  We knew it was coming, but even when you do, it doesn’t matter when it actually happens.  Because until it does, some small part of you is still hoping for a miracle, even when the rest of you knows it’s not coming.  The “why” for me this time is “Why did I have to make the call?  Why didn’t she just go?”  Because who wants to take responsibility for that?  How do you get your mind around the thought that you should purposely end the life of someone you love?  The two concepts are antithetical.  How do you understand that sometimes mercy is doing a thing that is anathema to what we understand as love and caring?  How do you accept that this thing that tears you up inside, the decision to set a beloved soul free from a body that had given up, was what was best for her?  There are some dark, horrifying, painful definitions of “best” in this world.

There is no shock this time; just deep and immediate sadness, and the ache of missing someone who brightened my life and my world every day in her little furry way.  And I am only too familiar with that.  I know what’s coming, which leaves me mostly in a state of calm dread.  The feelings of grief don’t surprise me; the absent-mindedness and forgetfulness don’t surprise me; the wishing I could have done more for her doesn’t surprise me; the bursting into tears at the slightest provocation, and their transition into wracking sobs, doesn’t surprise me; the emptiness and numbness doesn’t surprise me; the lack of desire to do anything that I usually do to amuse myself doesn’t surprise me; when the crazy thoughts come, like how I shouldn’t go out, because I need to be home when she comes to the back door and barks at me to let her in, it doesn’t surprise me.    

I know this land pretty well by now.  I’ve been traveling it for nine months, and I know I hadn’t reached the border yet.  So it is not difficult to slide right back into what I had only recently been able to start pulling myself out of.  That is to say, it’s not difficult to get there; it’s plenty difficult to be there.

I have control of a sort this time.  I knew she was sick, and wasn’t blindsided like I was with A.  I was there at the end.  I got to say goodbye, to tell her I loved her, to apologize to her, to kiss her, and to hold her as she took her last breath, and then after.  I have all the pictures.  I have the house filled with memories.  I have all her worldly possessions, such as they are.  I have contact with everyone who loved her, too, and I have their sympathies.  I am in control of the arrangements and rituals.  I have everything I was denied, to one extent or another, when A died and that was so hard on me, that I thought made the grief worse than it otherwise would’ve been.  I am not hostage to anyone else’s expectations, sense of entitlement, thoughtlessness, issues, or charity in sharing information and time.  And it is as I’d come to suspect, and have now had confirmed:  it doesn’t matter.  The amount of comfort that those things bring is one less salty tear in an ocean of sadness.  

And they bring their own pain.  I wanted to be a part of the arrangements, but I could barely make out the check at the crematorium for her; I had the foresight to make out the one to the vet, except for the amount, prior to his arrival.  I put away the dog grooming kit we bought for her before he got there, too.  I knew from experience that once she was gone I wouldn’t be able to move anything, change anything.  Her pill bottles will stay on the counter.  I won’t be ready to put them away for awhile.  I can’t just box up all evidence of her and put it away.  I don’t want to clean her out of my life.

The only comfort I have, if you can call it that, is recalling her rasping, ragged breaths and the misery and exhaustion written all over her sweet face, and knowing that she is at peace now.  That she can rest and not hurt anymore.  No one should have to struggle for every breath, and for me to have let her keep doing that for another week for my own selfishness to keep her here as long as possible…well, I just couldn’t do that to her.  The vet said that it probably would’ve only been a few more days, and it just would’ve been increasingly worse for her.  It was bad enough.  He said it was the right thing to do.  I know it was; but it still feels wrong. 

Today I had to say goodbye to my shih tzu, my firstborn.  It is devastating.  She was 10 years old, and the sweetest, cutest little dog anyone could ever want.  She’s been fighting congestive heart failure for 2 years, but it became clear recently that she was losing the fight, and all the medicines weren’t going to be able to help her.  I knew when the vet gave me the diagnosis originally that it was a death sentence, but when she responded so well to the meds, I guess I thought we’d manage it until she was a ripe old dog age.

But it got worse and worse, and by this weekend, she could barely breathe.  She couldn’t get any rest, couldn’t lie down, unless she was exhausted, and then she collapsed just long enough to catch her breath.  And then she’d sit up again and pant, because lying down was too uncomfortable for her, compressing her chest. 

I didn’t want to.  I hoped she’d just slip away in the night.  But she kept on even though I knew she was miserable.  And I didn’t want my baby girl miserable.  She’d suffered so much already.

So the vet came to the house, and I held her in my arms as she slipped away.  And even as I chose it, even as I knew what was happening, and that this was the right thing, I was still wishing for a different way.  It was horrifying, and yet I knew that I needed to be there. I needed to do it, for her. For me. She’s my child. I know a lot of people with children don’t see it that way, but I don’t really care.  I’m not going to determine whose love counts, and how much, and in what hierarchy, and I don’t have time for anyone who does. Love is love.

The right thing doesn’t always feel good.  The right thing is not easy, most of the time.

I miss her sweet little face so much already.  It nearly killed me to walk away and leave her at the crematorium, but if I didn’t leave, I’d have had to move in.

I’m experienced in this grief thing now, unfortunately.  And while the shock wasn’t as great this time, I know exactly what’s coming, and that it will get worse.  She is free of her pain; mine is just beginning.

Both she and her “brother,” my other dog, are on meds.  And when I went to give him his, without giving her hers, I wailed and sobbed, clutching her pill bottles to my chest.  I tried.  She tried.  We all tried.   And it just wasn’t enough. 

God, I hate this.  Again.  And once again, I find that I can’t stop crying.  Not for long, anyway.

I have never been much of a gardener.  I have just a few houseplants, most of which are 15 years old and very forgiving of neglect, which is why they’re still around.  Others have come and gone, but they did not survive me.  I have never been one for finding joy digging in the dirt that some do, and it is not my way to plant things, because I am aware of, and okay with, my horticultural limitations.

But I planted some seeds the other day, in two planters in front of my house.  I had had the thought awhile back, and finally ordered 100 California golden poppy seeds from eBay.  I scattered 50 seeds in each planter, and have watered them faithfully every day.  Each day I check the planters for signs of sprouting seeds.  This memorial garden is too important to me to fail.  I have to think the Universe will help me have those poppies.  I could’ve put anything in those planters; California poppies are symbols of him, and of me.  I have a dear friend, and we call each other “Poppy.”  No sightings yet, but I am hopeful.  

And I realized today that that was a miracle, my being hopeful.  It surprised me.  I’ve had okay days, and even some good ones, but I have to say that I really hadn’t thought about hope, or thought I was capable of it any longer.  Because hope is akin to expectation, and expectation that anything will turn out the way you want it to is the first thing to die when someone you love dies.  You stop taking anything for granted, even that seeds that are planted and tended will sprout and grow.

I hadn’t really thought about it that way; I just wanted poppies as beautiful living reminders of A.  But I guess it’s indicative of how far I’ve come in the last 9 months that the thought even crossed my mind.  Last July, I wanted to be dead, too.  I had no hope.  I had nothing but pain and despair.  And now, I am fostering new life with hope in my heart that despite my black thumb, they will in fact grow.

As I said, it was no accident that I chose California poppy seeds, but as I think about them, they are even more significant than I thought.  For there are few seeds smaller than poppy seeds.  If I’d sneezed, I would’ve lost all 100 of them, as they would blow away with the slightest breeze.  And here I am, planting tiny, delicate, none-too-heavy seeds, believing that with some tending, they will flower into something beautiful.

It’s not everything.  But it’s something.