Love Hurts

I wrote this on Facebook a year ago.

One of the most wonderful things in the world is loving someone and spending so many years with them that the threads of your lives become intertwined, creating a glorious tapestry of memories and laughter and comfort and finding-home.

One of the most terrible things in the world is having that person ripped suddenly away.  The design in the tapestry stops, frozen at that moment, and the previously woven threads feel sharp and cold. Those threads must remain - pulling them free will cause the entire weave to unravel - but it is painful to touch them.

Looking at photographs of Lissa is hard. She's alive in those moments, smiling, my friend who's only a call or email away. For the briefest flash, my brain forgets that she's out of reach and in that millisecond, I have peace.

She loved Corey Hart.  I'm listening to his CDs right now, wishing I could enjoy the music, wishing it didn't feel so melancholy.

 

Slobberhounds and Englishmen

Today marks the 21st anniversary of my father's death.

I wrote the following post on my blog in 2008.

Catty Remarks: Slobberhounds and Englishmen

 

 

 

When October Goes

The end of October makes me sad every single year now.

"When October Goes" was one of Lissa's favorite songs.

When October Goes - Barry Manilow

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Want to Go Back

A little while ago, I had asked my mom to write down recollections of her life as she was growing up. It was really cool reading stories from her past.
So I asked her to write down recollections of when I was a baby and/or young child. She jotted down a few pages, and I received them in the mail today. She wrote "You had colic where you had a lot of gas on your stomach, and you cried and screamed for hours. Dad would get home from work and pick you up, and you would stop crying. I think it was because his body was so warm, and you'd go to sleep."

As soon as I finished that sentence, I broke into wrenching sobs - much as I'm doing now, just reading it again.
I want to go back to a place and time where I could have his arms around me and feel safe and comforted.

 

 

Traumatic Grief

Traumatic grief occurs when the grief following a loss is complicated by the traumatic nature of the death itself, such as a sudden, violent, or unexpected event. It combines symptoms of both grief and trauma, leading to a prolonged and intense mourning process that interferes with daily life. Symptoms can include physical reactions, overwhelming emotions like anger and guilt, persistent thoughts about the traumatic event, and a profound loss of meaning. 

Hugging Grief

In May 2021, we lost our sweet kitty Willow, and I was having a hard time with my grief.  Due to COVID protocols, the emergency vet wouldn't let my husband be in the room with her when she was released from this life, and it haunted me (still does) that she was surrounded by strangers during her last moments.

I sent the last letter to my best friend Lissa on 4/24/22.  I had been talking with her about Willow, and this is what I wrote in that last letter.  Little did I know, less than a year later, it would be pertinent to my grief over losing my friend.

I think I have turned the corner a bit regarding my grief over Willow.  It really did help me to read that “Breakfast with Seneca” book as it gave me a different perspective about life.  I was particularly pole-axed by Seneca's saying to the woman who had lost her son and couldn't shake her grief, “You hug and hold onto your grief, keeping it alive in place of your son.”  I'm actually not sad THAT she died – I'm more upset HOW she died.  But even so, after reading that book, I realized that I kept focusing on the last day of her life, rather than remembering the 16 years we had with her.  So yeah, I still miss her and I'm still sad that she's gone – but it's helped to temper that emotion with thoughts of the funny or sweet times we had with her.

 

 

 

 

 

Non-Death Losses

 

Reality of Loss

 

 

Oliver 2005-2019

We lost our bright boy Oliver six years ago.

He was the purest, most gentle soul you'd ever want to meet in this life or the next.

One of my favorite stories about him is when I'd go around the house, picking up all the toys and putting them in an open-topped bin. He would follow me around, watching me. Once I was done, he would walk behind the TV stand, go to the bin, and pull out his favorite leopard-print kicker toy. Always took the same route, always pulled out the same toy.

Fly free, sweet boy. We miss you a lot.

 

On Your Birthday, I Visit You in My Heart

It's Lissa's birthday today.  She would've been 57 years old.

I wanted to do something to mark the day, didn't want it to pass as though it were just another nondescript date on the calendar, but nothing I thought of felt right.

