Strategic Loss

I've been putting off giving away my dog for a year and a half, almost since we bought him.  I love this dog, and this dog loves me.  The problem is he viewed my husband as public enemy number one.   He was a rescue from a family who physically abused him.  The woman who rescued him actually broke a window to pull what she thought was a dead cat from a hot car but which turned out to be an overheated puppy, getting baked in the car. 

This vet tech, who rescued the puppy, carefully chose us from among several others (including one offering $1000, probably with the intent to turn him into a breeder) to be the family to take on this pomchi, Twixie.  I strove to live up to the responsibility.  Except Twixie associated my husband almost from the beginning with his previous owner, the abuser.  My husband simply picking him up turned the phrase "scared the crap out of him" into a literal reality.  Twixie would go nuts barking whenever my husband walked through the door, when Twixie expected my husband to walk through the door, or when my husband so much as twitched, changed positions, or stood up to walk around. 

                                                                 
And we truly tried everything to soften Twixie up.  My husband would give him lots of treats and love.  We tried pheromone emitters plugged into the wall, calming treats, and a tube of pheromones to be rubbed onto his nose.  We tried a Thunder shirt, a vest that is supposed to make a dog feel more relaxed.  We fixed him, thereby devaluing him with the hopes he could stay forever.  None of it changed his violent reaction in the slightest.  I seriously have sunk a small fortune into that little boy, hoping to smooth things over.  No dice.

 

I loved my little Twixie with his big, beautiful smile, his faithful way of following me everywhere, and his glorious, flowing pom tail and rear fur.  But he had started to exhibit behaviors that showed stress, Chihuahua impishness, and feeling overcrowded.  He knew the rules but sneaked away to steal flavors from the litter box, scattered garbage everywhere, pottied in every corner after sitting around outside, doing nothing, and just generally made himself difficult.  All of this was something we could work with.  But what it came down to was my depressive husband couldn't take getting told he wasn't welcome in his own home.  He bore with it for a year and a half and totally left it up to me.  But I finally decided it was time. 

I just hate loss.  I hate having to say goodbye or, worse, not getting to say goodbye because of all I've been through with child loss.  This was one of my furbabies.  And every loss hammers on that tender part of my heart that still aches with separation.  It's not that giving away a dog is comparable to child loss but that every loss compounds the one that came before and brings many of the same emotions to the surface.  We actually prayed about rehoming my little Twixie.  Both my husband and I felt good about the family we found, a waitress with little money who had had lost her Pomeranian babies stolen a couple of years before.  She paid us about the same for him as we had paid for him in the first place, about enough for gas.  At first, Twixie found the separation hard, but the next day, we heard back that he'd taken both the waitress and the uncle she lived with into his heart.  He was doing very well and was not barking at anyone.  He was happy. 

And, meanwhile, we rescued a little girl pom from a backyard breeder.  The little whitish creamish thing smelled of urine and clearly has lived in a cage much of her life.  She doesn't know how to dog.  But she loves everyone and has latched right onto me.  I still sometimes miss my Twixie, but I love my little Snow and know this change was for the best, that we were guided.  Everyone is happier now, including Twixie.  No, it's not loss like child loss, like I said, but it is hard to make a change like this.  I am thankful I did for all of our sakes. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Express Your Grief

[self-expression: Source]

Once upon a time, long before I had a real reason, I took a class on trauma writing.  In that class, I learned about the importance of finding a way to express your grief.   When I had just lost my brother then (a month later), my baby, I found bottled up emotions were bound to explode at the worst possible times.  Some people turn to unhealthy forms of self-medication and sometimes even self-destruct if they don't have some way to express their pain.  Some people do both self-expression and unhealthy self-medication.  If self-medication feels like a valid option, it's time to turn outward to a professional for help.  However, if you feel like you can do okay working with your pain, I recommend finding some form of self-expression as a means to processing grief. 

