Love Hurts

Grief never ends … but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness … it is the price of love.

May’s comment: When her dog passed, my friend posted these words on her bathroom mirror to remind herself that grief is the price of love.

Over the years as a dog owner, I had cried buckets for others who have lost their dogs through illness, old age, accidents or theft.

I think as pet lovers, we project our own feelings in these situations and simply cannot imagine how we would survive if we lost a beloved dog or pet.

When it became my turn to lose a pet, I found myself grieving very differently from how I thought I would.

One thing that became immediately apparent for me was that grieving is intensely personal. And private. I wanted time to process the news and face the stark reality of the inevitable, not share it.

I did call a handful of those closest and nearest to share the news. They were with me from the start when I struggled through the first months of owning a dog. Their non-judgmental support in those times when I almost gave up on Darcy and then cheered me on as I transformed into the-girl-with-the-dog was something for which I will be forever grateful. And my Darcy became a part of their lives too.

When Darcy was first diagnosed, not so long ago, my initial reaction was numbness and disbelief. To say I was stunned is an understatement – because although I know that cancer is indiscriminating, surely it wouldn’t happen to us? How wrong I was. It happens to so many whether they are smokers or yogis. The dreaded “C” can happen no matter how well you choose to live.

From the moment the “C” word appeared in our vocabulary, everything revolved around it. How is it that one day she was fine and then when the “C” word was uttered I began to see all the signs that I hadn’t noticed before? And there were “naughty monkey” thoughts of guilt and blame, as Sandra called them – when I wondered what things I had done wrong, or why hadn’t I noticed the signs earlier? And I wondered if maybe giving her all those innoculations, flea treatments and deworming could have been the cause. Or maybe it was me being angry with the world that transmitted negative vibes to her body? NO! Stop it! It is counter productive to think such thoughts.

This saga was NOT about ME but Darcy.

The morning after her surgery, in the shower, I wept. The rain shower marred the tears and the sound of water quietened the sobs. My heart was desperate that morning with the reality of what was told to me the day before. The vet had called during the splenectomy to ask for my agreement to leave the second tumour that had grown on her intestine. I had basically agreed to give up hope of reversing the situation.

I was the frustrated angry child thinking about all the adventures I had planned for us right after the lockdown. Wallowing with sad thoughts of unrealised plans, unfulfilled dreams and an uncertain future, Sammy reminded me – “This is part of the cycle of life and death. Stop thinking about the future without Darcy and make the most of every moment you still have with her. And be grateful – give thanks for what you’ve done, grateful that she has survived the surgery, that you have this time to say goodbye.” He was right. How lucky were we!

The grief shifted once I accepted the cycle of life and death and once I felt gratitude for what we’d shared. But that didn’t take away the dull ache in my heart, in my chest and my eyes. I tracked her every move, not with joy but with concern and worry. A sadness lingered deep within.

After having gathered my thoughts and myself, I needed to be present for Darcy when I brought her home. Time was of the essence. There is no cure for hemangiosarcoma, the blood transmitted cancer had been passing through the body quietly and growing tumours. It was a matter of time when the loss of blood would diminish function of the organs and muscles. How much time was the unknown. We lived every day wondering if it would be the last.

I avoided telling others about our news until I was ready. Even then I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want their sorrow added to mine. I knew there was no cure and very little hope that she would live much longer. And I really didn’t want anyone to help fix things. I wanted to absorb every moment we had together. I avoided like a plague the sad eyes, the sadness in their voices, their concerns. I knew they all came from a good place but I didn’t want the drama, the outpouring of grief and concern. What I learnt from this period is we all grieve in different ways – and it is important to respect each other’s ways of coping.

Memories of those last days are the toughest. It was difficult to watch someone you love suffering. My mind swung between anger at the stupid “C” – where billions have been spent on research and yet its origins are still an unknown and wanting to relieve her from the diseased body that had let her down.  What pains me most to remember is the tired look on her face, her confusion and at the same time the embarrassment that she could no longer proudly control her body.

