Grief.

25 days ago we lost our dog, Dez.  I initially wondered if I should write about her, as I have become extremely aware of whom I write about, feeling deeply that, unless I am granted permission, no one else’s life is for me to talk about.  For those that know me personally, it may be no surprise to read that this particularly remains true about my kids.  I am aware of how this may appear to others however I have held strong to my deep belief on this matter.

So, while Dez was our boxer dog that we had the pleasure of having in our lives for 11 years, she was also a family member.  She was (and still is) someone who had an old soul, wise eyes and the intuition to know when someone needed a snuggle or deep stare in their eyes.  Because she was (and again, still is) a true member of our family, I hesitated writing about her – sharing her story of her life is perhaps something that I am not permitted to do, if I allow myself to remain true to the same ethics and beliefs that I hold true for other members of my “tribe.”  And yet, here I am – and while I offer no excuse as to why I am choosing to write about her, I will say this: I feel that it may help me heal.  I also feel that it may help others, even if it is just to be acknowledgment that you are not alone.  And lastly, I feel that Dez would be okay with me talking about her life and death, for I am doing so with nothing but gratitude, respect and love.

I am still navigating through the grief that has come with losing Dez.  June 30^th 2016 we made the painful decision to euthanize.  I am realizing that, while we had very dear friends and family make the same painful decisions, it never really occurred to me that we would have to do the same.  I held onto the notion that when it was her time, Dez would pass naturally.  I guess I just wanted it to be that way, more than anything.

Without getting into the still painful details of her death, I know it is important to be honest and say that I question our decision now.  I think that this questioning comes along with the process of grief that I am in, and I am also aware that my husband does not share this questioning.  And for a brief bit, I began to wonder WHY I was feeling how I felt about our decision.  One of the most important lessons that Dez has taught me since her death is that grief is SO different for everyone – there is absolutely no right way to muddle through the process – and the idea that there are steps in this process, I feel, is useless.  All I know for sure is that, since her death almost 4 weeks ago, I teeter between feeling almost at peace with her death, to questioning our decision – which with it comes a slew of other uncomfortable emotions like guilt and anxiety.

Even today I was sitting out back in quiet and the moment I thought of her and said her name I felt what I can explain to be like a shock – a zip – of so many things: anxiety, doubt and sadness.  I heard someone say something about her losing her dog and it really has stuck with me as I too am feeling similarly: “I am not sure how to process her death.”  I feel undoubtedly the same: my mind feels stuck in the notion that Dez is gone and that it was due to our decision.  Of course, I know that we made the decision to euthanize with her well being and quality in life at the very forefront of our minds.  I know this, I do.  But to make the decision that will result in not having her drive home with us is something I still struggle with. 

We actually just drove by the clinic in which we last saw her breathe and I didn’t realize how hard it would affect me.  I was filled with a rush of anxiety and sadness.  On the way home, I purposely took a different route.  As the universe would have it, we had no choice (literally, unless we wanted to drive way out of our way) to drive by the space the very next day (which was yesterday).  And while the anxiety crept up again, this time I was able to at least allow myself to look at it.

And so back to this feeling of being stuck in not knowing how to process her death – we chose to have her cremated and I stare at her urn constantly, trying to wrap my head around the idea that it is her physical being in there and I can’t.  I can’t. 

My mind goes to her last physical moments with us. I relive the hesitation I felt when, after they administered some sleep meds she ate some treats from them.  She hadn’t eaten anything in days – and her appetite had dramatically decreased in the past month to the point where she was half her weight.  I felt a rush of anxiety and questioning.  She was eating!  Was she telling me something?  I voiced something to that nature with the vet and they assured me that it could be her “nervous energy” that was allowing her to eat something.  And within seconds she has spit out probably half of what she has consumed.  But that has stayed with me.

My mind goes to how quickly her heart stopped.  How I was so afraid that I would hear that “last gasp” they spoke about.  But instead she slipped from a deep sleep to an “eternal sleep”.  It literally took seconds.  I think about how I had to finally get off that floor and leave her in the room with a kind woman – but someone she had never met before.

