Delighting in My Grief

The phrase “time heals all wounds” is certainly cliche. But does time - that is, distance from an event - actually provide healing? Some would be quick to argue that it does, citing how months and years provide the ability to pick up the pieces and move on with one’s life. While this may be true in the sense that life does in fact go on, it doesn’t necessitate that its continual march bestows any healing. In fact, research indicates that the passage of time doesn’t provide any healing, that what it actually does is allow opportunity. Heather Lyons, Ph.D. noted,  "Some people will use time as an opportunity to collect experiences that orient them toward their values and dilute or challenge difficult experiences," (Mandriota, 2024). I suppose this is true particularly when it comes to loss. 

As I mentioned in a previous post, on January 9, 2024, I had to say goodbye to my dog, Rose. It was a heartbreaking decision whose pain has not dissipated. While it’s been little more than a month since her passing, time has done nothing to console me. In fact, it’s only served as a reminder of that loss and provided acute awareness of the void that now occupies a majority of my life. Unlike Dr. Lyons suggests, I have been unable to collect any experiences to dull the pain and heartache. Quite to the contrary, I have been quite content to delight in my grief. That is, I am intentionally wallowing, refusing to move on. Even though each day passes, and January has turned into February with March rapidly on the horizon, I have chosen to leave my wound open and let it bleed for a while. 

Why, you ask? Well, that explanation requires going back a few years to May 6, 2022. On that date, we lost our other dog, Oakee. She was only a few weeks shy of her fourteenth birthday. She lived a long and happy life. That was a tremendously difficult day. Oakee had been part of our family for nearly thirteen years (just a year old when we rescued her from the shelter). It was the first loss to our family since our dog, Rosie (not be confused with Rose) passed away in 2009. At the time of Oakee’s passing, Rose was 10 (her birthday was May 2, 2012 - the day we adopted her). While Rose was certainly not a puppy, she was still full of life and vigor. However, Oakee’s passing caused me to consider a time in the future when I would have to say goodbye to Rose. Like many,  I suppose, I enjoyed the bliss that is ignorance and didn’t give much thought to the passage of time. I naively believed Rose would make it another three or four years like her sister. Unfortunately, that was not the case. 

Oakee was a terrific dog! A Walker Hound-mix, she barked incessantly when she got excited for dinner and would chomp the air. She chased squirrels and birds and passersby who walked along the fence line. A unique dog to be sure, Oakee didn’t live in our house - we lived in her house! If ever a dog were a princess, it was her. If she felt like coming to the door when we got home, she did. Other times she’s remain on the furniture and wag her tail. But she was all lover! I have many pictures of her laying with all of us at different times, happy and content to be with her family. We adopted Rose a few years later. The two quickly became best buddies. They’d go out together and lay in the yard, sun themselves, and play often. Oakee’s passing had a significant impact on Rose, who was lost without her companion. We adopted another dog a few weeks later, a puppy, named Kiwi. Rose took to her and played with her, although she’d wear out quickly given the age difference.

Rose was an exception. She was my dog. I didn’t choose her; she chose me. If I went upstairs, she followed. When I was out in the garage, she’d wait at the door. While I was out for my morning run, she waited at the window. During the day when I was at work, she had to have one, if not more, of my shoes. Rose was my constant companion. So, when Oakee left, I knew Rose’s passing was going to be exponentially more difficult. And I was right. In the weeks and months leading up to her final day, Rose developed a tumor in her mouth that we hoped could be removed surgically, thus extending her time a year or two. I think about that frequently. What would I have done in that year or two? Would I have changed anything going forward? No, not really. I would have continued to walk Rose every morning, spend time with her, and love her. That extra time would have been nice and would have allowed me to delay the inevitable. But that was not to be. 

So, the day came when the decision had to be made - a decision I regularly question and rethink with much guilt. No amount of logic or discussion can extricate a man from the quagmire of his own guilt. After Rose passed, I researched how to cope with the loss of a pet and spoke to a grief counselor (several times). My research yielded articles about how to make a pet’s last day memorable - traveling to a favorite place, going for a walk somewhere new, or a special meal. Rose was slow to eat on her last day, a rarity for a Lab, especially one who had eaten crayons, leather, coffee beans (she threw them up), loaves of bread (we didn’t learn our lesson the first time), and apples (took us a while to realize we weren’t the ones eating them). Needless to say, I was distraught the day I had to take her to the vet. Overcome with emotion, I spent the morning with her - crying, telling her I loved her, hugging and kissing her. I hadn’t thought to do anything special for her. To me the day was anything but special. Looking back, I regret not giving consideration to making the day unique for her and giving her a proper send-off. In the end it wouldn’t have mattered, I know, the outcome would still have been the same. But the guilt remains. 

Like many, I’ve suffered cuts and abrasions, some of which were significant and left scars. In February 2023, I broke my ankle and had two surgeries to repair the damage. Today, I am fully healed, back to my normal level of activity. Without scrutiny, it’s nearly impossible to tell the extent of the damage and subsequent swelling that once existed. Time, it seems, has allowed the wound to heal. We like to think the same applies to emotional scars. That with the passage of enough time, we can get on with our lives and relegate those painful events to the garbage heap of our past and live in the present. Perhaps that is true. Maybe once enough months and years have gone by on the calendar we can put those painful moments behind us and find a semblance of happiness. 

Not me, though. Not right now. Although a deep gash, my wound isn’t life-threatening. It bled for a while initially, but the bleeding has all but stopped. Sure, I should clean it up, maybe get a few stitches, and let it heal. That’s what most people would do. But I’m not most people and Rose wasn’t just any dog. She was my dog, and I was her human. No, I’ll tend to the wound in time, knowing that by doing so I’ll invoke healing, a process that will run its course. The wound will slowly mend and form a scar that will remain, the only indication of past suffering, a personal reminder of what once was. The pain and tenderness will evaporate and be forgotten like a puddle after the rain. For now, I want to feel the pain, let the last trickles of blood ooze, and embrace the moment in all its strife. During military training, instructors are fond of saying the best part about pain is it lets you know you’re not dead yet. Indeed, I am very much alive!