In one of my earliest posts I wrote about how hard it was to listen to almost anything in my music collection. Millie and I had many special songs, and I haven't been able to listen to those yet. But I don't want to forget them, so I'm writing them down here. Even better, I've made a playlist you can (I think) listen to here: Soundtrack to Millie, vol. I: in Life. This playlist does not include "I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole," as I could not find it on the website.
1. "Gimme Some Lovin'" by G. Love. This one, I imagine, captures Millie's perspective when we woke up each morning. Just replace any sexual connotations with cuddling and breakfast, of course.
2. "Gotta Have You" by the Weepies.
3. "Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service, but especially the Iron and Wine version. Yeah, Laila and Shayne danced to it at their wedding, but I still maintain that it is about Millie and me.
4 and 5. "I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole" and "All I Want is You" by Barry Louis Polisar.
6. "Be Without You" by Mary J. Blige.
7. "Anyone Else but You" by the Moldy Peaches.
8. "Bananas and Blow" by Ween. So it's not really about Millie and me, but it showed that Millie knew the word "bananas" and not just the tone of voice in which it was usually said.
9. "Funny Little Frog" by Belle and Sebastian.
10. "Parentheses" by Blow.
11. "Sea of Love" by Cat Power, and whoever originally wrote/sang it.
There a million more, I'm sure, but those topped the charts on a regular basis. And yes, I am aware that some of these songs are silly ones to sing to a dog.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Spoons
Millie was an intense, insistent, expert cuddler. I know some people who spent the night with her found it to be too much, since you really could not escape without throwing her out of the room. But I always loved it, and it is one of the things I miss most viscerally.
Millie and I spooned most nights; it was our preferred cuddling format. She would often doze on top of the covers at first while I laid on my back reading. But when the lights went out and I laid on my side to sleep, she would come up to my head. Since she had no snout, she couldn't effectively nuzzle her way under the covers, so I would lift them up and she would make her way down to the curve between my stomach and my legs. She would usually sleep with her head on my elbow (my arm bent with my hand at my pillow), or with her head in the curve between my ribcage and my hips.
But that wasn't the full extent of spooning with Millie. Sometimes in the night I would roll over to sleep on my other side, and Millie would then adjust her position. She would move up and snuggle high on my back and then sleep with her head draped over my neck. This was my favorite. I loved to hear/feel her swallows (if you spend time with happy, relaxed dogs, you know about this kind of contented swallowing) followed by her soft snoring. Sometimes her rough feet and toenails against my back were a bit scratchy, but the rest of her body was so soft and snuggly that, with just a few adjustments, I felt deeply loved and perfectly comfortable.
Millie and I spooned most nights; it was our preferred cuddling format. She would often doze on top of the covers at first while I laid on my back reading. But when the lights went out and I laid on my side to sleep, she would come up to my head. Since she had no snout, she couldn't effectively nuzzle her way under the covers, so I would lift them up and she would make her way down to the curve between my stomach and my legs. She would usually sleep with her head on my elbow (my arm bent with my hand at my pillow), or with her head in the curve between my ribcage and my hips.
But that wasn't the full extent of spooning with Millie. Sometimes in the night I would roll over to sleep on my other side, and Millie would then adjust her position. She would move up and snuggle high on my back and then sleep with her head draped over my neck. This was my favorite. I loved to hear/feel her swallows (if you spend time with happy, relaxed dogs, you know about this kind of contented swallowing) followed by her soft snoring. Sometimes her rough feet and toenails against my back were a bit scratchy, but the rest of her body was so soft and snuggly that, with just a few adjustments, I felt deeply loved and perfectly comfortable.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The grass is always greener, even in grief.
All of the books I've read so far about grieving for a pet include a section or chapter on dealing with feelings associated with having to put your pet to sleep. I know people who have had horrible, traumatic experiences with the decision to put a pet to sleep or with the process itself. I don't mean to suggest that it is easy or preferable.
Still, that is how I always envisioned Millie's death. It is how the vast majority of my family's pets have passed. I always thought that at some point Millie would eat something that would make her irrecoverably sick, or that she would develop some other irrecoverable condition naturally, and that I would be faced with that dreaded decision. But I always thought that the choice would be clear, since it always has been in my experience. That clarity, knowing that you are truly giving your dear friend a gift, the gift of relief, of peace, is sometimes the only comfort there is. This was certainly the case with Buttercup.
When you have the opportunity to put a pet to sleep,I think the death itself is less shocking; you know it is imminent before it happens. You can see it coming, you can say goodbye, even if only in the last hours or even minutes. Honestly, I am jealous of those who have this precious opportunity. Millie's death was so shocking. It was like a blast from a cannon that blew me into another world. A terrible, shitty, stupid world of heartache.
Secondly, when you put a pet to sleep, you have the choice to be present at the moment of death. This, I know, is traumatic sometimes. I suspect that it would have been very difficult with Millie, because I suspect she would have fought the sedation. Still, I think one factor that has made this loss so painful is the sense of distance I have between myself and Millie in her final moments. I had no idea at all that she was gone until many many hours afterward. In fact, because she passed in the middle of the night, completely alone, I have no idea exactly what time she died, or even what day! Because Mom was with Buttercup in her final moments, we know Buttercup's death was peaceful, that she welcomed that gift of peace at last. But because I was not with Millie when she died--because no one witnessed her final minutes--I have no idea what those minutes were like. Was she scared? Did she struggle? Did she lack comfort she needed? Was it fast, or was it a long, painful process? I have no way to answer these questions. So there is no comfort to be had here.
Lastly, if you have the opportunity to make the choice to put your pet to sleep, if you witness their passing, then I suspect their passing is at least slightly more real. When I got the news that Millie had died, I knew that it was absolutely critical that I see her body. I knew that seeing her that way would be horrible, but I also knew that if I did not, her death would never ever be real to me. It also gave me a chance to say goodbye, even an obscenely late goodbye. But nonetheless, for a week or so, my heart knew only that she was gone. I knew not that she was dead, but that she was out there somewhere. Alone. This was unbearable. I don't know how I faced life with the sense that my sweet baby girl was alone. I don't think I would have had that sense if I had been with her in her final moments.
Still, that is how I always envisioned Millie's death. It is how the vast majority of my family's pets have passed. I always thought that at some point Millie would eat something that would make her irrecoverably sick, or that she would develop some other irrecoverable condition naturally, and that I would be faced with that dreaded decision. But I always thought that the choice would be clear, since it always has been in my experience. That clarity, knowing that you are truly giving your dear friend a gift, the gift of relief, of peace, is sometimes the only comfort there is. This was certainly the case with Buttercup.
