I thought I was doing a little better about losing Rowan, but I’m not. I think I was just distracted by preparing for my art show and also a bit numb, and now reality is hitting hard, really hard. No matter how tired I am, when I lie down to sleep, my mind starts going and going, and sleep is impossible for hours. I know it was Rowan’s time and he needed me to let him go. I did it for him because I never wanted to take the chance he would suffer or panic, and we were coming very close to that point. I will always be thankful for the clarity I had about the timing, so that I could give him the gift of a peaceful, gentle departing, but I can hardly bear it that he’s not here with me anymore.
I know it could be much worse. Stephen is here with me. My family and close friends are alive and, for the most part, in good health. As incredibly hard as it is to have lost Rowan, I know that losing any of them would be much, much more devastating. But, while that does help me keep some perspective, it doesn’t lessen the intensity of my grief for Rowan.
Unlike any of those people, Rowan was with me almost all the time for most of his thirteen years, so I feel his absence acutely throughout the day (and night, when I’m not able to sleep). Nearly everything reminds me of him, like the loud sound of my electric kettle lid closing, which bothered him, so I automatically look up to reassure him. Or the early dark of these late fall evenings, when Rowan and I would often go outside, just the two of us, to walk and play in the dark yard together. Or every time I head out the door to go someplace and start to think that it’s cool enough out to take Rowan in the car with me. Even those words, “with me,” which almost always got Rowan to leap up and dance in front of the door so he could go “with me” wherever I was going. And so much more, all day, every day.
Several wonderful people have reminded me that grief is grief, whether for a person or a beloved dog. I know that is true, and I know it’s going to be a long time before the sharpness of this pain softens and the many good memories cause me to smile rather than sob, but it is hard to know how to be and do life in the meantime, especially in this holiday season. I’ve been busy with show prep, matting and framing paintings, which has required a lot of focus. While I’m doing that, I can feel fairly normal at first, but a fog of sadness gradually creeps in, almost without me noticing, until finally the fog obscures nearly everything and I am exhausted and overwhelmed once again. And if I stay busy too long or too late in the day and don’t spend time feeling and processing the grief that is always there, I am all the more likely to churn wakefully through long hours of the night. I know this will get better someday, but right now that someday seems a terribly long ways off.
So I guess I need to take extra time to ponder and be and journal and process, and I guess this year that is going to be a big part of my focus for Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas. Not my usual Advent focus, but maybe not entirely inappropriate, as I think of Jesus, who came to live and die and show us God’s love, God’s comforting, redeeming, renewing love. In my calmer moments I can turn my thoughts to him and be thankful for his many gifts, including the wonderful gift of his love expressed to me through Rowan. And I trust that in my less calm moments he is right here with me, caring about and understanding my grief, because he came to live life on this earth, experiencing the pain and grief that comes with being human.