Freya's Goodbye
In the staff lounge on Thursday, I ate my lunch quickly, scanning my smart phone and reading articles I don't remember. When I had done with that, I looked at the clock. With some 20 minutes of break time left, I considered returning to my desk early. While I usually take a walk, I just didn't feel up to it, and I only wanted to get back to my work and finish out the day. Such "dedication" is frowned upon for non-exempt employees, so after a bit of waffling, I put on my jacket and headed out after all. A few steps out, the urge to keep walking took over. Suddenly, I wanted to go as far and as fast as my feet would carry me, to walk until I couldn't anymore - to nowhere in particular. A few steps more, and I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. The transformation was abrupt and unexpected.
That morning, my daughter's dog Freya had gone on her last trip to the vet. She had been sick for several years, had taken a particularly bad turn recently, and it had become clear that the wisest course was a merciful sleep. The event was not a surprise. We had been warned her time was short. My husband and I were called to visit and say goodbye the night before, and my daughter and her boyfriend, Freya's "parents", had been able to make her reasonably comfortable and spend a little special time with her on her last day. All in all, given the circumstances, there could not have been a more peaceful and loving end to her time with our family. I spoke with Freya's parents after they returned from their goodbye, learned of their memorial plans, and offered sympathy and hugs. Then, I returned to my work, sad but holding together. I'm no stranger to grieving whether the loved one had two legs or four. While I was blue, I also knew that life must go on. Only, I hadn't realized how much the need to be strong and go on, and how much the distraction could veil the sorrow until I had the opportunity to step away and let myself feel.
Freya came to us when my daughter still lived at home. She was a shelter rescue that my daughter found online, and she and her boyfriend drove hours away to Michigan in order to adopt her and bring her home to Illinois. She lived with us for several years, bonding with each family member. Freya was quirky and had some health problems that required extra care and understanding, but she was well loved by everyone. When her parents moved to their own appartment, they took her with. I wrote about the sense of loss I felt after she left. However, we still visited often enough, and Freya participated in family get-togethers; so she was still very much a part of us.
As her health declined, my daughter and her boyfriend put so much work and love into her care and comfort. I know she must have felt she truly belonged with this pack of humans. That sense of belonging is incredibly important for dogs and their people, alike. I've seen dogs mourn their humans as keenly as people mourn their pets. But, if I was heartbroken by Freya's passing, her parents, who had daily tended to her special needs, who slept with her on the bed, who ate together with her and snuggled her every day were many times more anguished. So, in my case, there is the sadness I feel at the loss, and then, there is the sadness I feel because people I love are grieving and I know there is nothing I can do to make it better. All I can do is cry with them and wait to heal.
So, why was I surprised that I would cry so uncontrollably on my walk that day? Obviously, you're not over a loss of a family member in half a day. I think it struck me most because of the contrast. One moment, at my desk, the grief was contained, while another moment, it came rushing out. All the loss, all the sorrow, suddenly showed up and demanded my attention. Freya was linked to every other dog I've loved and lost and to the ultimate unfairness that is the mismatched lifespans of two species who form so close a bond. The truth is that if you love a dog, you will lose that dog one day...
That morning, my daughter's dog Freya had gone on her last trip to the vet. She had been sick for several years, had taken a particularly bad turn recently, and it had become clear that the wisest course was a merciful sleep. The event was not a surprise. We had been warned her time was short. My husband and I were called to visit and say goodbye the night before, and my daughter and her boyfriend, Freya's "parents", had been able to make her reasonably comfortable and spend a little special time with her on her last day. All in all, given the circumstances, there could not have been a more peaceful and loving end to her time with our family. I spoke with Freya's parents after they returned from their goodbye, learned of their memorial plans, and offered sympathy and hugs. Then, I returned to my work, sad but holding together. I'm no stranger to grieving whether the loved one had two legs or four. While I was blue, I also knew that life must go on. Only, I hadn't realized how much the need to be strong and go on, and how much the distraction could veil the sorrow until I had the opportunity to step away and let myself feel.
Freya came to us when my daughter still lived at home. She was a shelter rescue that my daughter found online, and she and her boyfriend drove hours away to Michigan in order to adopt her and bring her home to Illinois. She lived with us for several years, bonding with each family member. Freya was quirky and had some health problems that required extra care and understanding, but she was well loved by everyone. When her parents moved to their own appartment, they took her with. I wrote about the sense of loss I felt after she left. However, we still visited often enough, and Freya participated in family get-togethers; so she was still very much a part of us.
As her health declined, my daughter and her boyfriend put so much work and love into her care and comfort. I know she must have felt she truly belonged with this pack of humans. That sense of belonging is incredibly important for dogs and their people, alike. I've seen dogs mourn their humans as keenly as people mourn their pets. But, if I was heartbroken by Freya's passing, her parents, who had daily tended to her special needs, who slept with her on the bed, who ate together with her and snuggled her every day were many times more anguished. So, in my case, there is the sadness I feel at the loss, and then, there is the sadness I feel because people I love are grieving and I know there is nothing I can do to make it better. All I can do is cry with them and wait to heal.
So, why was I surprised that I would cry so uncontrollably on my walk that day? Obviously, you're not over a loss of a family member in half a day. I think it struck me most because of the contrast. One moment, at my desk, the grief was contained, while another moment, it came rushing out. All the loss, all the sorrow, suddenly showed up and demanded my attention. Freya was linked to every other dog I've loved and lost and to the ultimate unfairness that is the mismatched lifespans of two species who form so close a bond. The truth is that if you love a dog, you will lose that dog one day...
and it will break your heart.
When you're dealing with grief that big, you may have to take it in smaller bites. So, I find myself distracted much of the day, throwing myself into work or reading or everyday things just to be a little blind to it for a while. But, in the quiet moments when I let myself think about her, all the pain comes rushing back. I know that's a necessary part of the healing, but it's going to be a long, slow process of alternating between the two, digesting the grief little by little. Our lives are all better for knowing Freya. Her life was undoubtedly better for being rescued and adopted by her parents. This is the truth that outweighs the one about losing a dog. If you love a dog, you will always keep a part of them with you...
and it will heal your broken heart.
A dog's greatest wish is to be and to have a good friend.
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