When you have the opportunity to put a pet to sleep,I think the death itself is less shocking; you know it is imminent before it happens. You can see it coming, you can say goodbye, even if only in the last hours or even minutes. Honestly, I am jealous of those who have this precious opportunity. Millie's death was so shocking. It was like a blast from a cannon that blew me into another world. A terrible, shitty, stupid world of heartache.
Secondly, when you put a pet to sleep, you have the choice to be present at the moment of death. This, I know, is traumatic sometimes. I suspect that it would have been very difficult with Millie, because I suspect she would have fought the sedation. Still, I think one factor that has made this loss so painful is the sense of distance I have between myself and Millie in her final moments. I had no idea at all that she was gone until many many hours afterward. In fact, because she passed in the middle of the night, completely alone, I have no idea exactly what time she died, or even what day! Because Mom was with Buttercup in her final moments, we know Buttercup's death was peaceful, that she welcomed that gift of peace at last. But because I was not with Millie when she died--because no one witnessed her final minutes--I have no idea what those minutes were like. Was she scared? Did she struggle? Did she lack comfort she needed? Was it fast, or was it a long, painful process? I have no way to answer these questions. So there is no comfort to be had here.
Lastly, if you have the opportunity to make the choice to put your pet to sleep, if you witness their passing, then I suspect their passing is at least slightly more real. When I got the news that Millie had died, I knew that it was absolutely critical that I see her body. I knew that seeing her that way would be horrible, but I also knew that if I did not, her death would never ever be real to me. It also gave me a chance to say goodbye, even an obscenely late goodbye. But nonetheless, for a week or so, my heart knew only that she was gone. I knew not that she was dead, but that she was out there somewhere. Alone. This was unbearable. I don't know how I faced life with the sense that my sweet baby girl was alone. I don't think I would have had that sense if I had been with her in her final moments.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
In-your-face good. And yet...
Lately, as the Santa Barbara weather turns even nicer, I'm finding myself in a strange position. My life is so nearly perfect. It is almost always approximately 70 degrees here. There are flowers everywhere. They make the world not just beautiful, but also really pleasantly fragrant. School is hard and takes up most of my time, but I am still able to take Ruby to the dog beach almost every day. Two things I love so much are combined: the ocean and dogs having fun. It's so wonderful it's absurd.
But I still cry every day. When I'm getting ready for school in the morning, it's all I can do to not crawl back into bed and cry myself back to sleep. When I'm driving, I am always about to pull over and have a good cry on the side of the road. I am always always pulling it together and going on with the day. At best, I am numb enough to pretend my life is as good as it actually is. Much of the time I'm too exhausted to even fake it. The only things I do with ease are the things that involve caring for Ruby.
This creates something like cognitive dissonance. The beauty of the day, the blessings in my life, are constant reminders that there is nothing that can be done to make me happy. There is only one thing that could make me feel okay, and that thing is impossible. It's like the universe is rubbing it in.
But I still cry every day. When I'm getting ready for school in the morning, it's all I can do to not crawl back into bed and cry myself back to sleep. When I'm driving, I am always about to pull over and have a good cry on the side of the road. I am always always pulling it together and going on with the day. At best, I am numb enough to pretend my life is as good as it actually is. Much of the time I'm too exhausted to even fake it. The only things I do with ease are the things that involve caring for Ruby.
This creates something like cognitive dissonance. The beauty of the day, the blessings in my life, are constant reminders that there is nothing that can be done to make me happy. There is only one thing that could make me feel okay, and that thing is impossible. It's like the universe is rubbing it in.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Millie-ism #78
Like most dogs, Millie had a tendency to bark. (Pugs were, believe it or not, originally bred to be guard dogs for Chinese royalty; they're basically cuddly alarm systems.) When I shushed her for barking, she learned to bark with her mouth closed, following the letter of the law in order to flaunt the spirit of it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Breaking the mold.
Millie was endearing. Most people initially responded to her the way Adreanne did. I've written about this in a previous post, but when Adreanne first met Millie, she picked up this 5lb puppy, who fit in the palm of your hand, turned her around to look at her from all sides, and said something like "Seriously? What the hell is this?" It was certainly true when Millie was a tiny puppy, but it remained true all her life: she was a bizarre little thing.
Nonetheless, I can think of no one she couldn't and didn't win over. Not even Zane, who loved to scare her and joked about eating her for lunch. But she didn't win people over by fitting any mold. She was no one's idea of what a dog should be. She was not exactly what anyone wanted her to be (except, perhaps, me). She did not endear herself to people by being what they wanted her to be but by making people love her freakish silliness. She said to the world, "Yeah, I'm gonna treat pumpkins and other winter vegetables like aliens. I'm going to get really really mad at my tail. I'm going to spend hours licking the furniture. I'm going to generally be a handful and unlike any dog you'll ever know. And you will love me not in spite of it but because of it." There's something to be said for a 20lb dog who took on the world and demanded that it love her (and give her its bananas) just the way she was.
Nonetheless, I can think of no one she couldn't and didn't win over. Not even Zane, who loved to scare her and joked about eating her for lunch. But she didn't win people over by fitting any mold. She was no one's idea of what a dog should be. She was not exactly what anyone wanted her to be (except, perhaps, me). She did not endear herself to people by being what they wanted her to be but by making people love her freakish silliness. She said to the world, "Yeah, I'm gonna treat pumpkins and other winter vegetables like aliens. I'm going to get really really mad at my tail. I'm going to spend hours licking the furniture. I'm going to generally be a handful and unlike any dog you'll ever know. And you will love me not in spite of it but because of it." There's something to be said for a 20lb dog who took on the world and demanded that it love her (and give her its bananas) just the way she was.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Again
I had another dream about Millie last night. This time we had been separated again somehow. It seems like maybe I had moved somewhere else, and somehow she found me and came back. It was like one of those news stories you sometimes hear about dogs who get lost half way across the country but somehow find their way back to their owners. Just like in the last dream, there was the sense that she was sick or there was something wrong, and this made it so amazing that she had found her way home. Somehow I knew she had followed a dirt path through forests and meadows and wilderness, and everyone was particularly amazed that she walked the whole way, considering how unnatural her silly little pug body was--how in the world did she make it out there on her own?
