grief

Topper & Blue

The Dance: Why the Pain of Losing a Pet Is Worth It

“Looking back on the memory of the dance we shared…”

Garth Brooks’ much-loved song “The Dance” reminds us that the best things in life sometimes lead to painful endings. The song is about a person who realizes what he would have had to miss in order to avoid pain that comes with the end of a relationship.

Today, the song was on my mind for other reasons. This morning, my s.o. Alan’s beloved Australian Shepherd/Border Collie cross, Topper, who’d worked his way into my heart to a degree I never imagined possible, crossed the rainbow bridge. He was 14, give or take.

“For a moment, all the world was right…”

Topper lived a good life. He spent many days working cattle with Alan. When the cattle work became less frequent as Alan’s attention became more focused on horses, Topper devoted himself to running around the outside of the round pen in the opposite direction of whatever horse was being worked. He’d run like the wind in his circles, determined to keep those horses in line.

In recent years, Topper ran less and trotted more, but still he circled. Just a couple of weeks ago, I saw him walking very slowly in the opposite direction of the horse Alan was working in the round pen.

Topper had a fierce sense of duty. If a young horse got out of line with Alan on his back, Topper would march himself into the arena and just stand there, staring at that horse, as if to say, “Don’t make me come out there.”

Once, Alan had a wreck on a young horse in the round pen. The steel bar was dented where Alan’s head hit it. Somehow, he managed to roll under the fence and had the wherewithal to call me to come get him. I found Alan, bloody, dirty, and dazed, with Topper sitting right beside him.

“Holding you, I had everything…”

In recent days, Reese, my white lab, and Baxter, the boxer who thinks he is mine, but is not, took turns watching over Topper as he slept the deep sleep of the aged dog. Sometimes, I’d find them sleeping beside Topper on one of the dog beds. Reese would position herself either on the bed with him, or on a bed adjacent to his. Often, we saw her with her head on Topper’s bed, or sometimes just a paw. Baxter, typically a boisterous boxer dog, who loved to lick Topper’s face rigorously to get him to play, changed his approach. He still licked, but ever so gently. Dogs are amazing.

Reese & Topper

“If I’d only known…I might have changed it all…”

By last night, we knew for sure that it was time. Topper’s heart had been failing for awhile and we’d been managing it with medication. By last night, though, he hadn’t eaten in nearly a week. His coat was rough and ugly. He seemed disoriented. The many drugs he was on were no longer giving him any quality of life.

This morning we rose early to take Topper for one last ride. I’m sure he knew what was happening because he resisted a little as we led him toward the truck. Reese tried to stop us from leaving by getting underfoot. They knew. We all knew. It sucked.

The vet agreed with us that it was time. Alan and I kept our hands on Topper’s back as Dr. Alexander shaved his front leg and gently inserted the needle. Lauren, the vet tech, cradled Topper’s head. He leaned into her. He’s always loved having his head held and stroked. I watched for his breathing to stop as Dr. A. started the injection; Topper was gone before the injection was complete.

Lauren gently laid Topper’s head on his front paws. I kissed the top of his head and closed his eyes.

Dr. Alexander took out his stethoscope and made sure Topper’s heart had fully stopped. He positioned the scope in a number of places. “He’s breathing just fine now,” he said softly, “I bet he’s running and playing with all the other dogs.” “Maybe,” I offered, “there’s a blond-headed boy with a quirky cowlick, playing with him.” “And Roper too,” Alan added, referring to the also-beloved Australian shepherd who had been Topper’s predecessor.

australian shepherd

“I’m glad I didn’t know the way it all would end, the way it all would go…”

This was a year of loss for Alan. Greater loss than any parent should have to endure. Four months ago today, his youngest son, Coleson, turned 17. He died five days later after a valiant battle with cancer.

In June, Midnight, Alan’s older-than-dirt, black Welsh pony passed while we were at the World show. He went down one night, rallied for a couple of days, and then died.

Later, Alan learned that a family friend, who didn’t even know Midnight had existed, dreamed that Coleson was in heaven feeding a dark blue pony. Alan shared that story with Dr. Alexander and Lauren; we all wondered if anyone would dream about Coleson and a dog. “Let me know if they do” Dr. Alexander said as we gave Topper a last kiss and pat.

