This is one I'm working on, this grieving thing. As a blog post I'm typing it to help me process, I'm not sure if it'll make it to posted or not, so if it does, and you're reading this, bare with me.
2011 was a bad year for me, a bad year for my entire family really, both sides of it. I can attest to some of their suffering, the rest is theirs alone though, so I write this about me, from my perspective, to help me. Through this effort though, I hope that it helps other people. Just so we're clear, I'm not oblivious to anyone else's suffering, and there are those who have suffered far more then me, but it is not my place to share anyone's story but my own. (And that, this is how I remember things. My time line may be a bit off, it was a pretty stressful year all the way around, so forgive me if I remember incorrectly)
On June 14th my grandfather died. My mother's father. He was 92, but still living at home, with my mother. For being 92 he was in reasonably good health. He suffered a minor heart attack, called the ambulance, and admitted himself to the hospital. He was clear about his wishes and care, he signed all his own paperwork. They diagnosed him as having suffered a minor heart attack, and kept him overnight for observation. Late that night he had a massive heart attack. He went under, and while they revived him, he was put on a ventilator (by his request at the time) and lots of medicine to help his heart continue to beat. It became painfully clear that this was the end. My grandfather had, apparently, had congestive heart failure for quite some time. We all should have seen it. All the signs were there. But he didn't tell anyway, and would always say he was fine when asked. So here we were, looking into the final stages of heart failure.
My mother had eight children in her family, there are seven still alive. The call went out to all of them, as well as my cousins (he had 17 grandchildren in all, as well as 10 great grandchildren when he passed away.) The time had come, if anyone had anything they needed to say, or wanted to be there to say goodbye, come now. Six of the siblings showed up, as well as all my cousins in the immediate area, and those within driving distance.
There were several chats with the doctors. There were many discussions, softly spoken phone conversations, tears, and singing, there was a lot of singing. The word form the doctors was that there was no chance of a meaningful recovery, no matter how long he was left on life support. (which was something he was clear he did not want) He may become conscious, but he would not be able to function as his old self, or, probably, at all. By the end of that day it was clear that no matter how much medicine they put him on, and no matter how many steps they took, he wasn't going to make it another 24hrs. We scheduled taking him off the machines for the following morning, when everyone who was coming could be there.
I like to think that he was a man who lived on his own terms, and he went out on his own terms. He checked himself into the hospital, he knew exactly what was going on. He gave my mom final instructions on the way to the hospital. He was not going to continue to live and breath on life support. He just wasn't. He was done. I said several prayers for him in hopes of a peaceful passing, and a reconnecting with my grandmother on some other plain. I said several for myself as well, for the strength to endure, and be helpful where I could, and for the good fortune and luck to live at home at the age of 92, on my own terms, check myself into the hospital, and be gone 2 days later. We should all pass so peacefully. And I cried. A lot. In the grand scheme of things I thought it was a good passing, and while I was sad, I didn't feel devastated. (Oh, how those things can sneak up on you) That was June 14th.
The first week in August I took up jogging, which is a generous term for what I was doing, but I stuck with it, and was determined to jog. I wanted to jog, I
needed to jog. I didn't question why.
On August 11th my step-mom (who I adore, and am close with, no wicked step mother here. She's an angel) called me. It was clear that something was wrong, and the more she talked, the more clear it was that it was something major. My father's mother had been very sick for awhile. I think it had been 2 years earlier when they had called to tell me she wasn't going to live out the week. I made plans Wednesday to fly out Friday, and they weren't sure she as going to make it until I got there. I was determined to go anyway. By the time I showed up her health had made a serious turn around, and we had a nice visit. I went back on her birthday the two following years for a visit, knowing very well it could be her last. I like to think I cherished her while she was here. I named my first daughter after her. (Here we call her Helli, which is fitting on several levels) The only regret that I had was that my grandmother hadn't gotten to meet her yet. I was planning on taking both kids down in October for her birthday so she could see her only two great grand babies and get to meet her namesake.
It wasn't my grandmother. It was my 27 year old cousin who had died. Not only that, but she had died in her sleep for no discernible reason. (Almost a year later and it's still an unknown cause of death) She was young, she was healthy, she ran, she worked out, she was kind, and brilliant, and dead for no reason. They checked everything they could think of, it wasn't drugs, it wasn't her heart, no brain aneurism, no stroke, she didn't suffer, she just quit breathing for, what is apparently, no reason. This one was harder to process. We waited for the first autopsy expecting a heart attack, brain aneurism, some hidden underlying health problem, there was none. Then we waited for a toxicology report, the tissue samples to be tested, for every test know to man, we waited months, and there was no answer. There was never any answer.
