Today I woke up thinking I was special. I thought I was granted a free pass towards early release from grief.
I opened my eyes for the first time since last Thursday and they were dry. No immediate tears. How completely strange. I trusted myself enough to do winged eyeliner (my favorite) for the first time since last Thursday. I had been crying so often throughout the days that even my mascara was always getting messy. Today felt different.
I was aware of what happened, but it felt further away. I felt stronger; like I could hold it together throughout the whole day. I almost did. I had a “normal” morning driving to work listening to juice wrld, getting compliments from the man at Dunkin’, and not crying. I even felt excited because right before I walked into work, I checked the shelter website (which I’ve been doing obsessively anyway) to check the status of the dog I put in an application for. I’ve checked about 20 times a day since Friday when I applied. I needed to make sure her owners hadn’t changed their mind and to make sure she was okay. Her room had changed from the kennel number to a clinic number.
Because she’s my 4th dog I’ve adopted from this shelter, I know what that means. When a dog is moved to a clinic room, assuming it’s not due to illness, they are yours. You still have to wait on that official call where they tell you they’re ready for pick up, but the clinic is part of their exit prep. Each dog gets one last look over, bathed, flea dipped (likely needed), and they get spayed or neutered. I was so excited. I knew that a new beginning would be happening soon.
And then I got home from work. And I had intrusive thoughts about how each second with my dogs is never enough. I obsess lately over not wanting to be away from them at all. Not to shower, not to shop, not to eat, not to travel, not to work. Thoughts race around in my head about how I could get them certified to be emotional support animals. How can I bring them everywhere? Why do I have to spend so much time away from them when their lives are short and they could leave me at any time. Obviously my biggest regret is feeling like I didn’t spend enough time with Gatsby and he was snatched so quickly. It haunts me every second.
I wanted to take Gracie to get a pup cup at Dunkin’, but then I changed my mind and brought Lexi. I also feel guilt about always bringing Gracie and never the smaller dogs. They can’t go together at the same time because Gracie is food aggressive. So... multiple dogs in a small space with pup cups? Yeah... not happening. Plus, its always just been mine and Gracie’s thing. But I wish Gatsby would’ve had more pup cups and therefore I want Lexi to have more pup cups. So, I brought Lexi. My favorite Dunkin’ manager asked me who Lexi was and I got to explain. I’m so PROUD of myself because I even brought up Gatsby, how recently he died, and why I brought Lexi instead. But I didn’t cry while I was telling him! I was so so proud. I was back to feeling like I had escaped the trauma early.
I got home and cuddled with Gracie and Lexi for a long time. It wasn’t until midnight or so (it’s 3am as I write this) that I decided to get up and start cleaning. I was thinking about how if I got the call to pick up the new dog tomorrow, I didn’t want her walking into a mess. So I cleaned. It was routine and no big deal. Throwing out some trash, getting rid of stuff I never opened, and then I started some laundry. And I looked down. And I saw my broken printer that honestly hasn’t been used since moving in because it doesn’t work. But it always just sat there right in the corner of the kitchen/laundry room. And Gatsby used to jump up on top of it all the time. Something about his little body wanting to be taller or feel bigger to match his personality.
I immediately started crying and screaming. I can’t understand why he was taken. It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I kept screaming to no one. He was 9 years old!!!! I always hear about little dogs living until 13-17. They get old. They outlast big dogs. Why didn’t that happen for Gatsby? As much as I blame the vet, because truth be told, there’s no excuse when they did the full senior exam and panel to not detect heart disease... I also blame myself. I’ve been told 800 times I shouldn’t, but I do. Maybe he should’ve seen a vet twice a year. Maybe I should’ve addressed his other issues like skin sensitivity and hot spots sooner. Maybe I fed him the wrong food (but kudos to me I don’t feed grain free so at least there’s that). Nine years old just feels way too young for it to not be my fault.
As I was freaking out about the printer and how life isn’t even fair for pure souls like animals, Gracie went into my room. And she spilled an old dunkin cup onto my sheets. The sheets that Gatsby last slept in. I screamed at her for so long. I wasn’t ready to wash the sheets and change them when it feels like that means getting rid of him completely. I’ve been crying for over an hour nonstop.
So, I wasn’t given a special gift. My grieving has just changed from constant and general to triggered and sentimental. There’s just certain things that I can’t be okay with. I didn’t expect to be, really. How long am I going to keep the printer and stare at it and cry? How long am I going to keep the box he liked to lay in and smell the clothes in it to see if they smell like him? How long am I going to be obsessively clingy with the living dogs knowing full well it’s not healthy. How long am I going to be paranoid and wish I had enough money to take each of my dogs to the vet every 2 months just to make sure they’re okay?
Grief doesn’t just make you sad. It makes you angry. It makes you paranoid. It makes you so scared that it’s going to happen again when you’re not ready. It is a giant black hole of what if’s and regrets. My grief evolves everyday, but I won’t be so foolish to wake up and think I’m headed back to normal just because I don’t immediately cry. I hate this. I hate it so much. Not just because it hurts so bad, but because it completely changed me. I feel like I had my grief cherry popped and I’m not the same and never will be.
When I was in 3rd grade, my grandpa died. I was too young to process and too young to feel a super tight bond, so I was fine. Last year, the dog my mom and I adopted when I was in 8th grade died at the age of 17. I had been away from him for so many years (college and 8 Florida years) that he didn’t really feel like mine anymore. Plus, he was so old and slowly deteriorating. I just expected it. I cried when I found out, but I was fine. This. This is very different. This is all mine to process. This is the loss of someone I held dear to me everyday for 8 years. This is MY animal. MY baby. MY regrets. Somebody I couldn’t save. Somebody I held in my arms on the way to the vet and felt his body completely go limp and give out 5 minutes before arriving to the vet and me screaming NO NO NO we’re almost there! You’re going to be okay. The feeling of fleeting hope I had when they told me they resuscitated him and performed CPR. I didn’t actually think he would die at all. And then I was told how often this would keep happening and I would just be prolonging him dying in this same exact way. And I saw for myself how much pain he was in when they let me hold him one last time and he immediately started barking with every breath he had left because he was so confused and hurting so much.
I don’t think this grief will end anytime soon. I know I won’t be the same as before. Words fail, but I just wish I could tell him how much I miss him.