The Sound of Silence

Five days after I wrote my last post, the unthinkable happened. 

12 days after Gomez had to leave us. 

31 weeks after Porter left us.

9 months and 3 days since Howard died traumatically seizing. 


In such a short time, our house is like a tomb. You can hear a pin drop. 

No sound of flat faced noses breathing air thru tiny nostrils. No jingling tags. No food, no water, no potty, no medicine. No feeling eyes staring in your direction as you eat your meal. No wags at the door as you enter. No snuggles. No back scratches or bellyrubs.

The refrigerator running seems so loud. Was the icemaker that noisy before? 

I keep waiting to hear something. I keep looking for them. I look at their pictures. The videos. Just to see them. To remember. To cry. 

The pain must be felt. It needs to be until I can begin to let go of it. 

I have moments where I cry so hard, missing them. ALL of them. Even though it's been 9 months and 3 days, 31 weeks, 2 weeks and 5 days. 

I feel like nobody understands. You really can't, not being in my shoes. Nobody can feel this pain. It is for me to carry, until my heart can let is go.

The morning of August 18th was bright and fresh. Toby was not. He decided this was the day. His day to leave us. He wouldn't eat or drink. He had a hard time walking. Pain was visible on his face. I had never seen that look on his face before, in the over 13 years he lived with us. 

I couldn't believe it, so soon after Gomez. 12 days. 12 damn days. 

Not fair, not fair, my head kept screaming inside. More time, please more time! I can't do this!! Not already! Not so soon...

But our little old man would not be allowed to suffer, suffer for our selfishness. We had to do what was right. Because we loved him. 

When we got him he was less than a pound, all 9 weeks of him. His body was snow white, his ears black and brown, his eyes dark and round, his hair fluffy. I learned from a lady in rescue he had "the dreaded cottony coat" which meant his hair flew everywhere when he got a haircut and matted more easily. It also meant he was so soft to touch. So, so soft.

As he aged, his ears lighter and lighter til they had only streaks of grey and tan. 

He had a pekingese like face, flatter than the usual Shih Tzu, and the most adorable underbite. In his later years, after having so many dental cleanings for all those teeth crammed in that tiny mouth, he had one tooth remaining on the bottom front. It could be seen protruding most of the time and was the cutest thing.

He loved to beg. He'd get into your dish as soon as you turned your back. I blamed the hypothyroidism and Cushing's disease. He didn't care, he was hungry! 

He loved to run the Shih Tzu 500 (his version of the Indy 500) around the house. When he was younger he played fetch. He liked soft, latex, squeaky toys. He would hold the toy in his mouth and squeak and squeak. 

When he wanted out, or food or water he barked. And barked. Until you gave him what he wanted. If you ignored him, distracted, he'd bat the bowls around until you finally got the hint. 

He had an adorable little strut we called his prance. The day before he died he pranced for us. He didn't look ready to die. 

After he finished his dinner he proceeded down the hallway to clean his face on the carpet. This consisted of a couple minutes of rubbing both sides of his face on the rug. It was a habit he did religiously, though we never knew why. He cleaned his face the night before like everything was normal. 

On June 6th, our vet told me Toby had a tumor on his spleen. It looked like it had infiltrated his liver. There was no hope. Surgery might give him a little more time but it might also shorten his life. Take him home and enjoy him. Let him eat what he wants. If he doesn't want to take his medicine, that's okay. 

I told myself I wanted him to make it until his two legged siblings came, his brother in August, his sister in September. He made it halfway thru his brother's visit. He got to say goodbye.

We had two months with him. Two precious months. And for that only gratitude. As I grieve. As I mourn. 

It will never be the same. 

Grief

As much as Thursday dawned a beautiful summer day, Friday's weather was dark, dreary, and rainy. Fitting weather for the way I was feeling. As the raindrops hit the windshield of my car, I thought about the tears that still dropped intermittently from my eyes.

They say time heals all wounds. I'm not so sure of this. I've grieved before, people and pets. The beginning intense, then little by little, fading until it is tolerable. Eventually your life returns though different. You get used to your new normal whether you want to or not.

This fall, it will be four years since my dad died. He was sick a long time, his death not unexpected. It was hard to see the once vibrant person, unable to walk or even move unassisted. Unable to breathe. His death brought a sense of relief to me because he had suffered so. I felt guilty I didn't grieve more.

I felt the same way after my grandparents died after suffering long illnesses. I've since learned there is a name for this: Anticipatory Grief. It's normal and expected. It makes sense, this letting go. In a way, it is a gift because it has the ability to make death more gentle on loved ones. Hence the sense of relief I felt as I was grieving my dad's death.

My dad and I talked a lot about politics. We thought alike in most areas in that respect. That was one of the hardest things to adjust to in his absence: wanting to call him and discuss this or that, exclaiming our frustrations to one another. We are so programmed as humans to just expect things to stay the same. To not realize the change that is coming down the road. To have shock and disbelief when it does. At almost four years I think of the conversations we could be having right now and it makes me smile.

Another thing that was tough: wanting to talk about him. All the time. Unfortunately, others don't see it that way. Once it passes, it's like the person is just gone.  Occasionally someone might ask generally how I was doing. But I wanted to talk about HIM. That would have given me comfort.
Something I'm trying to remember myself when someone loses a loved one. Encourage that person to share memories of them, and not just right after it happens.

My cousin and his wife (who live in another state), suffered the tragic loss of their 5 year old daughter in a traumatic auto crash this February. I only spent time with Gabrielle once for a couple days, but I grieved her like she was my own. It's been almost six months and I still cry when I think of her. Her picture on the front of our refrigerator, not to be forgotten. She was bright and beautiful. She had the world ahead of her. It ripped my heart out.

I don't know how they could do it, so many hours in the church, greeting a lengthy line of people coming to mourn. My cousin in a wheelchair because of his own injuries and resulting surgeries, his wife at his side. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Their strength. Their pain. As tears continued down my face in a near, never ending stream for the hours I watched them, their eyes were mostly dry. All cried out.

Where I live is a large population of Finns. You will see the blue and white Finnish flag license plates emblazoned on the front of cars. You will see bumper stickers that say SISU. Finland has a meaningful word for what in reality is in all of us, Finnish or not. We all have the power to move ahead thru adversity. Perseverance. It isn't easy, but we do it. Because there is no choice.

Yes, Gomez and Porter and Howard were dogs. They weren't my grandparents or my father. They certainly weren't Gabrielle Grace. That doesn't mean I don't feel acute pain at their absence too. I still need to grieve, and grieve I will. I will endure just as my Finnish neighbors do. I will get thru it.

My life will be different, but this is the essence of life. Alive and ever changing, flowing like a river.