I'm not sure what to make of these dreams about her coming back to me. Subconscious denial, maybe? Maybe, but I sort of doubt it. I think it might actually be the "bargaining" phenomenon. I'm not a very religious person, and I'm not sure who or what I could possibly bargain with. But grieving the loss of Millie has pushed the limits of my agnosticism. In the first few weeks, the pain was simply so unbearable. I have written about how I have tried every single thing I can think of that just might ease this pain. I have found myself at times not so much believing in a higher power but simply putting it out there to the universe that I NEED SOME EFFING RELIEF. There seems to be nothing in this world can comfort me, so if there is anything that can help, it's going to have to be "supernatural." My "prayers" and "beliefs" are not cognitive...in the technical philosophical sense of being propositional...in the technical philosophical sense of having truth values. Instead, I just find myself thinking: look, I understand that there is nothing anyone can do about the fact that she is gone. But please please please fill my heart with her presence, whatever that means. I can go on without her little body in my bed every night, or by my side every day, but I need to feel like she's with me in some way.
I haven't made any progress on that, and that is probably the source of these dreams about her coming home with me.
I'm not sure what to make of these dreams about her coming back to me. Subconscious denial, maybe? Maybe, but I sort of doubt it. I think it might actually be the "bargaining" phenomenon. I'm not a very religious person, and I'm not sure who or what I could possibly bargain with. But grieving the loss of Millie has pushed the limits of my agnosticism. In the first few weeks, the pain was simply so unbearable. I have written about how I have tried every single thing I can think of that just might ease this pain. I have found myself at times not so much believing in a higher power but simply putting it out there to the universe that I NEED SOME EFFING RELIEF. There seems to be nothing in this world can comfort me, so if there is anything that can help, it's going to have to be "supernatural." My "prayers" and "beliefs" are not cognitive...in the technical philosophical sense of being propositional...in the technical philosophical sense of having truth values. Instead, I just find myself thinking: look, I understand that there is nothing anyone can do about the fact that she is gone. But please please please fill my heart with her presence, whatever that means. I can go on without her little body in my bed every night, or by my side every day, but I need to feel like she's with me in some way.
I haven't made any progress on that, and that is probably the source of these dreams about her coming home with me.
Friday, April 23, 2010
I live to dream again...
Recently I had my first clear dream about Millie. When she died, I immediately began to hope I would dream about her. I just knew that was the only way I could possibly have the experiences and feelings I miss so much. Of course my heart couldn't handle dreaming of her right away. A few days after she died I dreamed that I was about to look at pictures of her, and that alone was so painful that I woke up. Since then, for the most part, she has been present in my dreams, but my dreams have not been about her.
A few days ago, though, I dreamed that I took a trip somewhere. Somehow, for some reason, Millie was there. I hadn't given her away or left her somewhere, but for some reason she was there, away from my ordinary life. I had a sense that we were separated because she was sick and/or dying. But she seemed okay. We did some serious cuddling, and I had sweet experiences of her cuddled up by my chest and neck. We went on some walks on Aspen Place where the house is in Evergreen. There was a sense that she would be gone soon, but for the time being she really seemed to be okay. So I decided to bring her home with me. That part was really clear; I was telling everyone in my dream that I had made this big decision to bring her home with me, and then I woke up.
Who knows what any of it means.
The depth of my grief has given me a new awareness of just how deeply bonded Millie and I were. I wrote in an earlier post that I never took Millie for granted, and that's true. And I was very aware of her mortality. I knew it would be horrible to lose her, and I knew that someday I would. But I really did not know my heart could hurt this bad, and that shows me how much love my heart can hold.
A few days ago, though, I dreamed that I took a trip somewhere. Somehow, for some reason, Millie was there. I hadn't given her away or left her somewhere, but for some reason she was there, away from my ordinary life. I had a sense that we were separated because she was sick and/or dying. But she seemed okay. We did some serious cuddling, and I had sweet experiences of her cuddled up by my chest and neck. We went on some walks on Aspen Place where the house is in Evergreen. There was a sense that she would be gone soon, but for the time being she really seemed to be okay. So I decided to bring her home with me. That part was really clear; I was telling everyone in my dream that I had made this big decision to bring her home with me, and then I woke up.
Who knows what any of it means.
The depth of my grief has given me a new awareness of just how deeply bonded Millie and I were. I wrote in an earlier post that I never took Millie for granted, and that's true. And I was very aware of her mortality. I knew it would be horrible to lose her, and I knew that someday I would. But I really did not know my heart could hurt this bad, and that shows me how much love my heart can hold.
Monday, April 12, 2010
What happened?
I think most people reading this know how Millie died, but I know some don't, so I decided I should write about it.
Anyone who knew Millie knows that she had an insane drive to eat anything and everything she could get in her mouth. The week before she died, she got into some trash in the bathroom. This kind of thing had happened before, so I wasn't terribly concerned, and I decided to just monitor her. After she vomited up some trash after a couple of days, I figured we were out of the woods. She was slow to get back to her normal self, though, so I took her to the vet on Tuesday morning. They did an x-ray and found an intestinal blockage.
Millie had a previous intestinal blockage two years ago. In that case, it was HORRIBLE. At the time we did not know what, other than food, she had eaten, and the vet could not find any blockage on x-rays or ultrasound. She just kept vomiting. She'd been in the hospital for four or five days before they found a piece of a Nyla-bone on a second or maybe even third ultrasound. I remember being terrified during those days before they found the blockage. The blockage itself was minor compared to the hell of trying to figure out what the hell was wrong. It was such a relief to find a cause for the vomiting and, of course, get it out.
This time, when the vet found the blockage, I was sad that Millie would have to go through such major surgery again, but I did not suspect for a minute that we would lose her. The previous blockage had been so bad, simply because it was so hard to find. This time it seemed so simple. The vet even joked that for some dogs, you end up taking something like this out of them every year, and you just wish you could install a zipper.
The vet called Tuesday afternoon after the surgery. He said that Millie had been an ideal patient; her vitals had remained perfectly strong throughout the surgery, and she was doing very well. He was very alarmed at how much damage the blockage had done, though. He'd removed about a foot of perforated intestine. He just could not believe what a tough girl she was. When he saw what she was dealing with inside, what kind of pain she must have been in, he just couldn't believe that she had been walking around, wagging her tail, and acting so nearly normal before the surgery. Primarily, he was simply impressed by her strong little constitution. At that point, toward the end of the day, she was resting but ready for visitors.
I stopped by the vet on my way home from school. They walked me back to the recovery room. She was the only patient, so it was nice and quiet. They had put a heating lamp next to her kennel, which I knew would make her very happy. Almost as good as Gramma's fireplace. She perked up a bit and was in good spirits when she saw me. I stood at her kennel, stroking her head and body gently for a few minutes but I thought I better make it a short visit. My presence seemed to just make her think it was time to go home. I knew she must be feeling horrible, and I wanted her to rest. The vet said that they would offer her small amounts of food during the following day (Wednesday), and if she was able to keep it down, she would be able to come home that night. The only concern was that a certain protein level in her blood was a bit low, but it was simply something the vet would be keeping an eye on. I went home that night feeling relieved that she had come through surgery so well, that the damage had been stopped and repaired, and 75% sure that she would be home the next night.
