I never read my old posts. I read everything going all the way back to February, when Bob passed. I read the letter I had written to Bob, three days after his passing I think. I asked him to send a message once in a while, especially to Kristin. I'd forgotten all about that. I read that and I just cried and cried.
I am still, STILL, trying to make sense of all this!
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Late Bloomer
When we had to put down our dog after 13 years, I cried every day for a solid month. I know it was a month because exactly thirty days later, Shawn began to drag me to animal shelters because the house was "too quiet" as he put it. I cried openly, unafraid of judgment. I no longer cared what people thought.
What really always amazed me was that I've been to countless funerals; I literally have lost count. My family has suffered a great many loses and I have not cried for any family member or friend as I did for that dog. She was not my child; I have never referenced my dogs as children. She was not my child, no, but she was my baby.
Almost three years later, we lost my uncle and I teared up yes, but I didn't cry. It wasn't until two months later I attended a Christmas event for the hospice program that cried. I attempted to suck it back, but as much as I tried, I could not contain it. It wasn't fear of what anyone thought. Many were crying openly for the angel they had placed on the tree, bearing the name of their loved one who'd they'd lost earlier in the year. I think in way I thought that maybe I'd grown string enough to not cry. But what does strength have to do with not crying? Isn't it having strength that allows us to cry? Shouldn't I have the strength to allow myself to grieve?
I felt as though I had grieved enough while he was living, yet dying more and more each day. But I stood there, facing the tree with its golden lights & countless angels with names and I cried. I could not have felt more alone in that small room squashed by so many people.
It wasn't until Bob died that I truly allowed myself to feel. It was so unexpected. And yet, it wasn't expected. It was not so much that I allowed myself to feel, but more that I could not help it. I could not hold back the anguish. And it was not just the fact that Bob was gone, but the conspiracy theories, the pain, the strife that our families added to the flame. Each combination of words was fueling that flame to a size I could not ever possibly imagine on my own.
I barely ate. I slept only because of dark whiskey. I looked forward to the time of day when the sky darkened and I have a sip that would make me forget everything that was going on. I began to quickly realize how people replace their feelings with alcohol. I understood now, why people pushed their pain with the bitter taste of beer or wine. I swore to control it, and I did. I never succumbed to the disease that has claimed so many so close to me.
But no matter how much I drank, how little I ate, the pain remained. It was different with Bob. With many others in my family, we'd known it was coming. For a year, two years, we'd always had an advanced warning. With Bob, we had only a handful of months when we felt something was not quite right, though we never spoke of it. Cancer was never diagnosed. Heart problems have been present since he was a teenager but he's made it this far, this long....Why not another ten years?
It was not to be. It was quick and sudden. Shawn and I had a grand scheme to help Bob and his family. We would open the store and hire Bob because everyone else was making buckets of cash. But we were too late. Time was not on our side. It wasn't since having to watch a doctor inject my dog with poison that would stop her heart that I felt such awful pain.
And I still cry.
With Bob gone and our grieving not quite passed, we decided we could make buckets of money to at least help his children, to make good on our promise that we never told him about. But that was not to be either. Others seem to be making money hand over fist in this business except us. We do OK, but it's not enough. Who will help his family? Isn't this the whole reason we started all this mess?!
I still have sharp memories of the funeral. There are some I have no memory of whatsoever. During the week of which Bob passed, I wrote notes. I intended to write it out as a story, to be kept privately, to help myself work out some this emotion. I never did. I am afraid I will not recall what some of the notes mean but it doesn't matter. It has served its purpose. It helped me to a point. In a way, it allowed to tell "someone" the things that could not be repeated.
I remember writing about how Bob looked in the casket. That's all I wrote about it. I had written no details. The truth is, I vividly remember how gray his skin looked, especially on his hands. I remember how it looked like Bob, but it didn't look like him at all. It was more of a shadow of Bob.