At first though all we had was, no apparent known cause, and no body, as it was being tested. We still had a memorial service though. My brother and I made plans to fly out for the service. We were going to leave Tuesday, for the service on Wednesday, and fly back Friday. Sunday night my son jumped on my 12 year old dog with hip dysplasia, and she bit him in the face. Monday morning my vet came to my house to put her down. We had to have a 15minute discussion between her, me, and animal control over the phone about the fact that we might have to remove her head on my back deck to take it to be tested for rabies. In the end, animal control allowed the vet to bring the whole dog. Small comfort I guess. She had been my dog, and companion for twelve years, but I couldn't leave her (old, and clearly too sore to run, alone with my husband and 2 children) while I went out of town for 3 days, only to come back and have to have her put down anyway.
I could have waited. It was my choice. I felt it was kinder to her to just get it over with. In the end it was a peaceful passing. I still miss her a lot of days, old and crazy as she was. I left immediately after that to go buy something to wear to the service. I couldn't go home until after my husband got home from work. I couldn't face the house alone without her. My Faith.
I got to here several weeks ago. I was interrupted by my children, and life. It's taken me a long time to come back to this. It's been hard to keep posting though. Every time I come to write a post I am drawn here, and every time I am drawn here I find I can't face it. Not yet. I feel as though I should write it, as though it will help my healing process. I feel like, sharing it, putting it out there, will help me move forward. I also feel as though I don't want to. I'm not sure it should be shared. I'm not sure I want to set the burden on anyone else. Because that's what happens. If I post this I force all who read it to carry a part of my loss. To carry a piece of tragedy around with them. "I have a friend...." We all have the horrifying stories that start that way. Something that, although it didn't happen directly to us, is still so horrifying as to follow us. I feel as though my cousin's death is one of those things. One of those unbelievable things, that is carried with people. The rest of my year, on top of that, is the surrounding horror story. The story that proves no matter how much pain you think you can endure, there is always more. The story that proves life isn't fair, or just, that life goes on regardless of your experience. That the world keeps turning, and bad things keep happening no matter how tapped out you are. No matter how much you're sure you can't take anymore. It's the story that proves you can't die of a broken heart. There is no limit to the amount of pain your heart can take and continue to beat. It's a story that it's not fair the share. It's not fair to ask people to bare witness. But life isn't fair, we've covered that. Not fair, not just, no equal. I'll post this when I'm done, in hope it brings me some sort of closure. I'm sorry though, for everyone's day that I will inevitably ruin. And with that, we continue on.
I did, eventually, return home. I packed my kids up to go stay with their respective grandparents. I packed myself up to go. I got everything ready. The world kept spinning, and I kept moving forward.
My brother and I flew out the next day. Only three members of the family didn't make it. It was the biggest gathering of us all in a very long time. It was horrible and wonderful. My cousin was loved. She was really loved. A staggering number of people showed up. They showed up in the hundreds, five, six, seven hundred. They showed up the night before the service to a gathering held (I think) for people to share their condolences. They showed up for the service. The un-air-conditioned church was standing room only. Em may not have had a lot of years on this earth, but she certainly managed to live those she had to the fullest. She touched people everywhere she went. She brought happiness, inclusiveness, and sunshine everywhere she went.
We came home. We went on. My children were too young to understand. I didn't tell them. I tried not to cry while they were around, and I jogged. I jogged and jogged and jogged. It helped, even if I wasn't going anywhere. There isn't actually anywhere I'd want to go. It wouldn't have mattered where I was. I ran in place to process.
October 6th was my grandmother Helen's birthday. I took the kids, and my brother and I went to Florida. It was the first time Grandma Helen got to meet baby Helen. (Or Heli/Hellion, as we call her here)
It was good. It was a sad trip. How could it not be? A member of our family was missing. One far too young to be missing. "Normal" had changed, and we were just getting our footing. It was a good trip though. I was so glad I got my two Helens together. I like to think my grandmother was waiting to meet her. Her little namesake. I'm not sure if it's true or not, but I like to think so.