In a few weeks, we will get Topper back. I suggested we sprinkle his ashes around the round pen. Alan thinks maybe he will take Topper to Coleson’s resting place. That seems right, I think. Dogs and their boys belong together.

“Life is better left to chance…”

Whenever an animal dies I find myself thinking about my first American Paint horse, Special Trouble. I bought Trouble in the spring of 1999. Eight months later, he died. A necropsy revealed that he’d had a 6 inch ulcer in his stomach, which ruptured.

At a show a few months later, an older gentleman, Mr. Lawrence Kupka, approached me. He’d heard about Trouble’s passing. In his gruff voice, thick with a Ukrainian accent, Mr Kupka said only this, “I haven’t lost a chicken in 20 years. But I haven’t owned any for 30.” Then, he turned and walked away.

It took a minute for the meaning of his words to register, but I’ve never forgotten them. What Mr. Kupka meant, of course, was that the only way not to experience the pain of losing a horse, or a chicken as it were, is never to own one. We can miss the pain, he was telling me, but only if we are also willing to miss the dance.

 

As hard as it is losing our pets, I cannot imagine a life without them. I will miss Topper terribly. As hard and sad as was today, though, I’m so thankful to have had this lovely dog as a “dance partner.”

Rest in peace, sweet boy.

Topper Shaw c2004–2018

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.

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Why Being Not Okay, is Okay

It is okay not to be okay. This I have learned from two friends and my significant other who have lost children to terrible diseases in the recent past. I don’t know that anyone can truly “get” the enormity of the grief that comes with losing a child unless one has actually lost a child. However, I believe my friends and partner when they talk about how heavy that grief is at times. It sounds unbearable and yet it must be borne.

People say the most insensitive things to parents who’ve lost children. More often than you’d imagine, people (and I’m willing to bet I’ve been one of them) say things that they intend to be comforting, but which feel like daggers to the heart of a grieving parent. For example, someone told one of my friends that, although it is a terrible thing to lose a child, it would have been worse if she’d lost her husband because then her other daughters wouldn’t have a dad. Evidently, the loss of sister didn’t rank as high on the scale of bad things that happen in that person’s eyes. Attempting to rank the significance of another’s loss is always a bad idea.

Time Does Not Heal All Wounds

My friends have taught me that time does not heal all wounds. In fact, when it comes to losing a child, the opposite may be true. That is, for many parents who’ve lost a child, grief actually intensifies over time. One friend shared that she’d expected her pain to be less acute once the first anniversary of the death of her daughter had passed. That was not the case. On the contrary, as the numbness that set in immediately after her daughter died wore off, the pain became more acute.

If that didn’t already suck enough, others sometimes assume that time has done its healing thing. They may expect the grieving parent to be ready to “move on.” It’s almost like there’s an unwritten statute of limitations about how long a grieving parent can take to settle into a new normal. Whether we like to admit it or not, many people secretly hope that the new normal will relieve others from having to tippy-toe around the discomfort of navigating another’s grief. Such hope, unspoken or not, conscious or not, risks making a grieving parent hide his or her grief, in the interest of others’ comfort. So begins an existence that may feel inauthentic to the person living it.

Sometimes asking how someone is doing is more about the asker than the askee. Maybe we ask because we want the other person to say “I’m okay.” After all, “I’m okay” signals that we don’t have to navigate an encounter with a grieving person. I’m not saying we don’t want our friends to be okay. Of course we do. Let’s be honest though. A friendship, or any relationship for that matter, is much easier when those pesky emotions like grief don’t get in the way of what is easy and comfortable.

My significant other just lost his son. I am seeing what that grief looks like up close. I want it to go away, but I know it is here to stay.

My goal is to resist any self-serving urge to try and move him into a “better” space where grief isn’t as visible and life is more fun. I know that a grieving person might not even be able to imagine such a space, let alone go there when invited. It’s important that I learn to be okay with his not-okayness.