I considered going to the old cemetery in Tully Park, spending some meditative time among the dead.  Some may consider that morbid, but cemeteries are very peaceful places.  However, I knew there would probably be people flowing in and out of that area, and I have a hard time crying in public.  Deep down, I know there's nothing wrong with doing so.  But as a kid, I cried a lot and was teased for it, so I have a block about being vulnerable around others.

Instead, I walked up to the grocery store in one of our sister buildings and bought a small red velvet cake.  I sang "Happy Birthday" to her, starting to cry in the middle of the song, finishing with "I really miss you."

With each bite I took, I said aloud something I loved about her:  Her laugh, her kindness, her willingness to drive us everywhere (since I wasn't comfortable driving in big cities), her devotion to caring for her mother and her nephew when they were experiencing life-altering challenges, going on adventures with me, being my best friend.

I'm planning to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Corey Hart (one of her favorites) and reading her creative blog (LaLa Creates).

On Facebook, I shared my post from last year where I said I hoped that her birthday in 2025 would be less sad and painful.  It is not.  The pain has gone from sharp to gnawing but it still eats at my soul.  This is her first birthday to hit when I've been in Ireland, and she was an Irish lass.  I said on Facebook "I hope I've pulled some of her essence with me so she can soar over the green hills and dance on the sea."

I miss you, dearest friend.

She gifted me with this beautiful wooden trinket box for the holidays one year, inside which was this slip of paper.  It reads " Into this box, I have placed my happy memories of times we've shared, struggles over which we've triumphed, our tears of joy, our girlish laughter.  each time you open it, may you feel the blessings of our friendship, may your heart smile, may you know the magnitude of happiness your love has brought to my life."

 

 

 

 

Little Girl Lost

We lost our little girl Willow on May 13, 2021.  This was one of my posts on Facebook that day.

I know that all of the "firsts" without Willow are going to make me break apart.

She loved to sleep in the laundry basket of warm clothes. When she'd hear the dryer buzz, she'd lift her head and look toward the stairs. That first load of laundry this weekend will be hard.

She loved to sleep on me when I'd lie down on the couch. I wanted to lie down today but I couldn't bring myself to do it, knowing she wouldn't be there to climb up and fall asleep.

She liked ham and Buddig chicken and cake donuts so when I have those things again, it will make me sad.

I fed the boys mid-morning and putting down two plates of food instead of three made my heart hurt.

I opened the kitchen cupboard to get a bowl and the sight of her medicines felt like a sharp stab.

 

Goodbye, My Friend

 I wrote this on May 4, 2012 - the day we lost our kitty Duncan.

In December, our beloved cat Duncan began losing weight.  We found out he had anemia and dehydration.  We remedied those conditions, and still he was losing weight.  He was interested in food, but wouldn't eat much when we offered any to him.  We held out hope that once the anemia and dehydration were taken care of, his appetite would bounce back and he'd return to his old self.

Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver.  The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more.  He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids.  He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.

I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while.  I told him that I loved him.  I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him.  I told him it was time to rest now.  I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.

He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut.  He was crazy for cake donuts.  When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut.  Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.

His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m.  We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad.  He was purring the entire time.  Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye.  She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek.  I think that meant a lot to her.  She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.

Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death.  He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.

He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm.  I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system.  They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone.  I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened.  A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.

Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle.  When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him."  It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.

We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back.  They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.

We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina.  I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger.  Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.

We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.

We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies.  The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water.  I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.

Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home.  For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives.  The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here.  It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.

Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering.  It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was.  He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.

I love you, Duncan.  You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us.  Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace.  You've earned it.

 

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky

When Lissa died, her obituary on the funeral home website offered an option of planting a tree in her honor. We paid for five trees and shortly thereafter, I received an email from the forestry company, showing me where those trees had been planted.

Just recently, I went onto Google maps, plugged in the coordinates, and put in a label for that location.

I hope those trees live for centuries, providing shelter and sustenance for creatures great and small.

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 6 marks the second anniversary of Lissa's death.  I don't yet know how I'm going to mark that day.  I do know it's going to hurt.  Maybe not as deeply as a year ago, but it will still hurt.

 

 

 

 

Grief after Pet Loss is Valid