A. Forgiveness
On the Wednesday before Huan died, I felt myself getting sick. I was tired. It was late. I let him out, and he wouldn't come back in. He was just standing there, staring at me. I stormed outside in the cold. Angry. Teeth clenched. I scolded him, though I don't even remember what I said. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled so hard that it slipped right over his head. And he was afraid. Truly afraid, probably all the more so because he wasn't really there--diminished mental capacity, sight, hearing, overall awareness. Not only was he not staring at me, it's very likely that he didn't even see me. And I, the one person who was supposed to love and protect him, scared him when he was his most vulnerable and weak. And three days later, he died in my arms.
The thing is, I can't even plead, "Hindsight is 20/20." In my very first post on this blog, I said how sorry I was for being impatient with him when he was healthy. And here he was sick, dying for months--I knew it was only a matter of time--and I did it again. Granted, I didn't know how bad it really was at that moment. But I should have known he wasn't being defiant because he would never be. More importantly, I had the hindsight of regret and the foresight of his death, and I still managed screw it up. I think this is what my sophomores would refer to as "epic fail."
This scenario has played over and over again in my head since he passed away. I just keep confessing it, first to friends and now on the worldwide web, waiting for some kind of absolution. And everyone, including my husband, has told me, "You're only human...people make mistakes...what counts is the love you gave him over the years...Huan forgave you." But no one can absolve me of this one, least of all Huan. I need to learn to forgive myself. This one is a work in progress.
The thing is, I can't even plead, "Hindsight is 20/20." In my very first post on this blog, I said how sorry I was for being impatient with him when he was healthy. And here he was sick, dying for months--I knew it was only a matter of time--and I did it again. Granted, I didn't know how bad it really was at that moment. But I should have known he wasn't being defiant because he would never be. More importantly, I had the hindsight of regret and the foresight of his death, and I still managed screw it up. I think this is what my sophomores would refer to as "epic fail."
This scenario has played over and over again in my head since he passed away. I just keep confessing it, first to friends and now on the worldwide web, waiting for some kind of absolution. And everyone, including my husband, has told me, "You're only human...people make mistakes...what counts is the love you gave him over the years...Huan forgave you." But no one can absolve me of this one, least of all Huan. I need to learn to forgive myself. This one is a work in progress.
B. Empathy
Since I lost Huan, there are acquaintances who I know have read my blog and/or know of his death from Facebook postings. And they have said nothing, haven't acknowledged his passing in any way. No private messages, texts, emails. Nothing. And then there are people whom I consider friends--some of them good friends. Some of them have offered only superficial, seemingly obligatory and contrived words of comfort. Others have said absolutely nothing, even when in a context where one would think them compelled to say something. I know I asked people to refrain from public consolatory gestures, particularly at work, but there are private forums, arenas, opportunities. I am, honestly, saddened--even angered--by the seeming indifference. Am I entitled? Yes, I think so. I really do.
Atticus Finch says, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." I have to think that people are either a) unable to "climb into my skin" (e.g. "He was just a dog") and/or b) unwilling to do so because it is uncomfortable and awkward.
I swear, swear, that I will not be one of these people because I know how much these people have hurt me. If someone--whether he be a Facebook friend or best friend--loses someone he loves--whether it be a hamster or a husband--I will say something from now on. Even if I risk saying the wrong thing, and even if it makes me uncomfortable to do so, I will do my best to show support, to empathize, to climb in others' skin and walk around in it.
C. Appreciation
For as many people who did nothing, there are triple as many who did all sorts of wonderful somethings. One friend sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Another sent me my first Pandora charm, the letter "H." There have been condolence cards in the mail every day, even from the most unexpected places and sources. There have been private messages and public words of comfort, like this one, which I must have read hundreds of times:
"I know that lots of people in the world have pets, but not every pet owner has the kind of bond that you have with Huan.
And I know that Huan is extraordinary. His spirit is clear in your words, in your pictures, and in his face.
But I also know that the bond you have with him is not merely a consequence of his extraordinary spirit. That bond is also a consequence of your spirit, of your extraordinary ability to open your home and life to welcome him. Whatever goodness he possesses is equally present in you, and it does and will endure in you, because it was genuinely part of you all along."
