She’s Gone: How the death of my mother inspired the most beautiful goodbye.
“She’s gone”, I remember hearing as I peeped my sleepy little eyes open. The red numbers of the digital clock were the only light in the room. It was 3:16A.M. that chilly September morning in 1990. I knew deep down what that meant without fully understanding the magnitude of its finality. It was a level of quiet I’ve only experienced one other time since.
I was 15 months old when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Despite chemo, radiation and her sheer will to live, she passed away at 38-years-old just a month prior to my fourth birthday. My earliest years were an introduction to life and a crash course in death simultaneously.
Growing up I missed her with a depth that I cannot describe. I would go through every photo album and imagine it bringing her back to life. I watched every family video and VHS tape in the house in hopes that I would find her voice again. Luckily for me, she had set aside a collection of things she had written. There were letters to her parents about her adventures with being a mother of three young children. Several notepads were filled with “to do” lists, gift ideas and grocery lists
Among her notes were a handful of journal entries and half-written letters to loved ones while she was sick. She shared her thoughts on life and highlighted what she found most important to pass on. Her letters passed along the wisdom of her perspective as someone who was intimate with the concept of her inevitable mortality. I read every word. Her words became etched into my soul and taken as my personal mantra. Her last journal entry highlighted how lucky we are to experience love and the importance of expressing it often. She was full of gratitude and faith while knowing she couldn’t stay with us. Her handwriting revealed that the end was near. “Enjoy every moment”, she insisted just two days before her passing
Part of what got me through intense phases of grief and panic as a child was lying on the floor with our two family dogs. I would climb over the gate and join them in their beds. I would run my fingers through their fur and they would relax the weight of their bodies into me. It would ultimately settle my own nervous system and deepen my breath. I didn’t know it then, but they were helping me out of “fight or flight” and back to my body.
At 21-years-old I “accidentally” got a puppy of my own. I picked her up from the Humane Society at just 8 weeks old. She plopped right down in my lap and mouthed at my fingers. We went “just to look” at puppies, not to get one. That didn’t last long. I fell in love with this tiny black “bear” and she became my sweet Sammie. I could not have possibly known the impact she would have on my life. Our bond became the closest relationship I had had besides the one I had with my own mother.
Two weeks into our life together I began my exit from an abusive relationship. We got out together. I vividly recall lying on the floor of our very empty apartment singing “Every little thing is gonna be alright”. I only really believed it because she was there with me.
Sammie and I moved from Minneapolis to the Rocky Mountains together and started our journey of redemption. She assisted me through more panic attacks than I can count. She was my gentle inspiration to keep going when my PTSD symptoms wouldn’t allow me to leave the house. I would bring her with me to therapy appointments and her presence allowed me to begin to feel safe in my body again. I was beginning to heal. She was the unintended accomplice to my resurrection from a long history of trauma.
But in the spring of 2018 it happened again.
“It’s the size of a melon. She could go at any moment” the vet revealed. It was cancer. Sammie was 10 years old and the story of our life together flashed across my mind’s eye. The thought of living without my sweet girl revived the excruciating helplessness of losing my mother to the same disease.
I struggled to receive his words. The ultrasound outed the malignant, inoperable tumor wrapped around her liver. From that moment on we couldn’t un-know the truth. Her diagnosis was tough to swallow. I wanted to know how much time we had left. “Three months?”, I asked hopefully. “I would be very surprised,” he admitted. He didn’t want it to be true almost as much as I did, but he sounded confident. As hard as I tried to pull it together I was no match for the grief cocktail of emotions to follow. My heart was breaking. My inner 3-year-old was aching for her mom as my adult self feared her next painful goodbye.
For several days following our appointment I remained deeply in tune with Sammie’s cues. I wanted her to show me how she was feeling. I didn’t get the sense that she was ready to go quite yet. Her quality of life was still very high. Against her vet’s recommendation, I decided to take the “wait and see” approach instead of prompt euthanasia.
I drove myself crazy, second guessing my decision every time she made a peep. My older sister had just been through a similar rollercoaster with her dog. She validated my feelings and was honest that it was one of the hardest decisions she had ever made.
“You’ll worry a lot. But when it finally is her time, you’ll just know. I promise. Sammie will tell you”. I knew deep down that she was right. Nobody knew Sammie better than me, so I decided to trust that I would know. I channeled my inner mother and imagined how my mom would have responded in this situation. I entered into the excruciating depths of uncertainty with faith and love for my girl.
Having missed my mom since I was 3 years old, I had an idea of how it would go with Sammie. I made a plan to follow the advice of my mom’s letters and make the absolute best out of the time we did have together. I began collecting memories. I very purposefully practiced presence with Sammie. I would lay with her in the grass and watch the rise and fall of her belly with her breath. I began meditating with her beside me, soaking in every detail of each moment; the texture of her fur, the sound of her sighs as she settled. I would follow the rhythm of the step of her paws on our walks. Nuzzling my face into her scruff, I would train myself to remember her scent. I knew the importance of photos and videos, so I would record even the most typical moments in our daily life together. I knew that seeing her alive and breathing would bring me some comfort and connection when she was gone.
