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A Grief Journey, Part 3

2/11/2015

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     We flew home from Costa Rica and arrived around midnight.  The next morning, we cleaned and stored Charlie's bed, stuffed toys, ect., before picking up Oliver, so he won't be confused.  I'll never forget how Oliver trembled with joy, when we met him at the kennel.  

     As we all settled back into home life, Charlie's absence was huge, and we were all affected.  I cuddled with Oliver and thanked him for being such a good friend to Charlie -- for helping draw him out of his shell with his affection-hound ways.  In subtle ways, he responded whenever I spoke to him -- it connected us by a fine thread of understanding and mutual loss.  However, walking Oliver alone was hard for a few weeks -- visiting all the usual places that they'd both sniff and mark, like a team of explorers.  Walking the paths in the woods behind our home, I'd once again be reminded that it was Charlie who was good at tracking our way, and not so much, Oliver, who's far more interested in spotting possible prey.  Yet, Oliver practically jumps into the creek, no matter how cold it is, while Charlie (the super tall) always had to be coaxed into it -- he was fearful of slipping on the rocks and preferred sandy beaches.  Little differences like this were and still are poignant.  I moved through a heavy cloud of stillness and pain for a few weeks, with little desire to leave the house or talk to others.  Yet, I was productive in my writing, and comforted myself with meditation and music. 

     I payed Charlie's large vet bill -- it was amazing how many medicines were used -- and, about a week after coming home, I had to pick up his ashes and collar from the vet that he was taken to (not our usual one, because it happened on a Saturday).  While helpfully putting this new vet on my car's GPS, it was a painful trip.  I had planned on releasing the ashes fairly soon after getting them, thinking that, like all the previous cat burials we'd had, this would help all of us process.  I had decided to hold a ceremony and release them into the creek that flows by our house.  

     Several times, I told Drew that we would do it today, only to face a fresh onslaught of agony that left me drained.  I realized that this was different than a burial, not just because there is no decay issue, but it seemed that Charlie wanted to be with us a bit longer.  Still, I fought against this idea for a while, wanting to move on and distance myself from the pain of the quiet house, the big empty space where his bed was, Oliver's sadness, all of it -- and wanting to release him completely.  Yet, every time I built up my courage to have the ceremony, I became a shuddering, tearful heap when the time came.  I felt stuck.  

     After a couple of phone calls to supportive friends and family about this stuck-ness, I decided to take my dear cousin's advice, and stop pressuring myself into doing it -- that it was unkind to me.  We had went with her to distribute her mother's ashes at Walden Pond several years after her death -- it was a loving, peaceful experience.  So, I agreed.  His ashes and collar now reside in my office, next to my altar.  Perhaps he only wants to help usher in a new greyhound friend for us, and then will be ready to be accepted back into the earth, or perhaps, he'll stay a few years.  I'm open to whatever messages he sends.

     It's been a couple of months since Charlie left, and writing this is bringing back the familiar feeling of heart-burn and tightness.  But, I'm not impatient, but humbled by how powerful this journey is.  On Facebook, one of those memes with nature photos said something like, "to grieve well is the greatest gift to your loved ones."  This, and treasuring Bjork's new album, Vulnicura -- which was compelled by a romantic breakup, but resonates to the universal themes of loss, I'm getting better.  I'm even considering hosting another writer's event in my house in a month or so -- my hermit phase will eventually end.  

     We've decided this week-end to take Oliver and choose another greyhound to adopt.  I can feel Charlie urging us to do it -- bring another friend into our home, and complete the perfect 4 household members that we are used to.  I feel so lucky that I can sense his support and know that he will guide entire process.  I truly have gained another beloved spirit guide.  What a beautiful blessing death is!




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A Grief Journey, Part 2

2/4/2015

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     The next morning I did a shamanic journey to the upper world, to check on Charlie.  Though I was crying throughout, I was able to enter the animal realm, accompanied by my guide.  Charlie greeted me -- frisking around me, leaping up and down, but never with a hint of barking or biting (even in fun), as he always did.  He was healthy and free of the arthritis, which had begun to bother him in his last years.   

     Describing how it felt seeing him like this is almost beyond words -- I was utterly relieved!  He settled down and I hugged him and rubbed his ears, thanking him once again for sharing himself with us (he was our first dog and we had him 6 years), for being so loving and patient with us, and for being a wonderful big brother to Oliver.  I apologized that he had to leave us so soon and unexpectedly.  

     He said, (not with those moving mouths in animated movies, but as a voice coming from the whole environment), "it's ok, I'm wonderful.  Thank you for giving me a beautiful life.  I love you and will see you again.  Now, go have fun!"  

     I said, "ok, I will."  After we parted and I returned to my body, I knew we would.  While the rainy, fecund jungle held us softly, we would enjoy all that we can.  I told Drew Charlie's message and he and I agreed.  

