It’s not an official diagnosis, but I’ve got CDO. It’s really OCD, except I put the letters in
the correct order. No, I don’t tap a pen
on the desk continually until other people run out of the room screaming – I’m
not that bad of OCD. I guess I just like
my ducks in a row. I enjoy
predictability as some sort of a pre-determinant to success in my various
enterprises. But that isn’t the way the
universe is designed and it doesn’t build character in me either.
There is an important place for trials and suffering in our
lives. It should shape our personhood so
that we become more humble, more noble, more sensitive to the pain and
struggles of others. Yet despite this
universal system in which even our failures can make us better people, we still
fight against any kind of pain or struggle…. As if somehow it is tolerable for
everyone else but should never happen to
us.
Last Sunday morning I went through the crucible of angst in
a way that is reserved only for people like me:
namely, dog-lovers. My elderly
big dog had a stroke quite early in the morning (4:30 am) and it put us on the
obvious course of taking the Final Trip to the veterinarian. Even though I knew this day would come, and I
knew it was coming closer by the day as her various abilities waned (sight, hearing,
getting up, navigating two simple stairs to the garage), I still hated the fact
that I was standing IN that day AT that moment.
I had one of my very closest friends at my side – not so
much to grieve the loss with me, which she did – but also to chaperone ME in
case I needed to be contained. There are
zones of our personality that we cannot predict or control, no matter how hard
we try. At some point that morning I had
this absolutely naïve delusion that I was going to be composed at that final
veterinarian visit. The opposite
happened; a grief came over me the likes of which I could not wish on my worst
enemy. I even asked my friend in the
middle of it, “How many times can your heart break and you still LIVE?” because I thought I was running out of
internal stamina.
I buried my face in the silver-chocolate colored fur of my
dog’s back and stroked her very fabulous tail.
(My other two smaller dogs have docked tails; so you should appreciate a
fabulous dog tail when you see one and it wagged for you for 13 years on a
daily basis.) And I found myself saying
out loud: “It isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair.”
What wasn’t fair?
That every one of us, both man and beast, has an expiration date? Or the fact that I had to endure such
enormous, separating pain – after 13 years of incredible fun and bonding, which
I didn’t deserve either? Why do we think
God or the universe “owes” us a good time, all the time, forever?
If one more person says, “That’s why I will never get
another dog again …” I may get ugly. But
my friend DT said it best: “If you didn’t feel that badly then that’s the
person who shouldn’t get a dog again.”
Excellent point. I confided that
I will ALWAYS have a dog…. Until they put me in a nursing home … and if they
don’t let me have a dog there, then I will probably threaten to burn the place
down! (well, just as an expression of
passion for the subject, right? I’m sure
they will take my matches from me.)
The kind of person my dog has made me is something I am
aware of because of what we have lived through together. I am persistent. I am determined. I kept her even when her character flaws were
initially all on the surface because I knew that the abuse she had endured
before she lived with me caused her to be that way. I also had strong faith that I could bring
her through to be her very best self. I
trained her with one of the top-notch dog trainers in the area because I wanted
to do it the right way, the first time.
I have never been sorry for that investment. She has laid her head on the laps of children
that came to visit; she has helped teach and encourage a litter of my other
dogs’ puppies as they were learning to explore and walk. Her gentleness was an absolute inspiration to
me. I loved taking her camping because I
felt totally secure with her guarding me.
Her beauty and happiness echo in my heart and all around me.
The day after she left us, I took my two spaniels to the
beach to watch boats and smell seagull poop.
I expected that it would be a good change of scenery for us. What I forgot as I packed them into the back
seat of my vehicle was that my front seat would now be empty. The sweet dog that used to head butt my elbow
so that I would continuously pet her as I drove was not there. The rawness of that moment flooded my eyes up
in seconds. And as we drove onward to
the beach, I knew that somehow she would be with us – watching us as angels
watch us – and that the loss and separation were somehow temporary.
I did not share my loss on Facebook – because that is too
banal for this kind of suffering. It
would be disrespectful against an experience that was sacred and transformative. And I don’t want people who barely know me
just popping little crying emogees at my post.
I DO want to share this in a way that helps others process and heal
their own grief – and to make sense out of the things that seem pointless. Eventually, I will be able to speak about her
with composure and that mysterious peace which comes to us when we have let our
grief have its day. But for now, I can
tell pieces of the story when the opportunity presents itself….
Later in the week I told my mother that out of all the
people on the planet, I am one who knows when I am going to die. She said, “And how is that?” I replied:
“Because one day St. Francis of Assisi is going to say to the Lord, ‘You
have to pull her ticket Lord, because she keeps sending dogs up here and I’ve
got my hands completely full!’”
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