Grief is an interesting thing
First, you are overwhelmed by its excruciating pain. Then you remember how to breathe again between the waves crushing down on you. Time goes by, and you ask yourself: Am I avoiding the pain, or am I moving forward? Am I working through it, or am I simply functioning with it?
I don't think I fully allow myself to feel the pain, the sadness, and the devastation. I am not sure why. It feels too heavy, too full of guilt, too dark to be in it. But not being in it makes me feel disconnected from Sally. The minute I allow the pain to be there, the guilt opens the door and doesn't stop talking. I should have been more aware that her time would be up soon and that she would leave us. I should have been better prepared after birth. I should have handled postpartum better. I should have included her more while caring for Noah. I should have made sure I spent more time with her – just the two of us.
Guilt is a real showstopper for working through my grief and the pain that comes with it. And honestly, it doesn't shut up. What was I thinking? That she would be there forever? We saw the tumor growing back. We knew there was no cure. She had already given us a full year after her diagnosis. I should have called off all those trips we took and let her rest more. She had to be in the car for way too long, and she never liked it. I should have known and not scheduled the surgery. My initial thought was, no, she wouldn't survive it. That was my first thought, and yet I didn't realize it was the truth. I was so out of touch with myself; I didn't trust myself, my instincts. Life was moving too fast, way too fast.
Okay – that was a lot. I believe the voice of my guilt isn't the only one I have. So let's consciously ask the voice of love, the voice of kindness and compassion. What does it have to say?
The timing sucked. It was the worst timing ever. In the midst of postpartum? Come on, you have got to be kidding me. It makes total sense that you had less time for her and were trying to get some rest and take care of your newborn. I am so sorry to hear you don't remember everything you did for Sally. I am even more sorry she doesn't get to be with Noah, see him grow up, follow his first steps, give him her Sally stare when he pulls on her fur, and be incredibly patient when he climbs all over her. I am sorry these moments will never happen.
But remember 6 weeks after giving birth, you were able to walk again, and guess who you took on the walk? Sally. How good did it feel to be out there with her, walking together? Remember the check-ins, short but consistent. Your love for her never changed, and if you could go back with everything you know now, you would do a few things differently. But you would love her the same, because you didn't love her less.
She was doing great. She was fit, eating well, and happy. We were hoping we could cheat death another year. Give her more time. The first surgery worked wonders. My instincts were right. But I was too distracted to understand it. We don't know how much time she would have had without trying the surgery. But we do know she would not have died that day. She would have seen the beach one more time. We might have been able to make her more comfortable, happier, and more at ease with what was about to happen.
In the end, none of that really matters. I want Sally to be here for one more hug, one more cuddle, one more walk, one more lying on the couch at night, one more of everything. I was not ready to say goodbye. I wasn't even out of my postpartum fogged brain that doesn't remember much, that was barely hanging on, and constantly navigating too many things at once. Sally came short during those months, and before I could make it up to her, she was gone. And that guilt just kills me. I cannot move past it. It keeps me stuck. I can feel it literally stopping me from moving forward. It tells me I messed up and can never make it right again.
I wonder why my mind wants to stay with that story and completely ignore the silent moments Sally and I shared during those five postpartum months. Not right away, but once I recovered physically, we reconnected. I knew I didn't have enough time for her. But I spared whatever time I could spare. Our silent moments at night after I pumped. The mornings when the three of us went outside. Noah, her, and I. Those were our best times. The moments when I put him down and, before doing anything else, I went to her and let her know I see her and I love her. The walks I had with her. The walks we had as a pack – all of us. Me making sure she is where Noah and I are. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do. And yet, all my brain can think is how much I failed her.
But that type of thinking sucks, because I want to celebrate Sally and her life. I want to honor our time together, our connection, our bond. I cannot do that if I stay mad at myself and blame myself. She would have never allowed that. She would have forgiven me a million times by now. She would have long moved on, zoomed around, begged for food, and taken me on a rainy walk. She had no regrets. She would be playing with Noah, rolling her eyes at him, and secretly training him to give her more treats. 😉
She would not let me sit and wallow in that guilt. She would be there to comfort my tears and let me know it was okay to be sad. She would sit with me so I wasn't alone. She would want me to be happy. She always wanted that, and she always made me happy. I could not resist her energy. Even when sad things happened, she picked me up again; she made me move forward and reminded me to enjoy this moment, this very moment.
We had the best life together!! She was my soul dog and always will be. I want to stay connected to her and her energy. I know how to consciously connect with her. I want to post pictures of her, write about her, sit with the pain, dive even deeper, and remember everything she has given to me and so many others. I want to tell her story and let the world know what an amazing, incredible, and loving soul she was.
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