March 18, 2009
"Everything's on loan anyway. You're not an owner, you're only a steward."
Stephen King
"I'm so sorry...so, so sorry," said Dr. Bevan.
Then there was a pause. Silence. Long.
"Are you guys ready?" asked Dr. Bevan.
All
I could do was nod my head yes. I couldn't talk. I had said earlier
that I didn't want to be
there; couldn't be there but I changed my
mind. I needed to be there. He had become a close and good friend and I
loved him.
Elle and I sat on the bench in the exam room. Elle, right next to me, crying, hands on her face, and Cirque sitting at my feet leaning up against my left leg. He looked up at me as I stroked his ears and rubbed his neck. His face and his eyes were saying, "You ok? Why are you crying?" I said in a low voice, "It's okay buddy. It's okay." It's hard to describe the feelings I had then. It was whirling, sharp edged, and raw - like emotional shrapnel tearing, crushing, shattering all at the same time. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was and yet, nowhere else.
Fifteens seconds later, he was gone.
The maybe turned into something and that something was cancer. An anal sac adenocarcinoma had probably been growing inside him for months and now it was large and squeezing his rectum. Dr. Bevan explained to us, that with this disease, by the time you know something is wrong, it's often too late. It's an aggressive cancer and in Cirque's case, it had already spread to his lymph nodes. "His lymph nodes are larger than any I have seen in a dog his size with this disease. It's really aggressive," said Dr. Bevan.
I know some people might think that, well, he was just a dog and why are you so upset over a dog? But, he wasn't just a dog to me and Elle. He was a special being. A great friend. Loyal, loving, happy. A confidant. Someone you could talk to without ever saying a word. Some of my fondest memories are of the times we went to the beach and played fetch in the surf. He played with such abandon - romping through the ocean and diving over or into a wave to get his favorite toy. His happiness was infectious. There was no time in those moments. It was just joy. I will miss that so much.
The grief is overwhelming. Suffocating. It's one massive wave of sorrow after another. I couldn't do much of anything yesterday. I'll do a little more today; a little more the next day. Cirque was a dog who just went everywhere you did so, now, every time I go up and down the stairs, outside, or just open the closet door and put on my jogging shoes, I am reminded of him and it's painful. But, I know time will stem the tidal wave until someday the memories will no longer evoke sadness; they'll not be tidal waves of grief. They'll be small, gentle waves of fondness lapping at my feet. And, I'll smile.
Four or five years ago, I would have been sad and maybe teared up a little. Well, I would have been sad. And then I would have moved on as quickly as possible. As my friend Ross likes to say, "That was Doug 1.0". I was afraid of feeling and expressing sadness or fear or anger or even happiness, as odd as that might sound. A few, very few, got to peak behind the curtain and see some of those emotions but I got through my life by building a very comfortable igloo and to keep that shell intact, I had to keep the temperature very cool. Inside, way inside, I was truly a warm, caring, creative and even emotive person but it was covered up with many years and layers of igloo walls and if I let the warmth out, the shell would melt and then what would I have to protect me?
But, in 2007 I went to a workshop, Heartwork, that taught me a lot about emotion: that pain and sadness and happiness and joy are all part of life and to feel those things, to let your self experience them, is what it means to be alive. It's okay to be vulnerable. It's okay to show joy. It's okay to cry. Well, I can tell you that I am very much alive today. I guess you could say I'm "Doug 2.0" (although 1.0 still reboots from time to time - a work in progress).
So, what do you do when life hurts? Well, I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm starting with breathing. Taking a step. Letting the pain and grief wash over me, through me, and out of me. Just breathe. Step forward. Feel what you feel but keep walking. Know that what you lost and the pain you feel means you are alive; that you had joy once and will again. The way out is through. There is no pill; no quick fix for the pain and sorrow. It's meant to be what it is and if you can sink into it, go through it, you'll emerge on the other side more complete; more whole. More you. But, I'm not painting something rosy here. It's really, really hard - at least for me - and there are exit signs beckoning everywhere.
Grief is often the most vivid, the loudest, where you experienced great happiness or joy. My grief is most pronounced walking "our walks". I logged a lot of miles with Cirque and Spencer especially over the last year. So, I took my walk last night but this time it was just me and my buddy Spencer. No Cirque. I cried at times. I stopped along the way and wished that I could smell what he smelled; maybe I could smell him. I went again this morning. Elle reminded me that it was going to be painful; did I want some tissues? I said, "No. I know. I'll be okay." And it was painful and I was okay.
I have one other thing to offer about what to do when life hurts. The emotions you feel can serve as a vehicle to access parts of you that you might not otherwise see or know about. But, that happens only if you allow your self to feel the emotions - the sadness, pain, sorrow; not block them off by building an "igloo" or trying to distract your self from feeling something unpleasant. Follow what you feel and pay attention to what "appears" in your mind. Sometimes it may just be a word or two or it might be an image or impression or even sounds. These are things that can help you not only move through the grief but may even expand your life or give it new direction and purpose.
We all deal with grief and loss differently I suppose. I guess the important thing is to deal with it. I walk. Think. Write. Play music. And, I talk about it too but for me writing is the avenue to express those things that I might not even know I have in me. Words appear on the page and when I'm done, I sometimes wonder who wrote it.
Now there's a new walk. I'm walking with Spencer but I'll be walking with Cirque too. Cirque has given me a gift - words, impressions, ideas appeared in my mind today during my walk of grief. A gift of insight and clarity on "Doug 3.0" and I'm grateful. Where that will lead me and how I'll get there, I don't exactly know yet but I'll be walking toward it with Cirque in my heart.
I love you buddy.
D