I spoke to the vet mid-day on Wednesday, and Millie was still doing well. They had given her some food in the morning. She had been more than happy to eat it, but she had vomited a little later. After such intensive surgery, this was not unexpected. But because of this, and because that protein level was still a little low, they decided to keep her for another night.
I stopped by for a visit again on my way home from school. I remember my first thought when I saw her was that she looked so old. Her little face had gone gray prematurely, starting around 5 years old, I think. She seemed very tired. They had switched her to a new pain medication because the vet was not convinced that she was getting enough relief. She, of course, perked up for my visit, wagged her tail a little bit and tried to stand up. Soon she settled back down and relaxed. Even though she was obviously happy to see me, she seemed old, tired, and sad. I assumed that she was doped up, and I was glad actually that she seemed more likely to rest. So I went home.
I really missed her that night. I had been pretty hopeful that she would be home by then, so it felt weird that she wasn't.
When I woke up, I had missed a call from the vet. I called them back, and the woman said, "Ms. Strickland, I have some bad news for you--" I was sure she was going to say that Millie had thrown up her food again and so they would have to keep her through the day. But instead, she said "--Millie passed away last night." I started screaming, and I'm not sure when I stopped.
So what happened? Everything after that moment is a blur. But at some point the vet who performed the surgery called from home (it was his day off) and explained that, from what he could tell, the low level of that particular protein had prevented her intestines from healing quickly enough and that her internal sutures must have ruptured overnight.
Anyone who knew Millie knows that she had an insane drive to eat anything and everything she could get in her mouth. The week before she died, she got into some trash in the bathroom. This kind of thing had happened before, so I wasn't terribly concerned, and I decided to just monitor her. After she vomited up some trash after a couple of days, I figured we were out of the woods. She was slow to get back to her normal self, though, so I took her to the vet on Tuesday morning. They did an x-ray and found an intestinal blockage.
Millie had a previous intestinal blockage two years ago. In that case, it was HORRIBLE. At the time we did not know what, other than food, she had eaten, and the vet could not find any blockage on x-rays or ultrasound. She just kept vomiting. She'd been in the hospital for four or five days before they found a piece of a Nyla-bone on a second or maybe even third ultrasound. I remember being terrified during those days before they found the blockage. The blockage itself was minor compared to the hell of trying to figure out what the hell was wrong. It was such a relief to find a cause for the vomiting and, of course, get it out.
This time, when the vet found the blockage, I was sad that Millie would have to go through such major surgery again, but I did not suspect for a minute that we would lose her. The previous blockage had been so bad, simply because it was so hard to find. This time it seemed so simple. The vet even joked that for some dogs, you end up taking something like this out of them every year, and you just wish you could install a zipper.
The vet called Tuesday afternoon after the surgery. He said that Millie had been an ideal patient; her vitals had remained perfectly strong throughout the surgery, and she was doing very well. He was very alarmed at how much damage the blockage had done, though. He'd removed about a foot of perforated intestine. He just could not believe what a tough girl she was. When he saw what she was dealing with inside, what kind of pain she must have been in, he just couldn't believe that she had been walking around, wagging her tail, and acting so nearly normal before the surgery. Primarily, he was simply impressed by her strong little constitution. At that point, toward the end of the day, she was resting but ready for visitors.
I stopped by the vet on my way home from school. They walked me back to the recovery room. She was the only patient, so it was nice and quiet. They had put a heating lamp next to her kennel, which I knew would make her very happy. Almost as good as Gramma's fireplace. She perked up a bit and was in good spirits when she saw me. I stood at her kennel, stroking her head and body gently for a few minutes but I thought I better make it a short visit. My presence seemed to just make her think it was time to go home. I knew she must be feeling horrible, and I wanted her to rest. The vet said that they would offer her small amounts of food during the following day (Wednesday), and if she was able to keep it down, she would be able to come home that night. The only concern was that a certain protein level in her blood was a bit low, but it was simply something the vet would be keeping an eye on. I went home that night feeling relieved that she had come through surgery so well, that the damage had been stopped and repaired, and 75% sure that she would be home the next night.
I spoke to the vet mid-day on Wednesday, and Millie was still doing well. They had given her some food in the morning. She had been more than happy to eat it, but she had vomited a little later. After such intensive surgery, this was not unexpected. But because of this, and because that protein level was still a little low, they decided to keep her for another night.
I stopped by for a visit again on my way home from school. I remember my first thought when I saw her was that she looked so old. Her little face had gone gray prematurely, starting around 5 years old, I think. She seemed very tired. They had switched her to a new pain medication because the vet was not convinced that she was getting enough relief. She, of course, perked up for my visit, wagged her tail a little bit and tried to stand up. Soon she settled back down and relaxed. Even though she was obviously happy to see me, she seemed old, tired, and sad. I assumed that she was doped up, and I was glad actually that she seemed more likely to rest. So I went home.
I really missed her that night. I had been pretty hopeful that she would be home by then, so it felt weird that she wasn't.
When I woke up, I had missed a call from the vet. I called them back, and the woman said, "Ms. Strickland, I have some bad news for you--" I was sure she was going to say that Millie had thrown up her food again and so they would have to keep her through the day. But instead, she said "--Millie passed away last night." I started screaming, and I'm not sure when I stopped.
So what happened? Everything after that moment is a blur. But at some point the vet who performed the surgery called from home (it was his day off) and explained that, from what he could tell, the low level of that particular protein had prevented her intestines from healing quickly enough and that her internal sutures must have ruptured overnight.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Not so much acceptance as defeat.
This is such shit.
Today I feel a little different. I said in my last post that I feel like I've been running away from March 4th as fast as I can. Today I might have stopped running. For a minute I thought this might be something like acceptance. I think the shock has warn off a bit. It feels real. But it doesn't feel the way I think/hope acceptance will. I just feel bludgeoned. Eventually you submit to the blows, I guess.
But then again, I could easily start screaming and rip someone's face off for not giving me back my baby lady. The way I miss that girl feels a lot like rage. Therein lies the real truth that has defeated me: I don't feel any way, except bad, for very long.
