On Grief
Last fall, my dog died. She had been acting lethargic. During a checkup, they found several large tumors covering her spleen, liver, and pancreas. It was already too late.
Joe Hudson talks about how grief is beautiful. How, when his dad died, the experience was wonderful. Since hearing this, I sort of got it. Crank equanimity up to 10, and everything can be okay. Beauty in all things. Or something like that.
All in theory. I've had a fortunate life so far in that deep loss hasn't been particularly close. 3 out of 4 grandparents have died, though all had long lives. It was their time. Some classmates I went to school with died, but we weren't that close.
I have plenty that I could have grieved, but it was never put straight into my face where I had to. That, of course, changed.
I want to tell you about her. Her name was Canelé, named after the French pastry.
She was my buddy. She'd lay next to me as I worked most days. She was wonderful. Incredibly smart, attune. Goofy, hilarious. She's the reason my wife became a vegetarian. She was deeply emotionally attuned. If I was upset, she'd provide gentle comfort. She helped me understand facets of love that I hadn't before. She believed in property rights — she would never mess with anything that wasn't hers. She never wanted to inconvenience us. She cared deeply about rules, and was pleased to enforce them. She had a herding instinct, and knew we didn't like it. She was always indifferent to her dog food. She loved carne asada tacos and poké bowls.
How the hell did domesticated wolves end up like this?
Our journey together was improbable. She was born in Taiwan, in a shelter. A vet took care of her for almost two years. We don't know a ton about her early life, but know there were small kids who played with her and loved her. They kept her until a dog rescue transported her to the US. Her adopted home fell through, and I found a profile of her on Overstock.com's Pet Finder. This was the first and last time I looked there. We weren't even seriously looking for a pet.
She was part Border Collie, part Taiwanese Mountain dog. True to name, she loved the mountains. She hiked and ran up many 14ers in Colorado, never tiring before us. She loved camping — it was the only time we let her sleep with us.
She died at home with us holding her. We knew it was the end. The night before, we invited friends—dogs and humans—over so everyone could say goodbye. Her decline was fast: 2 months from first appointment until death. Along the way, she kept her spirits up, but knew she was sick.
I remember the last walk we took. The last time she was able to climb the stairs. The last time she could jump into the truck. The last vet appointment. The last time she could eat. The last time I gave her pain and nausea medication.
That morning, we called the vet to make a euthanasia appointment. It's so strange how for pets, this is the norm. I suppose we're caretakers in life and death, and recognize the transition is hard. Or perhaps it's because we can't deal with it. But it felt like this was the right—or default—decision. We told her that the appointment was at 10am. She understood.
Our last moments together were in my backyard. It was a quiet day, blue skies, no wind. Nothing to do besides be together. Her laying on her brown blanket, the one she chewed through the week we got her. We took turns petting her and offering our gratitude. Saying she's a good girl. How proud of her I was. How we're sorry we didn't catch it sooner. How she died too young. Damnit why so soon.
True to form, she didn't want to inconvenience us. At 9:50am, before we left, she took her last breath.
I took what felt like my first. A gasp, finding rhythm again. I was alive, she was not. I saw the bright colors, the blue sky, all senses. She could not. We were separated by a wall with the one-way path between.
We left home to go to a friend's mountain cabin, and grieved.
I found the pit of pain, metabolized, and grieved some more. At times, quiet sadness. At times, loud convulsing. Going towards, not away. Through the tears, the tension, the longing, I saw it.
Beauty. Enjoyment. Connection. Pain. Richness. Power. Energy. Pain. Life. Delight. Love. Pain.
I was fortunate to have just enough self-work where I wanted to see it. Wanted to experience the depths and see what's through it. Wanted to feel without looking for the solution or resolution. Curious enough to see what's there, brave enough to go.
A week before, my wife said "I wish this on no one." Two weeks later, she said "I wish this on everyone."
It's a strange wish. Within the pain is this texture, a song. It was a language, new jazzy chords with accented notes. Strange, complex, messy beauty. Opportunity for heart opening. Affordances for not having everything figured out. It's a song that all loving beings learn, some more intimately than others.
It's not good, in the ice cream, amusement park, time in the woods sense. It hurts. My heart ached... aches. But it's not the type of pain that means STOP, NO, STOP. It's a rich sensation that I was scared of. Fullness, grief, longing, openness.
It was incredible gift. I got to experience this grief with my wife. I got to experience it with close friends. I'd share my grief with others, and those who knew the language and had open hearts offered connection. I found new love for her, new appreciation for the time we had together.
I don't really want you to lose any person or pet close to you. I miss her, and don't want to forget her. But, in this messy strange way, I hope you get to experience what I did.
