grief

I'd written previously about how devastating the loss of Nanook last September had proven to be. He died four months ago, to the day.

In November, I was still having a very difficult time, and understood that I was clinging to my grief -- because it was all that I had left of him. Moving beyond his loss meant, at least in part, moving away from him. I was still counting the days and weeks since he died.

The surviving dog and two cats were having difficulty adjusting to his absence. The dog felt overwhelmed and outnumbered by the cats, and her health was declining rapidly -- she'd started going downhill last summer before Nanook died, but now it was happening faster. One cat took over as alpha male, while the other started misbehaving as he jockeyed for higher position in the hierarchy.

Not that the house had been especially orderly with Nanook as alpha, but at least things had been calmer.

I was lonely without him, and so angry that he had gone. I carried his leash with me when I took the other dog out walking. His collar on my desk had finally lost his scent. When I retired at night, I missed the weight of him curled up next to me on the bed.

I started talking to him, in earnest, telling him how I was feeling. One night, I flat out yelled about how much I hated that he was gone. That's not a word I use casually.

By the next morning, something had shifted. It was easier to get out of bed. I looked forward to going to work for the first time in a long while.

By Thanksgiving, I was able to mention him in light conversation without getting too teary. That was new. I was smiling and laughing more when I thought about Nanook, remembering how mischievous he had been as a puppy and how good he'd been at outsmarting me. I still cried for him, but not as hard, and not as often. And I was somewhat relieved to not have to clean up the vast amounts of his hair that accumulated in the house year-round.

Just a few weeks ago, I came across this:

Grief is the rope burns left behind when what we have held to most dearly is pulled out of reach, beyond our grasp.
--Stephen Levine

That's pretty much it.

Though it can seem at first to be a bottomless pit, grief -- like a rope burn -- does heal. I'd gotten so used to living with it that I was almost surprised when it finally began to lift and I found myself squinting in the breaking sunshine. Letting go and moving on.

Grief is temporary. Love and memories are what last.