I'm vaguely aware that I might not be doing the things I'm supposed to do. I'm certainly not exceeding expectations, if I'm meeting them at all. I'm slow these days, slower than usual, and I have to go to bed early to allow for a good hour or two of grief that I can't squeeze in during the day. I'm scraping by at school, but it feels tenuous. But what the hell can I do?
And I keep buying books about dogs, regardless of my budget.
Today I feel a little different. I said in my last post that I feel like I've been running away from March 4th as fast as I can. Today I might have stopped running. For a minute I thought this might be something like acceptance. I think the shock has warn off a bit. It feels real. But it doesn't feel the way I think/hope acceptance will. I just feel bludgeoned. Eventually you submit to the blows, I guess.
But then again, I could easily start screaming and rip someone's face off for not giving me back my baby lady. The way I miss that girl feels a lot like rage. Therein lies the real truth that has defeated me: I don't feel any way, except bad, for very long.
I'm vaguely aware that I might not be doing the things I'm supposed to do. I'm certainly not exceeding expectations, if I'm meeting them at all. I'm slow these days, slower than usual, and I have to go to bed early to allow for a good hour or two of grief that I can't squeeze in during the day. I'm scraping by at school, but it feels tenuous. But what the hell can I do?
And I keep buying books about dogs, regardless of my budget.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
If it looks like I've been crying, it's just because I've been crying.
Today has been on the horrible side. It's been one month now since Millie died. I have no idea how a month has gone by. I feel like I've been running as fast as I can away from March 4th, knowing that I definitely won't feel better until I get to the future, so I'm going there in a hurry.
It still doesn't seem real. It just seems like I've been transported to another possible world where water is twater (for the philosophers out there) and I am the momma of a 5-month old lab-mix instead of the momma/soul mate of a 9-year old pug-with-special-needs. I can't believe how much of my identity consists of being Millie's momma. I know I've said this at least a hundred times in the last month, but everything is so different now. When I think back about the moment I heard that Millie was gone, it is the memory of a bomb blast. As I remember it, my hair was blown back by the rushing bomb wind, and my skin was melted off by the bomb-radiation. I can see that somehow I've made a future for myself, but it's nothing I recognize. "My world's the surface of the moon, my heart's down in a diamond mine." (Mike Doughty)
It seems too real. From what I've been reading, many people feel a presence of their pet when he/she dies. Jesus Effing Christ I wish I felt that way. Instead, Millie's absence colors every perception I have. Where's-Millie?-colored-glasses instead of rose-colored-glasses. I think this is largely because I was very aware of how meaningful and important Millie was to me and how much joy she brought me every day. I often marveled about how that much intensity, that much silly sweetness, that much L O V E could be packed into such a tiny bundle. I can honestly say that I did not take her and our love for granted. That's good, I know, but nothing is really very good.
It still doesn't seem real. It just seems like I've been transported to another possible world where water is twater (for the philosophers out there) and I am the momma of a 5-month old lab-mix instead of the momma/soul mate of a 9-year old pug-with-special-needs. I can't believe how much of my identity consists of being Millie's momma. I know I've said this at least a hundred times in the last month, but everything is so different now. When I think back about the moment I heard that Millie was gone, it is the memory of a bomb blast. As I remember it, my hair was blown back by the rushing bomb wind, and my skin was melted off by the bomb-radiation. I can see that somehow I've made a future for myself, but it's nothing I recognize. "My world's the surface of the moon, my heart's down in a diamond mine." (Mike Doughty)
It seems too real. From what I've been reading, many people feel a presence of their pet when he/she dies. Jesus Effing Christ I wish I felt that way. Instead, Millie's absence colors every perception I have. Where's-Millie?-colored-glasses instead of rose-colored-glasses. I think this is largely because I was very aware of how meaningful and important Millie was to me and how much joy she brought me every day. I often marveled about how that much intensity, that much silly sweetness, that much L O V E could be packed into such a tiny bundle. I can honestly say that I did not take her and our love for granted. That's good, I know, but nothing is really very good.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Re: Lindsay Re: Dilemma
Lindsay, your suggestion is a great one. It's along the same lines as another book I've been reading. This book includes a journal with some prompts that sort of walk you through recording (and hence processing) your feelings and memories. So far the book and the journal prompts are really helpful, and I think that some serious memorialization is the key to helping me accept this reality without letting go. I'm never ever ever ever letting go of Millie. Never. Ever.
I've been setting aside at least a half hour or an hour to read through this and some other books on grieving almost every night. You're also really right, Lindsay, to suggest a specific time-frame. Because I have to bury my feelings so much throughout the day in order to get through life, I definitely need a good chunk of time every day to allow the tears to really flow. It's similar to a suggestion Adreanne made when her kitty died almost two years ago. She said that she would allow herself to focus on her thoughts and feelings, even the horrible traumatic ones, for a certain period of time, and then put those thoughts and feelings away, recognizing that she doesn't have to let them take over her whole mind forever. So that's one thing I've been trying to do. I think the habit of thinking about Millie, letting those thoughts and feelings fill my whole heart, for a certain period of time will eventually transform into a habit of thinking of her, our happiest times, our big big love, on a nearly daily basis. And that will be really good.
Thanks Lindsay <3
I've been setting aside at least a half hour or an hour to read through this and some other books on grieving almost every night. You're also really right, Lindsay, to suggest a specific time-frame. Because I have to bury my feelings so much throughout the day in order to get through life, I definitely need a good chunk of time every day to allow the tears to really flow. It's similar to a suggestion Adreanne made when her kitty died almost two years ago. She said that she would allow herself to focus on her thoughts and feelings, even the horrible traumatic ones, for a certain period of time, and then put those thoughts and feelings away, recognizing that she doesn't have to let them take over her whole mind forever. So that's one thing I've been trying to do. I think the habit of thinking about Millie, letting those thoughts and feelings fill my whole heart, for a certain period of time will eventually transform into a habit of thinking of her, our happiest times, our big big love, on a nearly daily basis. And that will be really good.
Thanks Lindsay <3
Friday, April 2, 2010
Dilemma
Sometimes it seems like the only way to find relief at this point is to let go of some of the closeness Millie and I shared. The memories are so raw. Within days of her death, I started to feel like I couldn't wait to be able to look at pictures of her and remember the times we were happiest. But right now my mind is flooded either with memories immediately surrounding her death--e.g., the last time I saw her alive, or the feel of her lifeless body--or with good memories that, because they are good, remind me of everything I've lost. So it's hard not to fight to block any and all memories. As I said in an earlier post, I take comfort in Ruby because she represents my future. But one thing that makes this so hard is that I don't want that. I don't want to pull away from my memories of Millie. I don't want to ever be less close to her than I was a day before she died. It's a terrible, terrifying dilemma: do I choose to focus on what I've lost, or do I choose to loose even more by letting go of all I have left?
