I feel like I kind of owe you a repost of cute wiggly penguin butts.
I wrote about grief yesterday, about a friend who said goodbye to her dog over the weekend. But even before that, grief was on my mind. Maybe it's the changing of the seasons. Maybe it's all of the soul searching I've been doing over the last year and a half.
As most readers of my blog know, I've faced grief in the past, after almost losing Indiana in 2006 and again in 2009. Then Mr. Squiggles literally was lost in 2009, and my Aunt Carole died in 2009 as well. (All within three months--Damn, 2009 was a horrible year)
With Indiana, I was dealing with anticipatory grief--your loved one is still with you, you just don't know for how much longer. This is common for cancer parents. We're told by our vets and the (evil) internet that our time with them is limited--maybe six months, maybe a year. As it turns out, Indiana is the Energizer Bunny. We're looking at nearly five years of survival for cancer #1 (at the end of this month--yay!). It took me a long time (longer than it should have, really) to start looking at Indiana as living rather than as dying. I think this is a concept you can't quite grasp until you've had a pet diagnosed with a potentially terminal illness. It's so easy to get wrapped up in the illness, and we forget that our pet is with us, today, and maybe tomorrow, and maybe even the day after that. Though it took me a while, I finally have days where I forget that Indiana even has cancer.
Everyone knows the story of Mr. Squiggles--how he disappeared in 2009, and after 12 1/2 months of searching and intense heartache, he finally made his way back to us. We still don't know what happened, or where he was, or how he found his way to our friend's porch. I'm still in awe every day that he's back with us. I had hopes that if he ever returned home, it would make everything okay, and while it's made everything much better, it hasn't erased all of the pain of the previous year. I still find myself keeping a close eye on the fields around our neighborhood while driving home, searching the ditches without even thinking. It's second nature, really, and it's a hard habit to break. I also find myself remembering what we were thinking a year prior. During a thunderstorm, my mind wanders to, "A year ago, a storm hurt us so much, because we didn't know if our boy was out there in it, if he was afraid, or wet, or cold." I know he's here now, safe from the storm, never to experience that fear again. But I also know that his disappearance left a wound in our hearts that will not be quick to heal.
I also find myself thinking about my Aunt Carole a lot these days. She died, way too young, of a long-term illness on December 30, 2009. I was in the room with her, with my closest family, and I watched her die before my eyes. I will never be the same again. She was not only my aunt but also a second mother to me. We fought. We disagreed. She made fun of me, and it made me mad. But we loved each other fiercely. She had no children, so as she was a second mother to me, I was a surrogate daughter to her. She spoiled me, bought me too many gifts, made special meals for me that were meat-free (even though she never "got" why I am a vegetarian), and overall, she was a huge part of my life.
Until the final years of her illness, Carole and my Uncle Lee lived in Tampa, Florida. When I got older, I would fly down with my Grandma to spend a week with my aunt and uncle. It was one of the highlights of my summer.
I remember so clearly the smell of their home. Florida smells so differently from Illinois, especially in the summer. The heat and humidity bring out something in the plants, in the grass, in the ocean. My aunt lived just off Tampa Bay, so the outside of their house smelled of a combination of grass, salt, and gardenias. There were loads of gardenias in their courtyard, and stepping into it always smelled like home. Even now, years later, the smell of gardenias always takes me back to Florida, to my aunt, and to happy memories of visits to their home.
I found myself thinking about my aunt and Florida (and of gardenias) a lot last week. I'm not sure why. Maybe because the beginning of June was when I used to visit. Their house is now gone, bulldozed for a new McMansion to take its place. My aunt is gone too. I can still smell gardenias, but it will never be the same. Nothing will ever be the same.
Everyone knows the story of Mr. Squiggles--how he disappeared in 2009, and after 12 1/2 months of searching and intense heartache, he finally made his way back to us. We still don't know what happened, or where he was, or how he found his way to our friend's porch. I'm still in awe every day that he's back with us. I had hopes that if he ever returned home, it would make everything okay, and while it's made everything much better, it hasn't erased all of the pain of the previous year. I still find myself keeping a close eye on the fields around our neighborhood while driving home, searching the ditches without even thinking. It's second nature, really, and it's a hard habit to break. I also find myself remembering what we were thinking a year prior. During a thunderstorm, my mind wanders to, "A year ago, a storm hurt us so much, because we didn't know if our boy was out there in it, if he was afraid, or wet, or cold." I know he's here now, safe from the storm, never to experience that fear again. But I also know that his disappearance left a wound in our hearts that will not be quick to heal.
I also find myself thinking about my Aunt Carole a lot these days. She died, way too young, of a long-term illness on December 30, 2009. I was in the room with her, with my closest family, and I watched her die before my eyes. I will never be the same again. She was not only my aunt but also a second mother to me. We fought. We disagreed. She made fun of me, and it made me mad. But we loved each other fiercely. She had no children, so as she was a second mother to me, I was a surrogate daughter to her. She spoiled me, bought me too many gifts, made special meals for me that were meat-free (even though she never "got" why I am a vegetarian), and overall, she was a huge part of my life.
Until the final years of her illness, Carole and my Uncle Lee lived in Tampa, Florida. When I got older, I would fly down with my Grandma to spend a week with my aunt and uncle. It was one of the highlights of my summer.
I remember so clearly the smell of their home. Florida smells so differently from Illinois, especially in the summer. The heat and humidity bring out something in the plants, in the grass, in the ocean. My aunt lived just off Tampa Bay, so the outside of their house smelled of a combination of grass, salt, and gardenias. There were loads of gardenias in their courtyard, and stepping into it always smelled like home. Even now, years later, the smell of gardenias always takes me back to Florida, to my aunt, and to happy memories of visits to their home.
I found myself thinking about my aunt and Florida (and of gardenias) a lot last week. I'm not sure why. Maybe because the beginning of June was when I used to visit. Their house is now gone, bulldozed for a new McMansion to take its place. My aunt is gone too. I can still smell gardenias, but it will never be the same. Nothing will ever be the same.
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1 comment:
I think, for me at least, the hardest part about grief is the "compound" nature. There seems to always be more than one thing to grieve. A beloved pet, a human loved one, losing a place, they all come with their own type of grief. I have found myself grieving for my sister (who died last August) at the same time as grieving for our little Miss Girl cat (who we had to euthanize almost 2 years ago.)
And as we are facing a move away from our favorite spot in Oregon, I'm facing that grief too.
Recognizing, as you have done with your posts here, your grief is so important though. Giving yourself time and permission to grieve all of the losses is so important. Thank you for sharing! And take good care of yourself!
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