Good Grief
Content warning: the content below regards the death of a pet
Early this year, I did a tarot spread for myself. One card for each month to indicate what each month’s theme would be. The card I drew for November was the Five of Vessels (also known as the Five of Cups), symbolizing loss, grief, and focusing on the negative. I felt in my gut that this meant I would lose my dog, Lola, in November. I never told anyone this until now. I wanted more than anything to be wrong.
Even earlier in the year, I found out Lola had cancer and proceeded to meet with an oncologist to find a treatment plan that would work for her. She was a spritely 11-year-old French bulldog, (the breed, on average, lives between 10–14 years,) and had shown no signs of slowing down. I agreed to chemotherapy over the course of the summer months, telling the doctor that I did not care how long I would have left with her, only that I wanted that time to be high quality for her.
She responded so well to the treatment and never once experienced a negative side effect. We enjoyed the warm months together and the pandemic gave her the opportunity to spend every moment by my side. Her separation anxiety became quite bad, but she adored being my shadow. She completed treatment, but not without the acknowledgement that another type of cancer revealed itself toward the end. The expectation was that neither of these cancers would become an issue until the end of her life and we agreed to meet every few months to check their progression.
Three months later, in November, what looked like allergies became an indicator of something bigger. Her regular vet found a new tumor. I agreed to have it surgically removed in addition to the removal of a few bad teeth and set up an appointment with her oncologist to do our check-in as planned. Had her cancer flared up again? What exactly were we dealing with?
I will never have those answers. Over the course of 13 days and 4 vet visits, Lola experienced a sudden and dramatic change. As if with the flick of a switch, she became lethargic and weak. There were no signs of organ or neurological issues and none of the signs that the oncologist had told me to look for. On paper, she was a perfectly healthy dog. One vet even told me that there were no physical signs she was nearing end of life. For reasons I can’t explain, I felt otherwise. There were days when she looked like she was improving followed by another progressively worse day.
Lola passed away in her sleep, right by my side, wrapped comfortably in her favorite blankets at 4:30AM on November 25th, 2020. I had fallen asleep and woken up very suddenly to find she was gone. I was gutted and yet a bit relieved. I felt in my heart that she was ready to go, even without any physical signs that the end was near. She had been so strong through so much, I think she was just tired and had done everything she set out to do. I will always be grateful that she got to be by my side and comfortable until the very end.
Adjusting to life without her has been incredibly hard. No more of her sneezing in my face in the morning to let me know she was ready to start the day. No more hearing her trot to the kitchen every time someone opened the fridge. No more needing to pull her up onto the couch next to me every time I sit down. There is nothing that could have ever prepared me for how total and all-encompassing her absence feels.
I feel that I’ve spent all of 2020 grieving. Grieving for time I will never get back, for the normal that will never exist again, and for the mistakes I continue to make. I know that it’s important and ok to feel those things, I am well past the point of feeling bad about crying, for fuck’s sake. For everything I have let go this year, I have found space for something new. Every piece a layer that reveals a truth once given time to shed.
As with every heartbreak I’ve felt, I know a part of me is permanently gone with the loss of Lola. But I am not ruled by my grief, it is just part of who I am. I already see a change; I have not filled the empty space with alcohol, food, or denial of my sadness. I am simply trusting I will know soon what belongs there.
