Grief, and Healing

They say that grief cannot be defined or written, only felt. For the loss of a pet, whose life spans just do not come close to matching up with a human's, it is in both presence and absence. Grief blatantly rears its head the moment you come home from the vet's office where you have just put your dog to sleep, living in the few objects that your dog owned and loved in his lifetime: his feed and water bowls sitting empty underneath the patio, his bath towel hanging limp across the handle of the lawn mower, his bed in the hallway where he slept the nights away with you. It surreptitiously hides in spots and corners even after you have tucked all those tangible objects away from site--the rugs placed across the laminate flooring where he liked to lay, the spot underneath the patio where he rested when weariness and pain got the better of him after evening meals, the empty window where he poked his head out past the curtains, forever waiting for you to come home after being away.

Grief whispers memories both happy and bittersweet in your mind, preventing you from keeping your head in the present. It grips you so vehemently, raking claws across your ragged heart, stealing away your breath. Even after your heart has healed in slow and clumsy layers, the scars live underneath, leaving an essential part of you forever changed. Sometimes the sun comes out, and for an instance, you hear the birds and the swish of cars, and you observe the autumnal leaves changing colors outside to remind you that the world keeps spinning, and you must go on, too. Other times, you are beached at an unidentifiable point along a railroad track, unsure of where you are headed or when it will end.

To distance ourselves from the pain after Argos died, Tung and I went to Davenport Beach. A late-summer heatwave lashed through the Silicon Valley, and we escaped to the misty coolness of wind and waves.

Something about the sea is very soothing. The salt-tinged air heals prolonged allergies from a valley basin plagued with smog and dust. Strong winds are buffered by large cliffs that have stood the test of time. Sea breezes trace swirls and patterns in an artistic display of white water foam.

Tung climbs the bluffs

I am standing amidst the waves

 Davenport's waters lap noisily through excavations in the rocks. The water turns a blackish green as it explores the mouth of the shallow cave.

The waves lap on as the earth spins, a soothing aural pattern of crash-and-recede, crash-and-recede.

 Those who frequent the beach's nightly beauty build bonfire rings with logs protected by Davenport's smooth and colorful rocks.

After we had been playing at the beach for some time, a happy black Labrador Retriever and his Poodle pal came bounding up to me. I didn't think I could stand the sight of another Labrador so soon, especially since I lost it during the drive to the beach when I saw a dog sticking its head out of a passing car. But this Lab with his tongue happily lolling out and his gait so full of life and energy, gave me no reason to grieve. Some dogs are old and some are young; some live on and some die. This is the way things should be.

Three nights after Argos died, I dreamed of him. He had just come bounding in after a good run in our yard. I could feel and smell the warm sunshine emanating from his shiny, golden fur. His tongue was lolling out happily and he was smiling. I called to him by his nickname, "Gosey!" and he responded right away, whirling around on his hearing-impaired side, the right ear that had at one point been bloated with a hematoma. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my subconcious behalf, but I like to think that he had come back to say goodbye to me, so quickly after he departed this world. Some days, it was difficult to even haul myself out of bed. "But this is right," he was saying. "It was time. I am happy now, ok now. And you should be, too."