On Oct 30th my grandmother passed away, quietly in her bed at home. She lived three years longer then the doctors told us she would. She was a tough old Broad. I hope my daughter carries that part of her. She was sick. It was time. We all knew it was going to happen. It wasn't a surprise. Yet it was, somehow, still completely devastating. It floored me again, and, I'm pretty sure, all my cousins. I went down again. This time by myself. I'm glad I went. I'm glad I was there, though there were fewer cousins. They had already taken so much time off work. It was nice though to go. To be around family. To be around people who were as devastated as I was. To realize
everyone was as devastated as I was.
It had become clear, that our other twelve year old dog, Kayla, was losing her mind. Week after week, it was clear the
only thing that had been regulating her behavior was Faith. She didn't know any of her commands, didn't seem to know her name. She'd wonder around the house all night bumping into things. The night before I was scheduled to fly out she knocked Heli over, and bit her (pinched her hand) while taking food out of her hand. It wasn't a big deal, Heli was fine, if startled. I was two feet away telling her, "no." This was something Kayla wouldn't do. Something Kayla would
never do. This wasn't our dog. She was unhappy, and she was becoming unsafe. I had the vet over. She examined her, and told me it was dementia. She wouldn't get better. She would only get worse, and she would only become more of a threat. She wasn't a mean dog, but she was 75lbs. If she didn't see a problem with knocking people over to take food, she was going to cause harm. I had her put down the morning I flew out for my grandmother's funeral. I held her head. I cried. I helped the vet load her into her truck. The vet drove off, my mom pulled up, and I got in the car and drove to the airport to catch my plane.
For every Ayre I lost last year, I sent a dog off with them. My cousin Emily had to have been thrilled. My grandmother, not so much so. She would have liked Kayla though. Kayla was just th kind of dog who would have sat next to my grandmother and let her pet her for hours.
And still, I kept moving forward. The world kept turning, the sun kept rising, and I had two tiny people who need me. I got up every morning, I did everything I needed to do, and I moved forward. And i jogged.
From out trio of dogs we started 2011 with, we had one remaining. He almost didn't make it. He refused to eat for three days after Kayla was gone. My husband was sure he was just going to lay down and die. He wouldn't tell me though, not until after he started eating again. He couldn't bring himself to tell me we might lose out last dog while I was away attending my grandmother's funeral. He's still here too. You can see him on the
Introductions post.
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| Grandpa Art and me |
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| Emily |
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| Faith |
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| Grandma Helen, Grandpa Russ, and baby Demon |
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| Kayla |
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| Gulliver and Demon |
Yesterday was the 1 year anniversary of my Grandpa Art's death. Gulliver... Gulliver is a story all unto himself, but the thing that really got him into our house was that my Grandpa Art loved him. He loved that dog. Gulliver has exceeded his life expectancy. Our vet gives him another year at the most. He is old, overweight, and having health problems. I like to think that my grandpa will be happy to see him. We will all certainly miss him. I count myself lucky that he didn't pass away in 2011. I think there was enough loss that year.
On the 1 year anniversary of my grandfather's death I'm reminded that the 1 year anniversary of all these other deaths is coming. It's so easy to lose track. So easy to keep moving forward, and forget about all the firsts that are going to come with their new sets of normal. It's not that I forget any of them are gone. It's rather that, an entire year later, I'm am blindsided by the fact that the world just keeps on moving. That so much time could possibly have passed without these loved ones in my life. That life is so unjust, and so unfair, that an entire year later my loved ones are still gone. That they will still be gone next year, and the year after, and the one after that. That life is so unfair that I have an entire lifetime yet to live without them.
I don't want my life to end. Everyone only gets so long to live. It's expected that my grandparents would not outlive me, just even. They shouldn't outlive their grandchildren. It's expected that dogs have a short lifespan. I knew when I adopted them, they would not live my entire life with me. It is expected, it is the order of things, but I still don't have to like it. I don't like it. But Em, Em was younger then me. She was so young. And nothing happened. There was not a horrible car accident, or a swimming incident, not an unknown health problem, not a brain aneurism. There was no reason. Not one, that Em should be gone. And so i want her back. Everyday. I want her back. You can keep the rest, four has to be enough loss in one year for anyone. Keep the rest, and give me back Emily.
And this, dear readers, is the end. The world will keep spinning, the win will keep rising, and I will keep moving forward, because I have no other choice. I will love my children, I will enjoy my life, I will work to appreciate the small things, everyday. I will move on, eventually. I will be happy. My children will be happy. My family will be happy. But we won't forget. None of us will forget. We will just adjust to the new normal.
