I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
E.E. Cummings
I grieve. I grieve privately. There are a handful of family and friends I share some of my grief with and, I share different parts of my grief with different people. I choose to be private in my grief, it’s safer, less vulnerable. When I am with other people I want and appreciate the distraction from emotion, but my grief is there, just below the surface, skirting my eyelids and straining my throat.
When I was 22 years old my father died. He had colon cancer. When I was 40 years old my mother died. She had breast cancer. There have been other family members who have died but it was my parents and how they each suffered in their disease that has been my greatest grief. Not having my father physically in this world and getting used to all that meant for my mother, brother and me, broke me. Not having my mother physically in this world and getting used to all that meant to my brother and to me, broke me again in different ways and for different reasons. After the death of my father a lot of time and space needed to be between the original rawness of grief and the living with it. There has still not been enough time and space since the original rawness of the death of my mother.
Now, I am broken in grief again. This time I feel broken and broken down in a million billion pieces. I grieve my dog.
When Remy came home to me as a puppy I was losing a lot. He was courageous, valiant, jubilant and was my strength and courage at a time when I needed it like never before.
My Remy came home to me when my mother was diagnosed with cancer and fighting that battle with all her might. He came home to me when I was letting go of finding a partner who didn’t already have children of his own and who would still want children with me. Besides, finding the right someone and then having children with them takes time, biological time I did not have. I tried artificial insemination, several times. Each time costing money I did not have and time I needed and wanted to spend with my mother. Remy came home to me when I was letting go of having biological children of my own.
My Remy was my strength and courage in all of that. He was my strength and courage when we moved to the UK two years ago. We spent every minute together during lockdown, he was my strength and courage then. He gave me his whole heart, unconditionally. He got my whole heart, unconditionally. Then he got sick. For four months we did not know what was wrong, but we thought it was his back. A slipped disc is not uncommon in French Bulldogs. The medication seemed to work but it wasn’t going away. Eventually a scan showed an inoperable brain tumor. That day, in the car park of the specialist, because social distancing rules did not allow me to be in the consulting room, I was the person physically doubled over in grief and shock at hearing the news. It was an involuntary response. A response I’ve never had before.
For the next four and a half months – two months longer than expected, my jubilant, valiant, courageous Remy fought his battle. I had asked the vets how I would know when he had had enough. They said I would know. I did. It was a fast deterioration at the end. He was courageous to the end but he was ready. We were both peaceful about the decision we made together to say goodbye. I have no doubt it was what my Remy needed and wanted. I am not ready to say goodbye. It’s harder than anything that has come before. This feels like my greatest grief.
I am lost, broken, and broken down in a million billion pieces. I have lost my strength and courage.
I grieve my father. I grieve my mother. I grieve lost love. I grieve my unborn children. I grieve a life I never had. I grieve the family I never had. I grieve a life I thought I would have. I grieve the end of my family line. I grieve my precious Remy.
Until the time comes when feeling lost turns to feeling found, when memories of you fill my heart and soul with your jubilation, valiance, and courage. Until that time, I grieve. I grieve privately. I grieve you.
Do you grieve? What is your grief? Who supports you in your grief? How might you get support in your grief? What does kindness to yourself in grief look like for you?
