***The Blessing Of Grief

My family is a stoic one. I don’t think I ever saw a tear or heard even a sniffle. It’s taken years, but I’ve broken out of that pattern somewhat. That said, other than the immense emotions I expressed during the breakup of my family at the end of my first marriage, I’ve been fairly reserved.

Not so yesterday. Yesterday, our wonderful, but elderly dog died. She was perfectly energetic the day before, so I wasn’t ready for her quick descent into frailty. I had noticed signs of her aging and had told myself that 13 was “getting up there.” I just didn’t know that yesterday was going to be The Day. Charlie died on Thursday, November 29.

I was fairly stoic at the vet’s crying several times, hugging and holding on to Jim who was also deeply moved by the death of our long time companion. As we were returning home, I was bereft remembering our living space as we had left it: Charlie’s bed right beside my chair, her bowl of untouched kibble with the milk bone she didn’t even lick sitting on top, the syringe and bowl of broth I hoped would sustain her in the middle of the night in our bedroom. I knew all these things would be there but our sweet girl was not going to greet us at the door.
By the time I went into our empty house, I was wailing. I just let it out and sobbed and cried as I washed and collected Charlie’s things so I didn’t encounter them in every room. Jim and I cried on each other’s shoulders for awhile, and it was also time for personal grief, to experience the sadness that each of us felt in our own way.

This catharsis was healing. I was surprised that I allowed myself to be so vocal. I had one little thought about what the neighbors might think if they heard me; then I realized they would think that something sad had happened. I didn’t need to take care of them; I needed to take care of me.

I have always admired people who could express sadness freely and openly. After experiencing it so cleanly yesterday, I realize what a blessing it is. I felt so alive when my tears ended. Of course, there were more to come, but the sobbing was perfect in that moment.

Jim and I took Charlie’s body to our mountain home and buried her beside our other dogs’ bodies. That too was a blessing. Her body was in a box and I thought we’d just put the box in the ground. Jim suggested that we line the grave with pine boughs and place her body on them. At first I thought, “I can’t look at her all dead and everything,” but he was right, this was a good idea. She looked cute. Isn’t that odd to say? But she looked just as sweet as when she was alive. It was a fine thing to say goodbye to her in this way. More tears fell. And even more will fall because we speak of her often. We sense a presence that is there only in our memory. Our routines haven’t changed to accommodate her absence.

Snow will be coming soon and in the spring her grave will not be distinguishable from those of Jesse and Bennie. Eventually the poignancy of the last day will fade, but we will always have pleasure and comfort remembering each of our dogs as they filled our lives with unconditional love. Goodbye, Sweet Charlie, I am so happy to have been honored with your presence in my life.nn©2007, Jacqueline Hale