Or this one:
"I know that lots of people in the world have pets, but not every pet owner has the kind of bond that you have with Huan.
And I know that Huan is extraordinary. His spirit is clear in your words, in your pictures, and in his face.
But I also know that the bond you have with him is not merely a consequence of his extraordinary spirit. That bond is also a consequence of your spirit, of your extraordinary ability to open your home and life to welcome him. Whatever goodness he possesses is equally present in you, and it does and will endure in you, because it was genuinely part of you all along."
Or this one:
"I have never had a dog, but I still relate completely to the grief that you are feeling. It is real. The love that you and Huan have for each other is unconditional--in many ways, it is probably less complicated than any other love you've ever felt. How could you not miss that with your whole heart and soul?"
I am so grateful for such beautiful gestures, words, and people. I swear I would be a bawling heap on the floor right now if it weren't for them.
And then, of course, there is David. I could have never anticipated how much David would grieve the loss of Huan. (David has always loved Huan, but Huan always was a true "Mama's boy.") And I never could have anticipated how much I would need to share the experience of grieving with him. David has cried with me, just about every day since Huan died. He has spent hours sorting through pictures with me, making 62 trips to Target to purchase the perfect frames with me, watching videos of healthy Huan with me, etc. I am so grateful to not have to go through this alone.
I am also grateful for David's selflessness, always, but especially now. In the midst of his own tears and utter devastation, he has told me how sorry he is for me. He has held me and loved me and told me every day how proud he is of me. (If you know me and know of my relationship with Huan, you probably count yourself among those who thought I would be committed by now; basic day-today-functioning, then, is something to celebrate.) David works 12-20 hour shifts almost every day, and every day he still manages to show me I am his first priority. And, despite the fact that he is so overextended, he happily does things to make my life easier and my grief more manageable. Our cat, for example, has this rare mouth problem, which has taken a backseat to Huan's issues these past few months. He needs to be seen by the vet who used to treat Huan before Huan began treatment with my cousins. I can't bear the thought of telling the old vet that Huan is gone, so David-- in between work and school, and work and school, and work and school and a little bit of sleep--is going to assume the emotional burden so that I don't have to. David is the best thing that ever happened to me. I always knew that, but losing Bubba afforded me a friendly reminder to not take his goodness for granted. And for that--and always for David--I am grateful.
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One of my friends, in response to my confession referenced in letter A, told me I needed to "live, love, and learn." This is me trying.
I am so grateful for such beautiful gestures, words, and people. I swear I would be a bawling heap on the floor right now if it weren't for them.
And then, of course, there is David. I could have never anticipated how much David would grieve the loss of Huan. (David has always loved Huan, but Huan always was a true "Mama's boy.") And I never could have anticipated how much I would need to share the experience of grieving with him. David has cried with me, just about every day since Huan died. He has spent hours sorting through pictures with me, making 62 trips to Target to purchase the perfect frames with me, watching videos of healthy Huan with me, etc. I am so grateful to not have to go through this alone.
I am also grateful for David's selflessness, always, but especially now. In the midst of his own tears and utter devastation, he has told me how sorry he is for me. He has held me and loved me and told me every day how proud he is of me. (If you know me and know of my relationship with Huan, you probably count yourself among those who thought I would be committed by now; basic day-today-functioning, then, is something to celebrate.) David works 12-20 hour shifts almost every day, and every day he still manages to show me I am his first priority. And, despite the fact that he is so overextended, he happily does things to make my life easier and my grief more manageable. Our cat, for example, has this rare mouth problem, which has taken a backseat to Huan's issues these past few months. He needs to be seen by the vet who used to treat Huan before Huan began treatment with my cousins. I can't bear the thought of telling the old vet that Huan is gone, so David-- in between work and school, and work and school, and work and school and a little bit of sleep--is going to assume the emotional burden so that I don't have to. David is the best thing that ever happened to me. I always knew that, but losing Bubba afforded me a friendly reminder to not take his goodness for granted. And for that--and always for David--I am grateful.
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One of my friends, in response to my confession referenced in letter A, told me I needed to "live, love, and learn." This is me trying.
Beautiful beautiful beautiful.
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