Sunday, March 28, 2010
She's not my blanky.
I've been reading several books on grieving for a lost pet. If you ever lose a pet and consider reading "Saying Goodbye to the Pet You Love" by Lorri Greene, skip it.
On p. 16, she says "Think back to when you were a child. You probably had many toys, but maybe you remember a special one...Remember Linus, from the comic strip Peanuts? He clung to his beloved blanket tenaciously and he panicked whenever he was separated from it, even briefly. His blanket gave him the comfort he needed to deal with the daily challenges of childhood. That feeling of attachment to a cherished toy or an object you had as a child can be experienced as an adult, too, as the feeling of attachment you have for your companion animals." Seriously? I don't think I need to explain any further why this is an extreme misunderstanding of the pet-human bond.
Most of the grief books I'm reading caution you against making big decisions, like getting a puppy, right away. This doesn't surprise me. What does surprise me is how important it is to me to have a new puppy so quickly after this kind of loss. I got Millie about eight days after Buttercup died. I got Ruby two days after Millie died. I would have got Ruby the very same day, but she was not quite ready for adoption.
This choice to get a new puppy seems to be misunderstood. I think some people worry that it is a desperate act to put a bandaid on a punctured artery, an attempt to either distract myself from my grief, or somehow replace Millie, or both. And I think almost everyone else thinks it is an indication that I've moved on and must therefore be fine. Someone said, the first time I saw him after Millie died, "I'm so sorry to hear about Millie. But the new one sure looks cute!" (he had seen pictures on facebook). I know what he meant, and he certainly meant to be comforting, and I appreciate that people even acknowledge the loss at all. But still...it's an example of how clumsy we are about death and grief. Sort of like "Hey, sorry you crashed your old car. But hey, now you can get an awesome new one."
So why did I get Ruby so soon? She is the only thing that can possibly make this whole nightmare seem real. As my mom said, she wouldn't be here if Millie was coming back. It's a hard reality, but it's one I have to face. In the two days before I got Ruby, I thought about whether or not I should wait, and I thought about my grief process if I waited. I realized that it would take months or longer to move out of the phase where I have to set aside hours every day for wailing. I don't know when, if ever, it would seem real. I think I would come to hate poor Darla for always being the only one to come to the door to greet me when I got home. So no, Ruby's no distraction. She's a reminder every minute that I can't go back in time. She tells me that I have a future, and I better follow her to get to it.
On p. 16, she says "Think back to when you were a child. You probably had many toys, but maybe you remember a special one...Remember Linus, from the comic strip Peanuts? He clung to his beloved blanket tenaciously and he panicked whenever he was separated from it, even briefly. His blanket gave him the comfort he needed to deal with the daily challenges of childhood. That feeling of attachment to a cherished toy or an object you had as a child can be experienced as an adult, too, as the feeling of attachment you have for your companion animals." Seriously? I don't think I need to explain any further why this is an extreme misunderstanding of the pet-human bond.
Most of the grief books I'm reading caution you against making big decisions, like getting a puppy, right away. This doesn't surprise me. What does surprise me is how important it is to me to have a new puppy so quickly after this kind of loss. I got Millie about eight days after Buttercup died. I got Ruby two days after Millie died. I would have got Ruby the very same day, but she was not quite ready for adoption.
This choice to get a new puppy seems to be misunderstood. I think some people worry that it is a desperate act to put a bandaid on a punctured artery, an attempt to either distract myself from my grief, or somehow replace Millie, or both. And I think almost everyone else thinks it is an indication that I've moved on and must therefore be fine. Someone said, the first time I saw him after Millie died, "I'm so sorry to hear about Millie. But the new one sure looks cute!" (he had seen pictures on facebook). I know what he meant, and he certainly meant to be comforting, and I appreciate that people even acknowledge the loss at all. But still...it's an example of how clumsy we are about death and grief. Sort of like "Hey, sorry you crashed your old car. But hey, now you can get an awesome new one."
So why did I get Ruby so soon? She is the only thing that can possibly make this whole nightmare seem real. As my mom said, she wouldn't be here if Millie was coming back. It's a hard reality, but it's one I have to face. In the two days before I got Ruby, I thought about whether or not I should wait, and I thought about my grief process if I waited. I realized that it would take months or longer to move out of the phase where I have to set aside hours every day for wailing. I don't know when, if ever, it would seem real. I think I would come to hate poor Darla for always being the only one to come to the door to greet me when I got home. So no, Ruby's no distraction. She's a reminder every minute that I can't go back in time. She tells me that I have a future, and I better follow her to get to it.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Transitions
It's certainly no surprise, but it's so different with Ruby.
When Buttercup died, it was like losing a sister. As I think I mentioned in a previous blog, we got Buttercup when I was about five, and she died when I was 19. So I, literally, grew up with her. Everyone in the family was deeply bonded with Buttercup and, I think, equally so.
Buttercup died fairly suddenly. Literally overnight, she went from being perfectly youthful and healthy to having constant seizures, and we had to have her put down after a few days. In the fog of that grief, it took me eight days to decide I needed a puppy, research breeds, decide I needed (not just wanted) a female fawn pug, and track one down. It wasn't easy. I finally found a woman in Kansas who had a litter. Dan and I drove out to get one. Because they had a messy, snowy, muddy driveway, the woman met us at a street near the highway. She knew I wanted a fawn female, and she brought only one: Millie. I will never forget how my heart just melted when the woman handed this little bundle of sleepy puppy sweetness to me. She was about the size (and general shape) of a Chipotle burrito, maybe a little smaller. Ridiculous. She wasn't quite eight weeks old, and her personality was just beginning to form. She was so tired, it seems like it took her weeks to begin playing. She was so tiny, her toenails got stuck in the carpet. She seemed like a freak of nature. When Adreanne first met her, she turned this little ball of puppy-dough around in her hand, with a look that said, "Seriously? What the hell IS this thing?"
Our first night together, I was afraid I might roll over and squish her. But there was no doubt in my mind that we needed to be together. I needed her, the ache of missing Buttercup filled my heart to the brim. Life seemed to be changing so fast. At some point in the night, she fell off the bed, and it woke me up. I peered down at her, and she peered up at me. We were both so awed by the way life had thrown us together. I scooped her up and she draped her tiny body over my neck and we fell back to sleep. Because Buttercup was never that ridiculously cuddly and babyish, Millie filled a part of my heart that hadn't been there before. I don't feel like there is a hole in my heart. I feel like my whole heart is gone.