[Writing=love Source]

This could take the form of writing  as with poetry, memoir, blog, journal, letters to the loved one, true experience encoded in fiction, or any other written form. When I lost Alli, I frequently wrote poetry whenever my emotions spiked for whatever reason.  It gave me a place to process what I was feeling inside.  Most of those poems will (thankfully) never be read by anyone else.  But they were there for me when I needed them.  I wrote out the worst of my pain in journals that only descendents may ever read (assuming they can make out my scrawl--there's a reason I type more than I write long hand.)  I would sometimes write letters to Alli or my brother, telling them how much I miss them.  I have at least one novel waiting to be edited that features a mother losing her baby, which is my encoded experience.  Obviously, I also blog.  I highly recommend writing privately if you can't handle the idea of your words being read or publically if you think others can find help and hope with your words.   

For example, here is an unpolished poem I wrote the day after she died:

06-30-2010

Pain

Blinding, numbing

Burning like a volcano

And clouding out everything

From my vision.

Everything tastes like dirt.

I choke it down to fill the emptiness

But the real emptiness remains.

Everything I see, touch, think about

Links back to chubby toes,

Chunky little legs

Soft little cheeks,

Bright blue eyes

Staring at me from around the breast,

Peach fuzz across the soft head,

Round little bum

Aimed at me for a change

Preparatory to eating.

Where are you, my angel?

I long for you.

My every thought is for you,

Wondering how yesterday could have gone

If I’d have been just a little more careful

With your fragility.

My only comforts,

Your older brother and sister,

Your daddy

And above all knowing one day

You will fill my arms again. 

This poem heeds few poetic conventions, but it did capture my pain with imagery you can feel.  You don't have to be a great poet to write in ways that express your pain.  

[My baby, as an infant and as an angel]

Self-expression can take the form of any kind of art such as sculpture, painting, sketching, or anything else.  I had noticed while Alli was alive that she could have been a twin to my boy.  When I lost her, I first drew a picture of a baby picture I had of her.  I then took an older picture of my boy and turned that image into a girl.  That is how my baby probably looks as an angel.  I keep those pictures by my bed with the photos.  You really don't have to be a master artist to draw or paint or sculpt something that is a tribute to your loved one.

[Source]

You may also consider music and dance as forms of self-expression.  My nephews both write music to their beloved mother, about whom I blogged recently.  I have no talent for music, but if I did, I'd probably put some of my poetry to music.  You can find many dances on shows like "Dancing with the Stars" dedicated to lost loved ones.  You don't have to be a master dancer to dance out your loss and pain. 

[source]

It's true that some people prefer to bottle emotions up inside or pretend it never happened.  But for many people, expressing their pain and working through their grief process and into healing is a helpful thing to do.  I recommend you find a way to express yourself if you haven't already.  If you'd like, you can share what you make here.  If you don't want to share, do it for you.  You'll feel better when you do. 

Dodging the Bus

(The Approaching Bus [source])

Alli's angelversary struck yesterday.  For all who know the pain of an anniversary of a loved one's death, you'll get the visual.  You see it coming, the pain it will create, but there's not much you can do about it, kind of like a speeding bus heading your way.  You can brace yourself, try to dodge it, sleep all day, or whatever, but it will still come. 

[Timpanogos--Escaping to the outdoors [Source])

Every year, we escape because the last place we want to be on the angelversary is home.  Three years ago, we stayed in a cabin.  Two years ago, we went to Craters of the Moon.  Last year, we went to a bed and breakfast then tried (unsuccessfully) to hike up to Timpanogos Cave.  That was depressing.  This year, we just made a day trip of it to Lava Hot Springs.  My girl spent the whole time wanting to go home, and we all were somewhat disappointed.  At least we weren't home. 

[The true face of the bus: this memory of a tiny coffin in a big hole.]

