What I Learned About Grief After My Dog Died
I’ve been to my fair share of funerals.
The first funeral I attended was for my maternal grandmother when I was just one month old. Over the next 40 years, I would attend somewhere close to 100 funerals.
Many of the deceased were elderly and/or sickly parishioners from various church communities my family participated in. Others were older, distant and not-so-distant relatives. Others were relatives of close friends. And still, others were people I knew from various jobs.
Some I interacted with on numerous occasions and others I never spoke a word to. Some I had personal relationships with and others I didn’t know well but wanted to show support to a loved one.
There were a couple deaths that hit me the hardest — one was my godfather whose daughter I was close to and whose house I frequented throughout the majority of my developmental years. The other hard-hitting death was my childhood best friend, whom I met when we were 8 years old. She passed away at 27.
I experienced grief with these and the other losses, but there was space around it. It wasn’t a constant blow to my heart. It came and went. Several things probably contributed to that: I didn’t see them everyday. None were from my immediate family or innermost circles. And none were from within my household.
That is, until last week, when my dog died.
It was a blow like nothing I had ever experienced.
I had lost dogs before. We were always a dog family growing up, but I was younger and didn’t have the same responsibilities I did with our beloved Athena.
I had been in her life for a total of 9 years. My husband had her for her full 16 years.
I walked her, fed her, took her to the vet and gave her meds. I cared for her, pet her and interacted with her regularly throughout the day. She became bonded to me and I to her.
She seemed to understand human emotions and always approached me when I cried as if to comfort me. She followed me up the stairs even when it became difficult for her to walk. She wanted to be around me, and I was relentlessly moved by this. She lost her hearing about a year ago, but that didn’t stop me from talking to her. I knew on some level she could feel the energy and vibrations of my voice, so I continued to speak lovingly and affectionately to her.
I never lost someone or something so intimately tied to my everyday life. Losing her has rocked me to my core, illuminated a lot about grief and impacted me in ways that, I imagine, are universal.
Here are some ways I have been and continue to be impacted:
Basic Human Functioning
There’s something about grief that impairs basic human functioning. I lose control over my own muscles. Without warning, my legs collapse from under me and my limbs go limp. Deflated. Weak.
Eating is disordered. I forget to eat. I eat too much. Hunger and satiated cues are thrown off or nonexistent. Eating schedules are erratic.
Grief disrupts my sleep, waking me up at all hours. It has no regard for time or health but instead, leaves me sleep deprived, foggy, and in a daze.
Getting dressed is exhausting. Cleaning, chores, and paying bills are nowhere on my radar.
Routine and Regularity
There’s something about grief that makes time stop and interrupts any routine or rhythm I previously had.
There’s something about grief that makes the mornings especially hard. In the waking fuzziness, as my mind slowly transitions out of slumber, its sharp, fierce presence is the one thing that is unmistakably clear. It jars me out of sleep and unapologetically forces me to confront my painful reality.
The sinking. The irreplaceable void.
It sneaks up on me. I don’t know when or where it will hit me, if I will be in public or in private, amongst friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues, or by myself. I don’t know which memory will trigger the floodgates. It is demanding of attention, and I am at its mercy.
Remembering and Regret
There’s something about grief that makes me want to hold onto every moment, especially the “lasts.” The last time she walked. The last time she wagged her tail or played with a toy. The last time she went swimming — the thing she loved to do more than anything. The last time she soaked up the sun in the backyard. The last time we shared an understanding gaze.
Her smell lingers on her bed and on her clothes. I take in as much as I can because I know that, too, will eventually fade and slip away.
There’s something about grief that triggers a slew of “If I had known, I would have…”
If I had known that would be her last time savoring a meal before losing her appetite completely, I would have watched intently and savored the moment as well. If I had known that would be our last walk, I would have stayed out longer. I would have patiently watched as she took in all the sights and smells around us. If I had known that would be her last time licking her paws, I would have cherished even that.
There’s something about grief that induces an intense pressure to not forget. That leaves you scrambling to remember. That makes you feel like an asshole if you don’t keep any and all memories alive. A punitive voice that makes you feel like you’re failing your loved one by being human and having an imperfect memory.
Guilt
There’s something about grief that brings immense guilt. As if by not focusing on having lost her at all times, as if by tending to basic human needs like eating, I’m somehow forgetting her. As if by going back to work or resuming some semblance of a routine, I’m abandoning her.
I feel guilty for laughing, for not being home with her…even though she’s not there. Guilty for what I did and didn’t do for her. Guilty for ever being annoyed or impatient. Guilty for not reciprocating the affection she so freely gave.
I feel guilt if I move the furniture around because I have to leave everything the way it was when she was here last. That by moving furniture, I’m dishonoring her. I’m forgetting her. I’m changing things. I’m moving on… Though regardless of the placement of furniture, things have already been forever changed.
I feel guilt for moving any of her things. That’s the way she left it and I don’t want to disturb any of what remains of her essence.
I don’t want to stop looking for her. I don’t want to stop waiting for her to come back. I don’t want to get used to her being gone. There would be guilt in that, too.
Community/Isolation
There’s something about grief that allows us to be vulnerable around each other in a way we aren’t otherwise. That broadens our usual restrictive dynamic, helps us tolerate each other’s tears and evokes deep understanding for one another.
There’s something about sharing sorrow and heartbreak that, despite being painful, is also palpably and simultaneously healing. The presence of my loved ones in Athena’s last hours was comforting. It moved me that she got one final chance to see those she’s interacted with over the years. That she got to feel the depth and power of our collective love.
There’s something about grief that has catapulted my partner and I into new territory in our relationship, that has brought us even closer together after 9 years in a way we’ve never been close before.
And still, there’s something about grief that makes me want to retreat. In the middle of socializing, I want to sneak away so I can be home crying and honoring my baby.
Silence
There’s something about grief that welcomes silence and reverence.
Where others would typically fill the space or otherwise feel awkward or uncomfortable, grief allows softening. Letting go.
It makes silence okay. Necessary.
In the silence, the sacredness of her memory is honored.
Dearest Athena,
I will miss your eyes and your expressions. Your symphony of sounds. The way your head felt in my hands. The longing looks you gave me. I will miss these and so much more. I hope you’re somewhere where you can run again without tiring, where you can swim until your heart’s content.
If you’ve ever lost someone close to you, I hope you feel seen and comforted by this piece.