This transition with Ruby is nothing like my first few weeks with Millie. I love Ruby, and she loves me, but we are still working a few things out. She's learning the routine. I know that we are well on our way to a deep bond, but it will take longer to develop than it did with Millie. I knew Millie and I were a close fit, but my new life with Ruby is showing me just how close we were. Sometimes it simply amazes me, to know that this pain I feel now is the counterpart to the love we shared. But mostly it just crushes me to realize that what we shared is gone. It doesn't seem possible. I just want her back. Desperately.
When Buttercup died, it was like losing a sister. As I think I mentioned in a previous blog, we got Buttercup when I was about five, and she died when I was 19. So I, literally, grew up with her. Everyone in the family was deeply bonded with Buttercup and, I think, equally so.
Buttercup died fairly suddenly. Literally overnight, she went from being perfectly youthful and healthy to having constant seizures, and we had to have her put down after a few days. In the fog of that grief, it took me eight days to decide I needed a puppy, research breeds, decide I needed (not just wanted) a female fawn pug, and track one down. It wasn't easy. I finally found a woman in Kansas who had a litter. Dan and I drove out to get one. Because they had a messy, snowy, muddy driveway, the woman met us at a street near the highway. She knew I wanted a fawn female, and she brought only one: Millie. I will never forget how my heart just melted when the woman handed this little bundle of sleepy puppy sweetness to me. She was about the size (and general shape) of a Chipotle burrito, maybe a little smaller. Ridiculous. She wasn't quite eight weeks old, and her personality was just beginning to form. She was so tired, it seems like it took her weeks to begin playing. She was so tiny, her toenails got stuck in the carpet. She seemed like a freak of nature. When Adreanne first met her, she turned this little ball of puppy-dough around in her hand, with a look that said, "Seriously? What the hell IS this thing?"
Our first night together, I was afraid I might roll over and squish her. But there was no doubt in my mind that we needed to be together. I needed her, the ache of missing Buttercup filled my heart to the brim. Life seemed to be changing so fast. At some point in the night, she fell off the bed, and it woke me up. I peered down at her, and she peered up at me. We were both so awed by the way life had thrown us together. I scooped her up and she draped her tiny body over my neck and we fell back to sleep. Because Buttercup was never that ridiculously cuddly and babyish, Millie filled a part of my heart that hadn't been there before. I don't feel like there is a hole in my heart. I feel like my whole heart is gone.
This transition with Ruby is nothing like my first few weeks with Millie. I love Ruby, and she loves me, but we are still working a few things out. She's learning the routine. I know that we are well on our way to a deep bond, but it will take longer to develop than it did with Millie. I knew Millie and I were a close fit, but my new life with Ruby is showing me just how close we were. Sometimes it simply amazes me, to know that this pain I feel now is the counterpart to the love we shared. But mostly it just crushes me to realize that what we shared is gone. It doesn't seem possible. I just want her back. Desperately.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Road Trip
Today Ruby and I drove up to Boulder Creek to visit Laila & Co. I think a little Levi therapy will do me good.
The drive wasn't easy. It's hard to sit still for five hours with my thoughts and emotions. For one thing, I've been having trouble finding music that I can listen to, which is a must-have for driving. At one point or another over the last nine years, I think I've sung just about every love song I've ever heard to Millie. Everything from the Weepies' "Gotta Have You" to Jay-Z's "Show Me What You Got." I'm not sure I'll ever be able to listen to G. Love's "Gimme Some Lovin'" again. So love songs, those about having it or losing it, are off limits. So are happy songs or silly songs of all sorts. What does that leave me with? It has to be vaguely angry and bitter, but there must be no explicit explanation.
What's worse, Millie and I took a lot of road trips together. Road trips were at the top of both lists: times I enjoyed Millie the most, and times she annoyed me the most. She was a bizarre freak in the car. Above about 40mph, she was passed out asleep, usually in my lap. As a world champion cuddler, she curled up in my lap and rested her head in the crook of my left arm. Occasionally I would glance down at her squishy little face. As dangerous as it probably was, it was prime cuddling time. But slow the car down, put on the turn signal, or do anything suggesting you might stop soon, and all hell would break loose. This would unleash all the anxious fury Millie's 20lb body could muster, which was quite a lot. I'll never really know where all that car anxiety came from. She and I would spend almost all of a road trip cuddling, her gazing up at me so sweetly, but after the stoplights and turns in the final 15 minutes of a road trip, I would always arrive at home just about ready to throw her out the window.
Ruby did very well in the car.
The drive wasn't easy. It's hard to sit still for five hours with my thoughts and emotions. For one thing, I've been having trouble finding music that I can listen to, which is a must-have for driving. At one point or another over the last nine years, I think I've sung just about every love song I've ever heard to Millie. Everything from the Weepies' "Gotta Have You" to Jay-Z's "Show Me What You Got." I'm not sure I'll ever be able to listen to G. Love's "Gimme Some Lovin'" again. So love songs, those about having it or losing it, are off limits. So are happy songs or silly songs of all sorts. What does that leave me with? It has to be vaguely angry and bitter, but there must be no explicit explanation.
What's worse, Millie and I took a lot of road trips together. Road trips were at the top of both lists: times I enjoyed Millie the most, and times she annoyed me the most. She was a bizarre freak in the car. Above about 40mph, she was passed out asleep, usually in my lap. As a world champion cuddler, she curled up in my lap and rested her head in the crook of my left arm. Occasionally I would glance down at her squishy little face. As dangerous as it probably was, it was prime cuddling time. But slow the car down, put on the turn signal, or do anything suggesting you might stop soon, and all hell would break loose. This would unleash all the anxious fury Millie's 20lb body could muster, which was quite a lot. I'll never really know where all that car anxiety came from. She and I would spend almost all of a road trip cuddling, her gazing up at me so sweetly, but after the stoplights and turns in the final 15 minutes of a road trip, I would always arrive at home just about ready to throw her out the window.
Ruby did very well in the car.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The smad phase.
I'm both sad and mad literally all of the time. Well, not quite. Occasionally I'm numb, and occasionally I'm numb enough to the pain that I feel some pleasure in watching Ruby romp and play and grow. It's a pleasure from which I feel oddly detached, like I'm watching someone else feel it, since it's so faint that I can't imagine it is really me who feels it.
