You will have to excuse my few days of silence. My mind continues to reel from the loss of Ferdinand.
I have kept myself busy this week: we've gone to several stores, volunteered at school, and met with a friend at the local Panera. I find that if I don't have the time to think about my little friend, I don't.
And then, the need arises to go into the basement. I flick the light on. My muscles tense; my brain shivers. I slowly tread down the stairs. On autopilot, my eyes survey the scene, expecting to find messes. I am disappointed when I find nothing but cleanliness. I feel like a leftover: unexciting and worn out.
He is not coming back. He is not coming back. I repeat this to myself daily. I had this same problem when my dog Holly died.
I was 10, and the morning of September 20, Holly sprinted out the front door as we prepared to get in the car for carpool. A car, by all means traveling too fast, and a dog on the loose, are almost never good together. The car struck Holly and immediately she limped home. Even at 10, I remember thinking that she was coming home to die. We went to school and my mom went to the veterinarian.
Holly was not there when I returned home that day; she indeed needed to be put down. The rational side of me understood why, much like today. But the irrational side of me expected to see her again. I'd look out the window, hoping to see her in the yard. I'd sit on the couch, feel a whoosh by my legs, and truly believe that I'd find her settling down on the floor by my feet. Come back to me, I'd whisper, as if the power to bring her back existed.
I'm not crazy, that much I know, and I wasn't crazy then. Yet these days, it feels like I am. They say grief can be a process, and that it has five stages. If that is the case, then I am surely in Denial right now. I hope not to be stuck here for long.
***
I just got a call from the animal hospital. We chose to have Ferdinand cremated. We plan on doing something with his ashes, we just aren't sure yet what that will be. The kids want to bury them somewhere, while Tim would prefer to spread them somewhere meaningful to us. Knowing that our beloved cat is now a boxful of ashes should help launch me past the mournful denial phase, don't you think?
(I promise something more uplifting next post!)
I have kept myself busy this week: we've gone to several stores, volunteered at school, and met with a friend at the local Panera. I find that if I don't have the time to think about my little friend, I don't.
And then, the need arises to go into the basement. I flick the light on. My muscles tense; my brain shivers. I slowly tread down the stairs. On autopilot, my eyes survey the scene, expecting to find messes. I am disappointed when I find nothing but cleanliness. I feel like a leftover: unexciting and worn out.
He is not coming back. He is not coming back. I repeat this to myself daily. I had this same problem when my dog Holly died.
I was 10, and the morning of September 20, Holly sprinted out the front door as we prepared to get in the car for carpool. A car, by all means traveling too fast, and a dog on the loose, are almost never good together. The car struck Holly and immediately she limped home. Even at 10, I remember thinking that she was coming home to die. We went to school and my mom went to the veterinarian.
Holly was not there when I returned home that day; she indeed needed to be put down. The rational side of me understood why, much like today. But the irrational side of me expected to see her again. I'd look out the window, hoping to see her in the yard. I'd sit on the couch, feel a whoosh by my legs, and truly believe that I'd find her settling down on the floor by my feet. Come back to me, I'd whisper, as if the power to bring her back existed.
I'm not crazy, that much I know, and I wasn't crazy then. Yet these days, it feels like I am. They say grief can be a process, and that it has five stages. If that is the case, then I am surely in Denial right now. I hope not to be stuck here for long.
***
I just got a call from the animal hospital. We chose to have Ferdinand cremated. We plan on doing something with his ashes, we just aren't sure yet what that will be. The kids want to bury them somewhere, while Tim would prefer to spread them somewhere meaningful to us. Knowing that our beloved cat is now a boxful of ashes should help launch me past the mournful denial phase, don't you think?
(I promise something more uplifting next post!)
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