Perhaps that is the best way to remember someone when you see them after. It is a shell, a container for this life. Bob has moved on to the next life and has a new container. I do believe this because of the dream I had about a week after he passed. Bob didn't die. He passed along to the next world. I know he lives because he told me so in my dream. He told Kristin, his daughter the same thing.
Why then, does it still hurt so much? Why do I still cry?
What really always amazed me was that I've been to countless funerals; I literally have lost count. My family has suffered a great many loses and I have not cried for any family member or friend as I did for that dog. She was not my child; I have never referenced my dogs as children. She was not my child, no, but she was my baby.
Almost three years later, we lost my uncle and I teared up yes, but I didn't cry. It wasn't until two months later I attended a Christmas event for the hospice program that cried. I attempted to suck it back, but as much as I tried, I could not contain it. It wasn't fear of what anyone thought. Many were crying openly for the angel they had placed on the tree, bearing the name of their loved one who'd they'd lost earlier in the year. I think in way I thought that maybe I'd grown string enough to not cry. But what does strength have to do with not crying? Isn't it having strength that allows us to cry? Shouldn't I have the strength to allow myself to grieve?
I felt as though I had grieved enough while he was living, yet dying more and more each day. But I stood there, facing the tree with its golden lights & countless angels with names and I cried. I could not have felt more alone in that small room squashed by so many people.
It wasn't until Bob died that I truly allowed myself to feel. It was so unexpected. And yet, it wasn't expected. It was not so much that I allowed myself to feel, but more that I could not help it. I could not hold back the anguish. And it was not just the fact that Bob was gone, but the conspiracy theories, the pain, the strife that our families added to the flame. Each combination of words was fueling that flame to a size I could not ever possibly imagine on my own.
I barely ate. I slept only because of dark whiskey. I looked forward to the time of day when the sky darkened and I have a sip that would make me forget everything that was going on. I began to quickly realize how people replace their feelings with alcohol. I understood now, why people pushed their pain with the bitter taste of beer or wine. I swore to control it, and I did. I never succumbed to the disease that has claimed so many so close to me.
But no matter how much I drank, how little I ate, the pain remained. It was different with Bob. With many others in my family, we'd known it was coming. For a year, two years, we'd always had an advanced warning. With Bob, we had only a handful of months when we felt something was not quite right, though we never spoke of it. Cancer was never diagnosed. Heart problems have been present since he was a teenager but he's made it this far, this long....Why not another ten years?
It was not to be. It was quick and sudden. Shawn and I had a grand scheme to help Bob and his family. We would open the store and hire Bob because everyone else was making buckets of cash. But we were too late. Time was not on our side. It wasn't since having to watch a doctor inject my dog with poison that would stop her heart that I felt such awful pain.
And I still cry.
With Bob gone and our grieving not quite passed, we decided we could make buckets of money to at least help his children, to make good on our promise that we never told him about. But that was not to be either. Others seem to be making money hand over fist in this business except us. We do OK, but it's not enough. Who will help his family? Isn't this the whole reason we started all this mess?!
I still have sharp memories of the funeral. There are some I have no memory of whatsoever. During the week of which Bob passed, I wrote notes. I intended to write it out as a story, to be kept privately, to help myself work out some this emotion. I never did. I am afraid I will not recall what some of the notes mean but it doesn't matter. It has served its purpose. It helped me to a point. In a way, it allowed to tell "someone" the things that could not be repeated.
I remember writing about how Bob looked in the casket. That's all I wrote about it. I had written no details. The truth is, I vividly remember how gray his skin looked, especially on his hands. I remember how it looked like Bob, but it didn't look like him at all. It was more of a shadow of Bob.
Perhaps that is the best way to remember someone when you see them after. It is a shell, a container for this life. Bob has moved on to the next life and has a new container. I do believe this because of the dream I had about a week after he passed. Bob didn't die. He passed along to the next world. I know he lives because he told me so in my dream. He told Kristin, his daughter the same thing.
Why then, does it still hurt so much? Why do I still cry?
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