A Brick that is Grief

Last Thursday, our dog of six years suddenly passed away. It was unexpected, surreal, and devastating. Zeus arrived in our home in the winter of 2015. He was underweight, uncontrollably hyper, and unashamed (most dogs are, I suppose). When I awoke to his final breaths on the morning of September 23rd, grief overcame me. I was strangled by its strong hands, struggling to breathe or think. What do I do? Where do I go? Who do I call?

By the time I got to the emergency vet (25 minutes away), he had been gone for at least 40 minutes. I could not stop crying. I had failed him. I did not get to say goodbye. “It was most likely a stoke. There was nothing you could have done.” I am sure the doctor was telling the truth, yet it did not comfort me in the way I knew it was supposed to. I just wanted to look him in the eyes and say goodbye.

By hour 14, I was not sure if I was allowed to be sad anymore. Of course, writing this realization deteriorates any doubt that this statement is demonstrably incorrect, but for whatever reason, I was embarrassed by my sadness. It was a dog, after all. I should not be crying at the thought of my dog’s face, right? Oh, how grief and shame dance together. I cried the most I have ever cried in one day. His death represented so much more than his presence taken from our home. He represented the birth of my two daughters, three different home moves (including our most recent out-of-state move), and Florida as a whole.

Zeus was more than Zeus; he was a token of what it means to live.

How could I lose that? How could God take that? I do not have the answers to those questions. Even six days removed from the worst day, I still have no answer. Perhaps those are the wrong questions. I have a deep conviction that God does not withhold any good thing. In other words, in this dark hour, God is inviting me to trust Him. I do not know the whole story yet.

When I surrendered my life to Jesus in the eighth grade, I meant that my life was now in his complete control. I could rest easy knowing that I was in the palm of His hands. 15 years later, though not easy, I choose to rest. My grief is still present, I do not foresee it going away anytime soon, but I choose to rest.

In David Lindsay-Abaire’s play, Rabbit Hole, Becca (who recently lost her child) has a conversation with her mother about grief:

Becca: Does it ever go away?

Nat: No, I don't think it does. Not for me, it hasn't - has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.

Becca: How?

Nat: I don't know, the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you, you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and - there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be awful. Not all the time. It's kind of...

[deep breath]

Nat: Not that you'd like it exactly, but it's what you've got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh, it doesn't go away. Which is...

Becca: Which is what?

Nat: Fine, actually.