My mind goes to her body after her death.  I have been encouraged by loved ones to “not think about that” but my mind goes there and I can’t – and won’t – force it not to.  I think about how long they might have kept her body in that room before moving her to continue on with their day with healthy dogs coming into the room after her.  I sob as I think about her body in the “back shed” of the clinic (yes, I asked where she would be) before she would be picked up later that day by the cremation company – “luckily today was the day they were doing their rounds”.  I think about if she was in the van with other beautiful souls that had also recently passed, and if so if they all atleast had their own space.

My mind goes to six days later when we were able to see her body again.  Six days.  That was the first opening they had to have her privately cremated.  During that time we were grieving, crying, remembering and trying to cope.  We were walking around the back yard looking for any signs of her physical existence – her poop that we used to curse, her tiny black hairs that got stuck in everything – anything.  And then we saw her again and I lost it.  I think about how the room smelled (we did a private viewing of her body) – a mix of dog, perfume and chemicals.  I remember how she looked so peaceful but I just wanted her to wake up.  I expected her to just pop her head up at hearing our voices.  I think about how, when we were finally ready, the wheeled her into the crematory. 

I stare at the small tree that we planted in the back yard ; “the Dez tree” the day of her death.  I remember telling hubby a few days after as I looked at this tiny seedling, trying desperately to survive the intense heat and lack of rain – that all I was suddenly filled with rage. I was looking at this tree that in some way represented Dez and all I wanted to do was punch it.  I can type that with a small smile on my face, as I know how silly it sounds – and yet in the at moment I was filled with rage and that poor little tree.  It wouldn’t replace her.

And now, weeks later I am still processing.  These images, these thoughts, these memories whirl around in my head on repeat.  I sit with tremendous guilt – not just surrounding her death but in thoughts of her life too.  I yelled at her too much.  I didn’t snuggle her enough.  I didn’t have enough pictures of her around the house.  She would often be home alone for hours upon hours.  This guilt is enough to consume me.  And I know, before anyone tells me – I know that we gave her a great life.  I know that the good memories far outweigh the heavy ones.  Truly, I know.  But I also know that in this moment, I am feeling the heavier memories and the feelings that come with them.  I understand that, the processing of her death is a lot different for me that with other people who loved her as much as I did.  And I also know that for other people who have lost a loved one (person or animal), their process may have been far different from mine.  And finally, I have come to know that not everyone is going to “get” this grief.  It is not for anyone else to understand.  That has been a big one for me.

All my life I have felt the need to be understood. I have stood insecurely in my shoes with this idea that, unless someone else “gets” me, what I am feeling or thinking or saying has no meaning.  Crazy, I know.  I see that now.  Yet one other amazing thing that Dez has taught me.  This grief journey is mine.  It is not even remotely similar to other people who have also lost Dez.  And I no longer question that.  As sticky and uncomfortable and dark as it can be, I am making a conscious decision and effort to muddle through all that comes with losing a loved one – the guilt, the questioning, the anxiety – it all.

And that is not to say that there haven’t been uplifting moments these last few weeks.  Sharing stories, memories and pictures of Dez has been so comforting and amazing.  On a group I am on devoted to boxer lovers, I posted her photo and received hundreds of people loving on her, commenting on her and even sharing her beautiful face. I think she would be okay with that.  Dez brought so many people love and happiness.  For anyone that I know personally and that had the pleasure of getting to know Dez, thank you for being a part of her life.  There were some amazing messages and comments I received that, to be truthful, took me days to read as I would break down crying.  Little blurbs about memories of Dez that others have.  It’s a beautiful thing.

There is a saying I came across when were planning our wedding: “To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.” – I adore this.  In this process of grief and acceptance I hold onto this.  To know that, even on our darkest days the sun is still warming us – with love from others, that come with amazing memories and that comes from within.  I also find deep comfort in knowing that, if we never had Dez in our lives and if we hadn’t loved her so deeply, the pain wouldn’t be this raw and hard.  Also knowing that processing loss and grief is a journey – and one that can only lead to strength and beauty.

While we no longer physically hear the clanking of her toe nails on the floor, her little prints are always with us. With those sweet paws, she danced on our hearts, has left some more depth on our souls and for that, we will never be the same – and I will be forever, eternally grateful.

In honour and loving memory of Desiray (Dez).  You will forever be remembered as the patient (you had three babies climb all over you, after all), hyper, compassionate, wise and soothing being that we were blessed to have in our lives.

As we whispered to you over and over as you took your last breaths: “thank you.”