Of course, the emotions still caught up.  It's the bus principle.  One way or another, they always do.  Last night, I shared pictures of her short life and broke down.  My husband has had the depression bus strike today.  It always catches up.  But staying busy helped me survive the day, helped us both survive the day.  And we got to make memories with those who remain.  Should we just stay home and let the bus hit or keep up the day trips?  In the end, whether things work out or not, I think it's worth it.  These days create memories and bonding we wouldn't otherwise have.  And our angels can join us, too.  I highly recommend it if you can.  It won't stop the bus, but it may just add a sense (perhaps false, but a sense, nonetheless) that you can control your grief.  You may want to try it sometime. 

Point of Connection

As of the 29th, it has been nine years since my baby slipped beyond the veil to God.  Most of the time, it's not hard to let the buffer of time hold the pain back.  It's not that time heals all wounds so much as time allows for distraction, for forgetfulness.  It allows me to hide from the feeling of the immediate, gut-wrenching pain of fresh loss.  

As I watch my nephews and niece and others around them deal with the fresh loss of their mother's departure beyond the veil, I feel those connections.  I can understand their pain--at least as we share the common connection of loss.  I will never understand exactly what they're going through, even were my mother to die, because I don't have their exact background or emotional constitution.  But I can reach out for an embrace, distancing myself from their pain to protect myself from having to dive into my own.  I imagine many of us do this.  We feel their particular pain through their lens from a safe distance.  As the memorial went on, even as they read an essay I wrote of their mother's loss, I clung to this protective barrier.  I hate funerals because they always want to drag me back to the whirlpool of my own exposed and naked pain.  But I hold back.  I keep the distance alive and well.  

Then, we come upon the month of her angelversary, and the distance starts to shrink.  Nine years feels a lot longer, somehow, than nine marks on the calendar, nine times I've had that scab peeled back as I stare into the bloody pulp, which is all that is left of my heart.  And suddenly, I start feeling the connection.  The distance means nothing.  The differences mean nothing.  Yes, our experiences are different, but the addresses of the pain are next door to each other.  At these times, it's as if nine years never happened, and it feels like fresh loss again.  We can embrace as one, pray for healing as one, as we experience the healing power of understanding and love.  The Lord will see us through.  He knows where our loved ones are, that they are happy and continue to love us.  He will hold them in his love until we can meet them again. 

Homicide too Close to Home

A week and a half ago, a little girl named Lizzy Shelley disappeared from a house across the street from my boy's school.  You probably heard of it.  It's been international news.  It was all over FaceBook first because something like this rarely happens this close to home, and my neighbors and friends really felt it.  Police suspected her uncle, and a short time later, he led officials to her body to avoid the death penalty.  The broken and bloody knife had already been found in the parking lot of my boy's charter school, where he's been since kindergarten.  Her body was found a very short distance from that same school. 

[source]

This case hits home for many reasons.  The first is geography.  I've been in that quiet neighborhood more times than I can count, have left my kids alone there.  It never seemed like the kind of place a little girl could be kidnapped and murdered. 

[source]

Another is, obviously, I am mother to an angel.  I lost my daughter under very different circumstances, but people who lose their children often understand each other on a level that those who have not lost a child can't.  As I say, it's great to have the empathy that comes with knowing what it's like to lose a child, but we don't wish our club on anyone because the dues are way too high. .  I can only imagine what kind of pain, devastation, and, of course, guilt this family is feeling not because they did anything wrong but because that's the human response.  If you can take responsibility, you can take control, which means you HAVE control and can prevent this kind of pain in the future.  It's illogical.  Things like this happen, and we don't have control.  But, at that point, you'll do anything mentally or physically to try to feel better. 

[source]

The third reason reason this hits close to home is we had to send my brother to prison for pedophilia.  He died of major medical complications right there in prison the month before my daughter passed away.  2010 was a monstrous year for us.  But this is the very thing we were afraid could happen if we let my brother stay in my parents' basement where grandkids could come and go, where there was an elementary a couple of blocks away.  One doesn't always get the kind of warning we did--finding pictures on my parents' computer--or know that 89% of pedophiles act out.  One can't always tell just by looking at your brother that he's dangerous. 

