A New Loss

[Harmoni]

It all comes back when you have a new loss.  You hear it's true, but you don't know what it feels like until you go there.  This week, the baby I lost was not human, but I felt her loss as if she were.  Unless you have never lost a baby, it's easy to think pet loss feels somehow the same as child loss.  People who have never experienced child loss will often think they're offering empathy when they say, "My cat/dog/whatever died, so I know what you're talking about."  Pet loss is a painful echo, a faint shadow of child loss ordinarily.  I have lost more cats than I can name here.  I've now said goodbye to a few dogs.  Under most circumstances, I can't make that comparison.  When my four-month-old died, and even when I had my first in a series of late first term miscarriages, they were world-rocking losses that left my heart a bloody hole.  I had no idea what loss was, even after all the pet deaths, until I lost my babies, particularly the one I held.  

Pet loss hurts more when that pet has become a person-in-fur to you, when you have bonded with that pet on such a deep level that the pet becomes part of your soul.  I have lost simple pets.  I have lost furbabies, persons-in-fur.  There is no comparison there, either.  We had a cocker spaniel a few years ago.  He ever remained a simple pet.  I mourned his loss when he was hit on the road, but nothing like the loss we had this week   

A year ago, my girl wanted to give away one of our two dogs, one we had inherited and with which none of us bonded, to get herself a puppy.  We sent that dog to a happy home where she had a sister dog that looked like a twin.  We have no doubt she's happier there than she ever was with us, and they're happier to have her.  We replaced her with a puppy that we all felt was handpicked by my angel Alli, the four-month-old baby I lost.  Harmoni, the puppy, was exactly the age, the size, the everything my girl wanted.  That puppy had silver-gray fur and blue eyes with flecks of brown.  It seemed like she was min pin like my husband liked mixed with a husky that my girl wanted.  She was full of energy and life.  And despite the fact that we bought her to be my girl's puppy, she spent all day as my shadow, my faithful companion, a close friend.  She became a person-in-fur, a furbaby to me.  I loved her more than I thought possible for a dog since I'm a cat person.  

Then, this last week, we installed new sod in the backyard.  My husband didn't realize he hadn't quite latched the fence.  I didn't think to look before I let them out since the backyard had always been so secure in the past.  I heard the dogs bark at the back door and was about to let them in and got distracted.  I hadn't noticed the barking had stopped when the phone rang.  The woman on the other end apologized for hitting my dog, explaining that the tag around Harmoni's neck told her whom to call.  My husband went out and retrieved by furbaby's broken and cooling body from the arms of a neighbor, who had also stopped to comfort my fading Harmoni.  We'd only had her for just under a year, and she was five months old when we got her.  She was still a puppy.  

That's when the flood of loss hit all at once, weighing me down.  It all came back.  All the child loss.  It felt like I wasn't just losing my furbaby, though that would have been hard enough.  I was losing them all, all over again.  If felt like I was being hit by a brick wall, a harpoon through the chest.  

Later in the week, we found and brought home a puppy to help my kids through their mourning.  They seem to be okay for now, though they probably feel it still on a deeper level than we all realize since they loved her, too.  I love the new puppy, but she's not the same nor can she be.  I know it's not like having Harmoni back, not even sort of.  I'm thankful that I know the angel who sent us Harmoni can take care of her and give her the love we can't on the other side of the veil.  I just miss her.  I miss them.  I look forward to the house full of lost pets and babies I'll have when the resurrection comes.  In the meantime, my arms are empty of my babies, and I can't pet my Harmoni.  Days later, I know this pain won't fade in a hurry.  The wound is reopened.  I have peace most of the time, but it still hurts.  And I know, from way too much experience that it's going to hurt for a while, possibly until I see them all again.  But I will live on, and I will continue in my faith and hope in the Lord and know I will see them all again.  

Easter

I got to share my testimony today of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ with the three-to-four-year-olds I teach in church.  Usually, teaching children of this age is a bit like herding kittens.  If you're entertaining enough and bounce around enough, you'll catch and keep their eye.  If you sit still for any length of time, you've lost them.  They're off to bat at something more interesting.  Today, I talked about one of the topics they know and love most of all: Jesus.  They know His picture as a baby or as a big person.  They love to talk about or act out the Christmas story.  Everything beyond that gets a little hazy.

But then I pulled out a picture of my baby and told them that because Jesus suffered and died for us, he paid the price for our sins.  He suffered all our pains, so He would understand them and comfort us when we hurt.  He overcame death, so I can hold my baby again.  We can have our families forever because of the atonement.  They were transfixed, but their reaction went beyond that.  I cried, so they cried tears of empathy.  Their spirits listened and understood my pain and my joy.  Shortly after, they were back to acting like kittens again.  By the end of the class, when I wasn't telling them stories anymore and after they were done with their snacks and structured games, they were tackling each other and playing loudly like any good kittens [or small children] would.  But for that moment, we all understood and felt the power of the Spirit, confirming the truth of my words.  I will ever cherish the beauty and strength of that moment.

Empathy

Part of what one learns through loss is empathy.  I can try to describe loss to my friends and family, but until they've been through it, my descriptions are just empty words.  I remember the days before I knew that level of empathy.  I said some pretty insensitive things without realizing that's what I was doing.  However, since I've actually been there, I can now share common experiences and feelings with fellow members of the empty arms club.

This last week, I read a student's paper that moved me to tears.  His baby was stillborn just hours after the little guy tested as strong and healthy.  That is a place I've never been, exactly, but I still understood his pain.  He wrote of holding the cold, perfect form of his baby for hours, still in shock because he would be walking out of the hospital with empty arms.  My baby was four months old when she passed, but I have clear memories of living through similar moments.  The image of walking out of that hospital with empty arms and expectations turned to ash is still fresh in the back of my mind.  It always will be.

He described a level of healing to which I can only aspire as of yet, a level of joy that I still seek.  But we both know we will hold our babies again, which can bring both of us peace.  It's nice to belong to a fellowship of empathy.  I just wish the dues of belonging to that club weren't so high.