Just as my mom had expressed her love and gratitude, I would sit with Sammie and tell her the story of our life together. I thanked her for being my steadiest and most trusted companion. I thanked her for being my greatest teacher and my best friend. We did this often, as I didn’t want anything left unsaid. I often sobbed so deeply I felt as though I was in fact the one dying. But at the same exact time I felt every speck of gratitude for each second of our lives together. From the moment of her diagnosis I made sure to tell her that it was okay to go whenever she was ready. I asked her to let me know so that I could honor her divine timeline. I promised to be ready when she was because the depth of my love for her outweighed my admittedly selfish desire to keep her for eternity.
With the time we had left together, we did everything.
We went to the river every day. We spent time in the mountains which my mother had loved just as much as we did. I hunted down a massive pile of snow in the middle of summer because being covered in snow was Sammie’s favorite.
She had always “tricked” me into night walks before bed by refusing to go potty right away. Instead we lingered under the massive night sky in awe of the vastness of the universe.
We camped and grilled her steak. She got treats, liver, sardines and some popcorn that she never once caught in her mouth. We went on all of her favorite hikes and spent quality time with her best human and canine friends.
When it was time she did let me know. I could tell she was getting uncomfortable and that her body was tired. She had visibly lost weight and her belly had grown larger. We had talked about where she was “going” for several months in preparation. I was honest. I said that I’d never been there and that I didn’t really believe it was a “place” that humans could quite comprehend. I mentioned loved ones who would welcome her when she arrived, which I expected wasn’t too far away. I told her again that it was okay to go. She had far outlived her prognosis miraculously living 18 months post-diagnosis. I asked the vet to make a home-visit so Sammie could stay calm and comfortable in her bed. I made the appointment and began preparing for her send-off. She was ready.
Over the course of her final several hours at home, friends both human and canine stopped by to say goodbye. They thanked her for her sweet presence and expressed their massive amounts of love for her. I witnessed almost 12 years of friendships cascade through our living room honoring the connections that Sammie had made throughout our life together.
Every person who loved her the most got to say goodbye and tell her what a good girl she was. Everything was perfect and absolutely heartbreaking at the same exact time.
On our final night together we “camped” outside on the deck together. We awoke gently with the sun. It was a cool mountain morning in August. She enjoyed chicken and pumpkin for breakfast. I laid out cozy blankets and her favorite stuffed animals. We lit candles and frankincense resin while calming music played. I arranged an altar with beautiful crystals and photos of loved ones who would be meeting her on the other side. Friends offered the most incredible support as Sammie began her transition. We prayed for a peaceful journey. I thanked her one last time for everything and made certain that there was nothing left unsaid. She knew my whole heart in that moment.
When the vet arrived just after 8 A.M. I sat beside her as she laid sweetly in her bed. My hand gently over her heart, I sensed as her breath slowed and eventually stopped. Her heart continued to beat for longer than I’d expected. The doctor finally confirmed that her heart had stopped.
“She’s gone”, he confirmed.
I stayed.
It was quiet.
It was as quiet as that September morning of 1990.
Close friends immediately stepped in to offer support as I sat with this new reality. They carried Sammie down to be transferred for cremation. My dear friend Cheryl cleaned my entire apartment and drew me a calming bath. She prepared comforting food and made sure I had everything I needed to feel as nurtured as possible. Sammie’s aunt Tasha came to get me and I stayed at her house. I slept for the first several days with breaks for food, water and short hikes with Tasha and my “nephew” dog, Cooper. Before Sammie, I had lost almost everything including trust in people. In her new physical absence I recognized that she was very much still alive in the connections she had fostered during our life together. I had learned to trust in people again and how to lean into the support of my friends. And maybe most importantly I had learned to trust in myself again.
Losing my mom is still one of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced. Through my journey with Sammie, my inner child was able to not only grieve but to heal simultaneously. Because I’d known the ache of that loss, I was able to write my own beautiful ending with my very best friend. I have visceral memories of her along with photos and videos of the simplest of moments together. So when I miss her, I can look back and truly feel her presence.
Sammie was sent off with the most heartfelt gratitude and a depth of trust I didn’t know was possible. Sammie’s diagnosis and death was the most heartbreakingly beautiful experience of my life. It was so much more than I could have hoped for. And my mom was right. The depth of love I was able to experience in the face of death gifted me a fullness of life that I could have never imagined.
In loving memory of Linda M. Gavin: 12/8/1951–9/8/1990
Samantha “Sammie” Bear Gavin: 4/4/2008- 8/9/2019