At goodbye, the tears did not come. Maybe it was because I had a month to prepare for the final moments. Instead there was a peacefulness in the room. There she laid, tired from all the bodily dysfunction, she was already a lifeless form. She was ready, so was I.

I did have one regret and that was that I had kept her an extra night despite her growing discomfort. But Rafi reminded me that if I hadn’t, I might have always wondered if I was coerced into letting her go too soon.

“Are you ok?” I get asked a lot. Yes, I am ok. I am ok because I am relieved and at peace. Though physical death is final, I believe the spirit lives on. Choosing to believe in the After Life, I know in my heart she is safe. She is released from the body that confined her spirit. I like to imagine she is once again running like a lunatic across the fields or maybe bouncing through the clouds – having to be ahead of the pack. She always had to be in the lead. She is doing just that right now.

It is only when I think back to how she really did fulfill my wishes in the last days that I weep with gratitude – so many little things she did for me, without me realising how important they would be to me now.

There are the obvious moments when I truly miss her. The mornings, for example, when I think about getting out of bed to feed her and George. Now I close my eyes and take a moment to remember how she would routinely jump off her side of the bed and then jump onto my side – no matter how little space there was between me and the edge of the mattress. She would manage to curl up with her head on my pillow. Her body positioned so my right arm would wrap around her and my face buried in her fur – and we would stay like that no matter how many times I had hit the snooze button.  And behind me, George would take his place – his body against my back. Those were my happiest moments.

And then the sadness comes out in the most inappropriate times!

When I was having a coronary CT angiogram a week after Darcy passed, my mind drifted while lying still on the very flat bed, listening to the whirring of the machine, thinking about the last weeks of our time together. The 15 minutes passed quickly and radiologist who had been giving instructions to breathe in and release came back into the room. “I took beautiful pictures of your heart,” she said. “Was it a broken heart?” I asked. “What? Nothing is broken,” she said, taken aback by my question. “My dog passed last Saturday,” my lips quivered. “Oh, no. Now you’re making me cry,” her voice broke too. Sometimes I wonder about myself. LOL!

And it is really ok to cry. It really is. In fact it is the best thing to let it all out. Watching After Life was a huge release for me. I have always loved a good cry. Tears aren’t always about sadness, they are tinged with love, deep love, and they are beautiful.

My life did not revolve around my dogs. I included my dogs in my life because that was why we started writing the adventures of Miss Darcy. I was happiest being with them and they with me. But no matter how much we want them to be with us, life and death has its own agenda.

Writing definitely helped me a lot. Being able to re-capture those difficult moments and put them into words had helped to release the sadness and transfer them. And also to know that I have memorialised it. Some day I will read these words again and I will re-live the grief. But for now, we must go on because Darcy would want me to be happy and to continue her legacy.

And so I go about doing things with George these days – lots of things. But always at the back of mind, she resides.

So on this Valentine’s Day when we show those we love with flowers, gifts or messages, many of us think about the loved ones we have lost. And it may make us sad, we may shed a tear or we may smile with memories that warm our heart. Grieving is the dark side to having loved. And I am glad I have loved – more than I knew I was capable of. And how much she has given me the last ten years – so many memories.

“The pain of grief is just as much part of life as the joy of love: it is perhaps the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment. To ignore this fact, or to pretend that it is not so, is to put on emotional blinkers which leave us unprepared for the losses that will inevitably occur in our own lives and unprepared to help others cope with losses in theirs.”

Coralie shared an article by Ellen Kohn – Saying Goodbye: How to Deal With the Loss of a Dog which you may find useful. I found myself having gone through some of those steps.

Her 5 Steps to dealing with the loss of your dog:

Step 1 – Acknowledge Your Feelings

Step 2 – Identify the Wounding

Step 3 – Create a Conscious Awareness

Step 4 – Turn Grief into Gratitude

Step 5 – Heal from Within

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, but LOVE leaves a memory no one can steal.” Anonymous.