Gotcha in my heart

Today, eleven years ago, Darcy made her appearance into Mum’s life. She bounced past Mum who stood transfixed at the doorway as she watched Darcy scampering around, sniffing every corner of the flat that was to become her forever home.

It was tough going for the first couple of months, and Mum would be the first to admit she nearly gave up. A good friend suggested that she would regret it if she did. And boy, was she glad she didn’t!

Before long, Mum was besotted and they never left each other’s side.

May’s comment: Today would have been Darcy’s 11th Gotcha Day. It was truly one day that changed my world and she changed me. Darcy became the one good, pure, honest thing in my life. Everything else was hard earned, hard fought or fraught with stress, dishonesty and human errors.

She was given to me for a reason and then taken away too soon – also for a reason. I accept it’s the cycle of life but I feel somewhat cheated and trust the Universe will reveal the reason to me someday.

They say time heals … but I am not sure. Time makes everything clearer. In the case of bad relationships, it helps to put things into perspective, and we realise how things are actually better with distance. In the case of an innocent, beautiful, loving relationship, time makes us appreciate what we had so much more. Along with it comes regrets, wishing we could have done some things differently, wishing we could wind back the clock to make right some of those moments. It’s a cliche but death is a reminder to grasp every moment that we have so that we don’t live to regret for not having done so.

Harping on about the sadness of loss is not my intent. I have always found writing to be a way of processing my feelings.  Writing is easier for me than talking. I dread being asked, “Are you ok?” I brush away friends’ concerns with a quick, “I’m ok” though I am not. People say talking is good and it will help. I would rather not talk about it.

Whenever we’re at home, I still light the candle on her urn at 18.18 – the time of her last breath. And when it goes off at the end of the night, I would watch the plumes of grey veil twist into the air like strands of silk just like how her soul ascended to the heavens. Each time there’s that tinge of tightness in my throat. I want her to be fresh in my mind, imagining her curled up beside me on the bed with the warmth of her body against mine. Or listening to her pit-pattering her way to find me in the next room, peering around the corner as if to say, “there you are!” And then making her way to wherever I was. Or imagining how she would walk along those familiar pavements and finding the spot, off the curb and just behind a car wheel to pee.

The sorrow lies deep inside that is surprises when it finds its way to the surface unexpectedly. All it took was someone at the hair salon to say, “she was one very special dog” and tears flowed into my Covid facemask. I didn’t think that going to Heathrow Terminal 3 could be emotional, not because I was happy to meet a friend but remembering the last time we came to meet Sasha and his dad. It was there when the vet confirmed it was hemangiasacorma – a certain quick death sentence. She was already so tired then, I had to carry her. Or running into a staff at Liberty’s who was always excited to see us. He saw me and George the other day, came over and gave me a hug – and we stood like that for minutes in the middle of the shop floor. When those tears come, there is no way to suppress them unless I dance around and try to shake them out of my system.

I thank those who have written in commiseration to share their own losses – past and present. And I hope in turn by sharing my own story, it will be useful to those who will one day inevitably experience this themselves.

I’ve been looking back at some of the videos of how much her tail wagged every time she saw me. It was pure joy and unbridled happiness. Those memories can never be replaced.

“Myriad of memories and tiny moments make up a life. Take care of them, hold them gently in your hands. Nothing is promised. This life is less about what we’ve earned and not what we’ve got. More of who we have loved and who we leave behind. It is less about the live lived and more about who we loved our lives with.” (from The Spilt)

So I don’t think time heals. Time will build more distance and create more memories to fill the spaces that she had left. Any happiness I feel will always be tinged by a little Darcy-shaped emptiness in me.

If I was given a wish, I would wish to re-live the last ten years of my life. I would make the most of every moment I had with her. And on this day eleven years ago, Darcy changed me in ways I could never dream of. I cannot thank her enough for all that she had given me. I am blessed.

P.S. Hadn’t realised there are so many profound scenes about grief on television programmes. A lot of the above thoughts have been beautifully verbalised in scenes that had me watching again and again – because they get it.