     The people at the ranch, both staff and guests, were open-hearted and interesting to meet.  Even the resident dogs were extra sweet to us.  I was able to focus on the activities, such as horseback riding, kayaking, hiking, and enjoyed the meals and discussions we had.  

     But, the nights were the hardest.  We had purposely not taken our computers and only brought a pack of cards, a couple of books, and Drew's travel guitar.  How I regretted not bringing my computer -- I couldn't write my Sci-Fi book, journal entries, anything.  Our bungalow had no TV, or internet/phone coverage, which was also how we had planned it.  Each night, I was faced with a pain which seemed to transform the wafting mosquito net above the bed into a white tunnel of sadness, pouring down over our bed.  My heart, my whole chest burned and ached, and the pain clasped me like a possessive lover, like death.  

     Despite the very real visit that I had paid Charlie in the upper world, the fact that we wouldn't be picking him up from the kennel when we returned -- his final look of disappointment at being left there haunted me.  Why hadn't I given both of our boys an extra cuddle before leaving?  I couldn't rub his belly and hear his appreciative sighs anymore, or his joyful teeth-chatters when I got the dog harnesses ready to walk, his goofy hip-checks and bumps when walking him with his jacket on, even his annoying habit of barking at all the wildlife in our yard -- it all, just crushed me.  Also, the thought of Oliver witnessing the onset of Charlie's crisis, but seeing him no more afterward -- without explanation rended me.  As gentle as he was, Charlie's presence was so big in all of our lives, part of me just couldn't believe he was gone.  


     Yet, there was something sweet about the pain -- a sense of humbleness, of gratitude for something that can not be repaid, a sense of shared blessings and peacefulness.  Also, sharing the grief process with Drew has brought a new tenderness and depth to our relations since.


     As our lovely week was coming to a close, and my pain continued to wrack me like powerful contractions, one thing was certain, going home was going to be difficult.



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A Grief Journey, Part 1

2/2/2015

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     We finally went on our dream vacation to Costa Rica in early Dec, 2014.  Before our travel day, I had dropped off our greyhounds, Oliver and Charlie, at the kennel.  They normally enjoy staying there (it's privately owned and at a house) and it's owned by another shaman, whom I really like and trust.

     When we finally arrived at our hotel in Costa Rica, after a full day of travel, there was an urgent message at reception.  We had to call about our dog -- whom had gotten sick, the message didn't say which one.  Strung-out from the travel, we had a quick meal, then called the vet.  The wi-fi coverage is spotty at our jungle lodge, so the call had to take place in the dining area.  

     Charlie, the spotted one in the photo, was in serious trouble.  I heard though my increasing alarm, that his esophagus had collapsed (this can happen with larger dogs, but I had never heard of it), and in his struggle to breathe, he went into heat stroke -- which can be deadly.  The kennel owner had brought him in time to be sedated and his breathing restored, but we had serious decisions.  The vet wasn't sure he could be healed, as there was a risk of his getting pneumonia, his body was covered in bruises -- heat stroke and his struggles had burst capillaries, and there were many possible complications.  But, she would know whether he could recover after performing tests and more time passes. Treating him could involve a couple of weeks of intense care, with tubes everywhere and thousands of dollars.  

     I replied, "that's Charlie's idea of hell," and explained that he's mellow, but nervous when we dremel his nails at home; on slippery floors/stairs; with high winds or thunder.  

     "Oh, what a sweet boy," she said through tears.  She understood exactly what kind of dog he was.  I knew this was the end -- we had to put him down.  It was excruciating and surreal.  After hearing about what his life would be like, even if he did recover (I'd have to worry about the recurrence of heat stroke, and his esophagus could re-collapse, unless complicated surgery is done), I said, I'd call back in a few minutes with a decision.

     My husband, Drew and I cried and wrestled with the harsh facts.  For about 2 minutes, it was tempting to wait and see whether he was recoverable, to avoid ending his life.  But, I pictured his fear of being in the vet, hooked to machines, with people doing unexplainable things to him, and without us being able to visit.  We couldn't do that to him, especially with such unpredictable results.

     Even after we had decided to put him down, initiating the return call was unimaginably hard.  But, I did it.  The vet and I were both crying, but I told her that we're ready to let him go.  She said that's the bravest and most humane thing to do.  I asked when it would happen and she said within an hour.

     After the call, we were shell-shocked and still not checked into our room!  Moving through a painful miasma, we were helped by respectful staff onto an electric car with our luggage, and driven over dark jungle paths to our bungalow.  After getting into the room and figuring out the lights/bathroom, I got out my mesas and candles.

     Drew and I opened Sacred Space with our tearful prayers to all the directions.  Spirit guided me with the words.  Even through our agony, I felt the energy shift into a receptive mode of Grace.  The vet had said they would give Charlie plenty of love and petting when they did it, and I knew that was true.  I had a vague sense of a pathway opening for him to be welcomed through, lined with love and acceptance.  When we had run out of things to say about our lovely boy, we ended.  Sleeping that night was tough.










 




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