I Miss my Dog Every Day

It's early evening and I am enjoying my nightly sharpener.

It’s been 2 months now and I still feel so sad. I still cry every day. I will just burst into tears quite suddenly and just as suddenly the tears will subside. This morning I was chatting to Jerry the electrician who is a friend of Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse about books and this and that. He is very nice, and has had his fair share of troubles. Then he says, and `how are you doing since you lost…’ and because I’d been thinking about something else it swung me back into my loss and I just burst into tears. I think he was rather taken aback. But since I lost my Nutty I am emotionally incontinent and my dams are not in place, Whoosh… and there is a great emotional surge.

I know I have always been quite melancholic but it’s never been quite like this.

I’ve been reading Natasha McElhone’s excellent memoir After You, which she wrote after her beloved husband died quite suddenly in his early 40’s while she was pregnant with their third son. It is simply heart-rending and a true representation of raw grief.

I cannot put my grief into context with hers but it resonated, just the same.

I was reading reviews of her book on Amazon. One of them as beautifully written as the book itself.

I lost my husband in February of this year. Like Natasha, it came out of the blue - my husband was young, fit and apparently healthy. I've read several books that deal with grief as a project, but none come close to explaining the panic, the maelstrom of bewilderment, abandonment and chaos that has whipped around my head ever since; and none have thus far made me think - yes, that's what I'm feeling, that's what it's like.

Ms McElhone's book was featured in a Sunday paper last week, and after reading excerpts, I immediately ordered it. When it arrived, I read it in one greedy go. It's a short book, made up of diary entries and letters she wrote to her husband, who died while she was away filming, and while pregnant with their third son.

The first thing that struck me was the style of writing. Ms McElhone's prose is beautiful at times, but it's shot through with anger, panic and frustration. It's jerky in style, seemingly bouncing from one thing to another. At times it numbly describes the practicalities of death - choosing a coffin, where and how to do the funeral - at others, the words howl at you, and you can almost taste her loneliness, her forlornness and her horror when the realisation of her situation hits her with juggernaut force, again and again. I found myself nodding along at times - she describes in one entry trying to get a phone company to switch the account from her husband's name to hers, and you can feel the heaviness in her heart when she tells them, no, he can't come to the phone as he has died, and the grim acceptance of their half-hearted condolences. I have made those calls, heard those words and my heart broke for her.

Another thing that the book highlights perfectly is the juxtaposition between a widow's grief, which is a private, intimate emotion, and the very public way in which one must present it. Ms. McElhone describes having to 'fit in' private grieving time between work and child-rearing, taking a half hour here and there to cry or to remember her husband. I almost shouted when I read this; my own grieving M.O. taking the form of only allowing myself to properly cry when I'm driving alone, so that I don't have to be seen, and I don't have to explain it to anyone or excuse or justify it in any way. A little thing perhaps, but something that distresses me. I was pleased that someone else understood it too.

Natasha describes in stark detail the reality of being widowed. She doesn't sugar-coat it, she doesn't dress it up with clichés, and she doesn't fall into the easy path of mawkish, sentimental memorial. I think that perhaps a person who has never been bereaved might find the book a bit full on - she really lets the reader into her marriage and her grief - but anyone who has lost someone will recognise every tear-stained word. It's a wonderful book, and a very lovely tribute to her husband. Natasha, if you're reading - thank you for putting into words what I never could.

Truly, you inhabit a completely different world from other people once you have been bereaved. I had no idea unti I went through my own earthquake.

But I am getting through the day, working through my endless `to do’ list and getting somewhere. I am pitching articles, no response as yet, but experience has taught me that it’s a numbers game and not to take rejection too personally.

My big plan now is to go to Greece (Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse not keen but can be persuaded) and help out at the Halkida dog rescue, an hour from Athens. The animal situation in Greece is almost beyond hope, I had no idea it was so bad, the people there just seem to be so cruel. This place is, so I’m told, like the Wild West. Run by a few strange women who don’t have a clue about dog welfare. The British lady who used to go there regularly can’t face it anymore and said I should just go and do whatever I can. She says bringing dogs back to the UK is much easier than it used to be so I'd like to be involved in that.

I’ve been looking at houses in Shere in Surrey. Near where I grew up and near a few friends so a good place to be. I’ve seen a largish house with a bit of land and plan to foster the dogs there. Presently many Greek rescue charities can’t find homes for their dogs and have to keep them in expensive kennels. once they are in the UK. 

Well, I feel quite miserable here at the moment so I may as well be miserable in Athens and doing some good.

Julia.stephenson@live.co.uk
 

Life Goes On, Sort Of....

And so it is nearly 3 weeks since we lost our beloved Nutty and I am still crying every day. He has left such a big hole in my life that I often feel despair that nothing will ever fill it.

As the days go by, there are short moments when I am not aware of my grief, when I'm running to the post office or jumping on a bus, but my sadness is always with me, like a big black blanket, draped over my chest. While I do enjoy being by myself, it's when I'm alone that I feel saddest. And yet there is nothing anyone can say or do that makes anything better. It's like all the colour has drained from my life and it's hard to feel very happy about anything.

I cried in bed last night, just thinking about the lovely boy. Oh how we miss him. I cried because I miss him so much and I cried because crying is a connection with his memory. And I cried some more because when I am no longer crying about him I think a connection with him will be lost. Mad I know, I know that I am connected to him whether I am happy or sad.

S is very sad too but he deals with it better. He is more practical and matter of fact. Logically I know that none of us can live forever, it's just that I feel I could have coped better with losing anyone else but Nutty. It is quite simply the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I can't believe I have got to 50 before I was truly bereaved. If anyone else in my family had died it would have upset me less.

I have a lot of people I like a lot, but very few people I love. Maybe just S, perhaps Teflon-dad and eco-brother. If I had children I would experience that unconditional love, but now Nutty is gone, I don't unconditionally love anyone.

I read constantly about grief and am fascinated about how people deal with it. Really there is a great well of despair out there and the world can be divided into those that have lost and those who have not. sometimes people will say, `oh my grandparents have died so I have been bereaved', but most of the time, there are exceptions I know, losing an elderly relative is sad, but usually comes with a degree of acceptance.

Reading back the entry I wrote just after Nutty died, I can't believe that I wrote I felt a degree of relief that he was out of pain. That was very selfless of me, but to be honest, I don't feel remotely relieved. Of course he couldn't have gone on the way he was, but his decline had been so sudden, I just wish we hadn't taken him with us to Yorkshire (the car journey weakened him). But I must accept it was his time. The vet said that he would have died some time as the cancer had weakened him so.

President Ikeda writes;

The impermanence of life is inescapable. In Buddhism, this is a fundamental premise about the nature of existence. Why should death come as a shock? From the standpoint of life's eternity, it could be said that birth and death are occurrences of minuscule significance. That is all well and good in theory, but the human heart cannot fully come to terms with such events through theory alone.

 

It's so true. I understand the theory with my mind but not with my heart. Yet, I mustn't be maudlin. The pain will fade and happiness will come. I will make something good come from this sadness.