It's been about two weeks now. I suspect a lot of people think I should be doing fine. After all, I have a puppy. What kind of person isn't happy if she has a puppy? Well, I'm not happy. The first few days, I spent large chunks of time in bed wailing. Not crying, not even sobbing, but wailing. I'm past that point at least, but I still have to remind myself to eat, and sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. I've had to change the kind of mascara I use, because the kind I used to use turns me into Tammy Faye Baker when I cry. And not only do I feel like I could cry at any minute of the day, but the heartache is so strong that I also feel like I could vomit at any moment of the day.
Adreanne told me that when a nurse she works with recently lost her dog, she went about doing her job while crying all day. Not stepping out from time to time to cry, but simply crying freely as she did her job. I think that's a great idea. But so far, I can't simply cry. When I cry, it's not a matter of tears falling, some sniffles, or even a few sobs. It is full-on wailing. I don't suppose I can go around doing that while I attend classes, ride the bus, study in coffee shops, etc.
I am so angry. It's an unfocused anger, or perhaps just incredible irritability. I didn't expect this aspect of my grief. I know it doesn't make sense to be mad at anyone for Millie's death; it was no one's fault. And I don't. So instead I just feel a wide-spread and general rage at everyone for everything they say or do.
The thought that dominates my mind throughout every day is how I wish I was dead. Honestly, I would rather be dead than feel this way. That's not to say I'm suicidal or that there is any cause for concern. I would rather go on living and feeling this way than impose this terrible burden on my family and friends.
But still. What the hell am I supposed to do?
It's been about two weeks now. I suspect a lot of people think I should be doing fine. After all, I have a puppy. What kind of person isn't happy if she has a puppy? Well, I'm not happy. The first few days, I spent large chunks of time in bed wailing. Not crying, not even sobbing, but wailing. I'm past that point at least, but I still have to remind myself to eat, and sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. I've had to change the kind of mascara I use, because the kind I used to use turns me into Tammy Faye Baker when I cry. And not only do I feel like I could cry at any minute of the day, but the heartache is so strong that I also feel like I could vomit at any moment of the day.
Adreanne told me that when a nurse she works with recently lost her dog, she went about doing her job while crying all day. Not stepping out from time to time to cry, but simply crying freely as she did her job. I think that's a great idea. But so far, I can't simply cry. When I cry, it's not a matter of tears falling, some sniffles, or even a few sobs. It is full-on wailing. I don't suppose I can go around doing that while I attend classes, ride the bus, study in coffee shops, etc.
I am so angry. It's an unfocused anger, or perhaps just incredible irritability. I didn't expect this aspect of my grief. I know it doesn't make sense to be mad at anyone for Millie's death; it was no one's fault. And I don't. So instead I just feel a wide-spread and general rage at everyone for everything they say or do.
The thought that dominates my mind throughout every day is how I wish I was dead. Honestly, I would rather be dead than feel this way. That's not to say I'm suicidal or that there is any cause for concern. I would rather go on living and feeling this way than impose this terrible burden on my family and friends.
But still. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Biography
In high school, I had to write an autobiography. Without realizing it, I organized by life story not by years but by pets. To name a few, there was the Bufo Era, the Muppet-and-Snickers Era, the Buddy Era, followed too soon by the Tucker Era, and these were all parts of the great Buttercup Era.
Now the Miss Millie May Wigglesworth Era has come to an end, and the Ruby Applesauce Era has begun.
I've decided to write about this process for several reasons. Primarily, I'm simply compelled to express my feelings. I can't or won't talk about it with most people in my life, and I suspect most people think I'm okay, or will be soon. But I'm not, and I won't be. And if anyone is curious enough to bother reading this, I want them to know it. Moreover, I can't find any way to ease this heartache, so I'm trying anything I can think of.
I see grief coming in two stages. The first comes quickly, like a goddamn Mack truck, beginning the moment you get the news. This is the stage when you feel, for at least 45 our of every 60 minutes, as though you are being crushed. You physically crave and expect to find that person you have lost. Somehow, eventually, you come out of this stage and become "okay" again and, eventually, even genuinely happy. But this is when the second stage of grief begins, and it lasts for the rest of your life. In this stage you are aware, although thankfully not all the time, that your memories of that person are slowly slipping away. You are gradually losing the only link yo have to your loved one. My second motivation for this blog is to preserve my memories of Millie, although I think it will be quite a while before I can even think, much less write, about these memories.
The relationship between a human and a pet is unique. It is unlike any relationship we have with our fellow humans, as far as I can tell. I was with Millie the vast majority of the time for the last nine years. She followed me from room to room when I was home. She slept snuggled up close to me for over 3,000 nights. She was a perpetual baby who needed me and loved me more than anyone in the world. There is not a single human with whom I could tolerate this closeness, but I would have it no other way with Millie. Because the human-pet relationship is so unique, the process of grieving a pet is unique too. It's a process that is poorly understood in our culture. In a million little ways, people in your life will invalidate your grief, expecting you to get over it and move on. If anyone who has lost a pet reads this and finds their feelings validated, I hope it helps.
Now the Miss Millie May Wigglesworth Era has come to an end, and the Ruby Applesauce Era has begun.
I've decided to write about this process for several reasons. Primarily, I'm simply compelled to express my feelings. I can't or won't talk about it with most people in my life, and I suspect most people think I'm okay, or will be soon. But I'm not, and I won't be. And if anyone is curious enough to bother reading this, I want them to know it. Moreover, I can't find any way to ease this heartache, so I'm trying anything I can think of.
I see grief coming in two stages. The first comes quickly, like a goddamn Mack truck, beginning the moment you get the news. This is the stage when you feel, for at least 45 our of every 60 minutes, as though you are being crushed. You physically crave and expect to find that person you have lost. Somehow, eventually, you come out of this stage and become "okay" again and, eventually, even genuinely happy. But this is when the second stage of grief begins, and it lasts for the rest of your life. In this stage you are aware, although thankfully not all the time, that your memories of that person are slowly slipping away. You are gradually losing the only link yo have to your loved one. My second motivation for this blog is to preserve my memories of Millie, although I think it will be quite a while before I can even think, much less write, about these memories.
The relationship between a human and a pet is unique. It is unlike any relationship we have with our fellow humans, as far as I can tell. I was with Millie the vast majority of the time for the last nine years. She followed me from room to room when I was home. She slept snuggled up close to me for over 3,000 nights. She was a perpetual baby who needed me and loved me more than anyone in the world. There is not a single human with whom I could tolerate this closeness, but I would have it no other way with Millie. Because the human-pet relationship is so unique, the process of grieving a pet is unique too. It's a process that is poorly understood in our culture. In a million little ways, people in your life will invalidate your grief, expecting you to get over it and move on. If anyone who has lost a pet reads this and finds their feelings validated, I hope it helps.
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