Healing and Wholeness

The loss of a beloved pet is unlike any other. It’s not greater, or less. But it is different. Today, only five days since my darling Lucy died, there is a hole in me that I feel will never be filled. Of course I will heal from this loss. I have achieved a sort of healing from other losses in my life, my beloved parents, brother, grandparents, and even other pets, but this one is different. Losing Lucy was like losing a part of myself. She was my constant companion, since the day we brought her home from the shelter. She was attuned to my moods; she followed me around the house, and awaited my return when I had to go out. She told me things with her glance and her body language, and I always felt that when I spoke to her I was carrying on a two way conversation. I am still in the depth of the shock of loss. I realize, however, that accepting loss is an important part of life. And as we get older, the losses mount up, and we face loss in so many forms that when we are younger, we just never happen to think about. When we experience loss, we learn empathy and compassion, but we also learn that the pain of loss is worse even than physical pain. Dean Koontz, in his book Odd Hours wrote: “Grief can destroy you—or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn’t allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it.” So the reason I allow myself the indulgence of writing about my loss, is to reflect on the sacredness of the bonds that we make in life, whether for our families, our loving and loved friends, our beloved pets, and even for the ‘things’ we love because of the memories they represent for us. Grief is the recognition that something that we had and valued has passed out of our sphere. And if we are careful not to become bogged down in the grief, we can take the next step in the process by recognizing the gratitude we feel for the joy of having had that person, or that pet, in our lives—for the joy shared, for the sacred times and bonds of love. I am still expecting to see Lucy when I get out of bed in the morning, when I look over to the spot on the floor of my office that she occupied when I was working on my computer, and when that place is empty, I feel the pang of loss, but I will not always. I am making the effort to appreciate the hours I spent grooming Lucy, and how we both enjoyed it. I am remembering her doggy smile, and the days when she would chase a ball on our early morning exercise, and I am reflecting that smile. I am consciously trying to capture a sense of gratitude for all the years of happiness that we shared, and when I do those things, I know that healing will come and with it some restoration of wholeness. It will take a while, and the wholeness will never again be really whole, because the Lucy part will be missing, just like the Victor part is missing, and the Mom and Dad parts are missing. But with the wake-up call that each loss is for us, let us be more aware of the sacredness of each relationship and each day, and experience the gratitude for it that makes life worth living.