In all ways it's possible, this case hits closer to home than it does to most.  We don't know the family, but we feel their pain.  We don't know the brother, but we've seen shadows of that darkness in my own family.  We've never walked in that house, but some good friends of ours where we have walked live right next door.  It's a chilling thing when an event like this strikes so close to home.  I pray for that family, and I pray that no family has to undergo what this family has suffered. 

Unexplained

 [source] 

Several months ago, my dad became a confused, mumbling soul all of a sudden.  No tests came back with a clear answer, though it wasn't a stroke, even if it acted like one.  Fast forward to now, and we find out that it was probably the very thing that took my nephew's mom, Sandy: sepsis, an infection.  We were not told until recently.  The difference was he was medicated early, and she only got to the hospital when it was too late to save her.

[source]

In the last week, my dad fell out of his chair, and it happened again.  Dad became a mumbling, confused mess, incapable of holding a utensil.  He's become less the dad we knew and more like a toddler, in need of intense care that my mom doesn't feel capable of offering.  And no one knows why.  They've eliminated one possible cause for his degenerating functionality after another.  It turns out he had mini strokes, but they don't think that was the cause.

[source]

It's hard when someone who has been so important to you starts to fail.  It's not easy to watch them lose themselves and become a stranger, scarcely able to hold a spoon, let alone a coherent conversation.  It feels like a loss long before they actually leave, and so many complicated issues surround them.  My grandma was like that for multiple years, sofa surfing and mumbling incoherently to herself long before we finally said goodbye.  It's almost like you lose the same  person twice.  And I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

When the Worst Comes

[Photos from the early years.]

Last time, I blogged about my brother's family's fear of the loss of their mother, my brother's ex-wife.  A short time after I wrote that blog, their fear became a reality.  I got the phone call at 1 am that said Sandy, beloved mother of three by birth and many by heart, adored sister, cherished friend, fur mama, and beloved soul mate of one slipped beyond the veil, leaving behind countless heavy hearts and teary eyes.

Thomas, her eldest son, and Amber, his wife, and their three children visit me regularly.  I have seen how much they love Sandy.  Things have not always been easy, but Thomas called her his rock.  Amber calls her Mom.  The family lived in the same apartment complex with her and frequently visited to play games, do laundry, give her the chance to play with grandbabies, or just hang out.  I've held Thomas in my arms as he's sobbed out his pain, crying out for his mom.  What do you say in the face of raw pain?  They never really got to say goodbye.  I wrote out a goodbye stream-of-consciousness hybrid poem/story from her point of view, but it will never be the same.  They are heartbroken but know she is still there for them, cheering him on as he revises his novel she loved so he can publish it for her. 

[source]

Andrew, her second, frequently chats with me.  He calls his mother his best friend.  He looked to her for so many things.  He lived with her for quite a while toward the end.  He is a lost soul without her but plans to write songs with his band in her honor to remember her.  Over the years, he brought a string of friends to her doorstep, and none was turned away.  They were all welcomed like her long-lost children. 

Pandora, her youngest, was her baby.  I called her the day after the loss, and we talked of her mother.  She'd hoped her mother would pull through as she had so many times before. 

Jose, her soulmate of ten plus years, misses her more than he can say.  She was his life, his heart.  He prayed for her life and now yearns to hear her voice.     

All these people and more are reeling with the pain of loss.  I know a lot of words, but there aren't words for this kind of pain.  You can try to write around the swirling vortex of the heart.  But actually capturing the pain or soothing it are things words can't really do well.  They say time heals all wounds, but time really only helps one find coping mechanisms, ways to put together a life that has been shattered through loss.  I pray for this family's peace.  Other than listening and offering

a hug or a word of empathy, that's all I can do.  That's all any of us can do many times.  Sometimes, that has to be enough.