Grief

January 19, 2014

Grief

by Colleen Houck

Grief is perhaps one of the most complex of human emotions. It’s a thick, almost tangible feeling that runs from the back of your throat down to the pit of your stomach. It’s a kind of pain that’s wrapped in layers. On the surface, its sadness at the loss of the loved one, but it’s much more than that. It’s a hole that gets punched right in the center of your life. It’s trying to redirect your vision of the future to no longer include your loved one. Sometimes, it’s anger that they left unexpectedly.

There’s also a natural cringing, a trembling that comes when staring at death. It’s something I don’t even like to admit. When a loved one dies, I’m not supposed to feel scared for myself, but I do. I can feel the inevitability of my own mortality whisper in my mind, and I wonder how it will feel when death comes for me. Will I be brave? Will I wish for it? Will I want to comfort those I leave behind?

I’ve cried before. I’ve been sad and in pain. But grief is an abrasive, bloated emotion. It cuts you with guilty “what if’s” and rubs the heart raw with “could have said’s” and “should have done’s”. Grief stings the back of your eyes and clouds your vision, showing you just the images of your loved one in pain and suffering. The only touch you remember is the hand slipping out of yours or the feel of skin that’s lost its warmth. The vibrancy, the spirit, the essence of the person we loved departs, and we are alone, left behind.

Only later, when grief becomes a shared thing, does it start to change. We gather and comfort and reminisce. We tell stories and remember laughter. Our minds can start to compartmentalize dying and put it in its proper place. We can then look back and remember everything. Not just the end. Not just the sadness.

This is the time when gratitude replaces grief. We recall the warmth and happiness we felt when we were together. We are thankful for the time we had and make promises to work harder at being a little more loving. A little more kind. And to enjoy the people in our lives.

My little dog died last night. My husband was out of town and as I watched her tiny body suffer, my only prayer was that she would live long enough so that he could come home and say goodbye. I sat down beside her and cried and told her that she was such a good dog and that I loved her. She stumbled a few steps closer and put her head under my hand so I could pet her one last time. She looked at me for a long minute and I knew she was ready.

I made her comfortable on her soft pillows and her breathing relaxed and she slept. I fell asleep for a few hours but at around two am I suddenly woke and listened. I couldn’t hear her. After turning on some lights, I sank down next to her and stroked her soft head. She was gone. I said her name quietly and as tears rolled down my face, I said, “I’m so sorry.”

I’m not sure what I was sorry for. Sorry that she was gone. Sorry that Brad missed her. Sorry that she’d suffered. Sorry that I hadn’t done more, hadn’t played with her as often as she wanted to, hadn’t cuddled with her enough, or spent more time petting her.

It was hard taking care of her by myself and having no one to talk to. I spent the night on my computer, writing instead of sleeping. My husband rushed home and did get to see her and hug her before her body was taken away. We cried together and shared our happy memories of her.

It’s strange isn’t it that such a small creature can come to mean so much. She sat next to me every day while I worked on the computer. It’s hard to sit in the room now without her. When we were trying to get pregnant, and I’d return from the doctor emotionally drained and hurting, I’d pick her up and cuddle her and say, “You’re my only baby.” She was our companion and comfort for almost our entire marriage. She was given to me on my birthday fourteen years ago and she waited until my birthday to say goodbye.

She’ll always be a part of our family. My heart is broken at her loss. I think she’s waiting for us somewhere. Maybe she’s watching the door patiently and, someday, she’ll wag her tail and welcome us home.

My husband wrote this poem for a friend who lost their first child just after it had been born. It seemed appropriate to share.

Colleen

Baby, are you sleepy?

Fast the sun falls west,

Darkness is awak’ning,

Close your eyes and rest.

Light is casting shadows

O’er your lovely face,

Emptiness enfolds me

With your lost embrace.

Sleep on, baby, sleep on

Sleep on long and deep.

Loving arms await you,

Angels near you keep.

Sweet and warm your spirit

Like a precious dove,

Though from here you travel ,

Fly home with our love.

Do not weep, my baby,

Only God knows when,

Never I’ll forget you,

We shall meet again.

Sleep on, baby, sleep on

Sleep on long and deep.

Loving arms await you,

Angels near you keep.

–Brad Houck

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Colleen Houck

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Grief

January 19, 2014

Grief

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Colleen Houck