Recovering from Loss

Recovering from Loss

My dog, a rescue pit bull named Sasha, died on Saturday. Sasha survived on the mean streets of Dallas for the first three years of her life. One night she was lucky enough to be noticed by a group of dedicated volunteers who work to save street dogs. They picked her up and took her to their shelter. The volunteer veterinarian who first looked at Sasha discovered she was pregnant with nine puppies. Once the puppies were weaned and found new homes, Sasha moved to our house.

Her first few days were interesting. She was calm, cool, and confident. Except when she wasn’t. On our first walk together, she would not allow us to wander down the middle of my quiet neighborhood streets. She insisted that we stay on the sidewalks. She immediately assumed the role of watching out for me. (I am sure her thought was, “Anyone dumb enough to wander in the middle of streets instead of staying on the sidewalk definitely needs help!”) When we ended our walk and headed back home, I swear she gave me the quizzical look of, “Umm, you know we are right back where we started, right? What was the point of that?”

Her less confident moments came inside our house. It was obvious she had never slept on a dog bed, climbed on a couch, or otherwise experienced the comforts of “inside” life. When we encouraged her to climb up on the couch, she would jump up, but just sit awkwardly in an obviously uncomfortable position. She would look around at us as if to say, “Is this right? This place is so soft and warm, but I am not sure what you want me to do.” When we would pet her, she would stay perfectly still, as if to say, “This feels so nice; if I don’t move a single muscle, it may continue.”

Sasha lived at our house for five years. She never let up on her rule to always stay on the sidewalk. She came to understand that I liked to walk in circles. If you gently guided her body down to a resting position on the couch, she would stay there. She eventually learned to relax and even expect head and belly rubs.

I would often wonder about her years on the streets, trying to imagine what she might have experienced. Was she abused? Was she forced into dog fighting? How many times had she been “bred”?

I am a therapist, and I spend my days trying to help people make sense of their lives. We often talk about tragic experiences. Here is how I imagine a conversation during a session; if I were Sasha’s therapist:

Me: Good to see you today, Sasha. How would you like to spend our time together?

Sasha’s possible responses might have been:

I have been having bad dreams lately, about the time I was outside in a lightning storm.

I saw a person today who looked just like the person who beat me when I was little.

When I walked by a group of dogs yesterday, I had a panic attack, because I remembered the time I had to fight off 3 dogs.

But I was never Sasha’s therapist. She was mine. She gave me unconditional love and support. Always. Whenever I needed it. She was there for me when my daughters left home for college. She was there for me when I felt afraid in my house at night. She was there for me when I fractured my hip and had to stay in bed. She was always there for me.

Since Sasha’s death on Saturday, I have been grieving by staying home, staying in bed, watching Netflix. I canceled my counseling sessions early in the week. I worried I would not be able to provide my clients the support the deserve. I could not bring myself to go outside to go on one of my “circle” walks in the neighborhood.

About a week after Sasha died, I was scheduled to work as a volunteer counselor on a crisis line where my job is to respond to people who text in for help. Most of these people are truly in a crisis. Some are actively suicidal. Some need to be rescued to save their lives. I have been carefully trained by the organization Crisis Text Line on how to help these texters. Even with this training and the support of supervisors and fellow volunteers, my time on the line can be stressful.

To help minimize my stress, I prepare for each 4-hour shift by changing into comfortable clothes, getting a cup of tea and bag of popcorn, and sitting on the floor of my living room with my laptop computer. I sit on the floor because, this way, if I start feeling stress during a conversation, Sasha will come over and rest her head on my lap. I swear my blood pressure drops ten points when I feel her head on my legs.

This was going to be my first session without Sasha. Of course, I had the option of taking time off and not working my shift. Crisis Text Line stresses the importance of self care for counselors, and there is never any pressure to work if we need to cancel a shift.

I decided to get online and see how things felt. I knew, at any time, I could transfer my conversation to a colleague or supervisor, and stop texting if I needed to. It was not easy. I felt a huge loss as I sat on the floor with my tea and popcorn, by myself. At the end of the shift, I did what I always do — I spent about fifteen minutes reflecting on my conversations with texters. I almost always come away with a sense of accomplishment. And a new appreciation for things in my life.

On this day, when I reflected on my conversations, I thought of one texter who told me about their situation of extreme loss and tragedy. I remembered my feelings as this texter was able to transition from utter despair to a little bit of hope. Then I thought about Sasha. My intense feelings of loss. The shock of her sudden death. In that moment, I was able to feel some relief. Some lifting of the fog of sadness.

This time of reflection was not a magic bullet. I am still in a lot of pain. But it did give me the strength to let go of Sasha, just a little bit.

The perspective I gain working with my clients and volunteering with Crisis Text Line is priceless. The ability to connect with so many human beings in different places of their lives is a gift. The feeling when someone expresses true gratitude for your efforts is phenomenal.

I know I will always miss Sasha. But hopefully by continuing to challenge myself to reflect on my life, the abundance of positive things, and the wonderful experiences still to come, the sadness will continue to lift.

Goodbye my Sasha Girl. I know you are walking around up there in heaven — but only on the sidewalks. I love you.