This is new terrain for me. It’s hard to resist repeating the scripts that are supposed to make others feel better. They may work in some instances, but they have no impact on the pain of a grieving parent. When it comes to a parent’s grief over the loss of a child, nothing can or will fix what isn’t okay. Not now and not ever. That sucks.

I suspect there is a love language in which to communicate with grieving parents. I’m trying to learn what that language is and how to speak it. I know I’m going to fail often in my attempts. I’m going to try anyway. When you love someone, that’s just what you do.

Guest Blog: A Letter to a Friend by Michael Cameron

man staring over water

This week my significant other lost his 17-year-old son–a cancer warrior. Grief is a suffocating, all encompassing emotion that I am just now realizing I know nothing about. My friend Michael, though, does know a thing or two about grief. His girlfriend, Colleen, who was also my junior high friend and track teammate, was murdered by an ex-boyfriend in 2015. Michael wrote the following blog entry sometime thereafter.

I have found and continue to find Michael’s post one of the best things I’ve ever read about grief. Only now, though, am I turning to it for my own purposes rather than just sharing it with others. Funny, how life has a way of dropping you to your knees in ways you don’t expect. When I’m able, I will share more about that.

For now, though, with Michael’s permission, I am posting his blog post called A Letter to a Friend. Thank you Michael Cameron for the use of your words.

A Letter to a Friend by Michael Cameron

Dear Friend,

I can only begin to imagine the pain you are feeling right now.  While I have known monumental loss, loss of a proportion previously unfathomable, only you can now know what personal hell you are going through.  I can try and offer you guidance and share with you what things helped me cope with the feeling of utter helplessness.  I can try and assuage the feeling of despair.  I can empathize with the lens of pointlessness that will likely shroud your world for a time.  I can try and do all of this though, ultimately, it is you that will have to make the choice to endure what you have to in order to become the man you are meant to be.

I am grateful to be able to call you a friend and can only hope that the lessons I learned through my loss can help you bear yours.  The ability for me to be here even in small measure today helps to add meaning to my lived experience.

Make no mistake you will have to bear the unbearable and I am sorry to say that this is not a burden that can be avoided.  I did at times find solace in sharing with others but at times found frustration with well meaning individuals who simply did not, and likely never would, fully ‘get it’  I don’t think it was a lack of understanding that frustrated me, more the lack of empathy.

My advice here is to surround yourself with those that ‘get it’ and find forgiveness for those that do not.  I recently did an interview where I was asked for my top values.  It was for the reasons above why Empathy was at the top of my list.  I believe that the quality of being able to feel what others feel gives you the greatest insight into who they are allowing you to find ways to make the greatest impact in their life.  Examining, absorbing, and enduring what you are feeling right now will allow you to grow substantially.  While this is of little comfort now it is the truth.

There is no easy road.

At least not one that I was able to find.  For me I swore that her story would not end with her life.  That I would continue to ensure her legacy lived on.  I carry her with me daily.  I resurrect her in my memory as often as I can.  A song, a smell, a view, a memory or a conscious tug on my ear lobe like she used to affectionately do, brings her to life even if just for a fleeting moment.  There is not a day that goes by that she is not still alive within me.  I don’t know if this helps or hinders but it is the choice I have made.  Everything you have ever experienced, everything that has made you the man you are today has prepared you for this.  You will survive and you will adapt and it will fucking suck.

You will learn more in these moments than ever in your life.  I encourage you to practice staying open to the lessons.  The line in Ram Dass’ letter to Rachel that spoke to me most was when he said “Who among us is strong enough to remain conscious through such teachings as you are receiving. Certainly very few”  I made a decision to remain conscious.

While this is not an opportunity you would wish upon your worst enemy it is an opportunity very few are afforded.  Even fewer courageuos enough to receive the lessons.  There will be times when you are not strong enough to stay conscious.  Don’t.  Retreat when you need to.  For me it was yoga.

Maybe for you it is a walk.

They will tell you to “Be Strong”. I love them for their intentions but curse them for their ignorance.  There can be no strength without weakness just as there can be no light without dark.  If ever there was a time to be weak, this is it.  Sometimes I would curl into a ball and weep softly, other times I would wail loudly cycling through grief and anger beating my hands violently on my steering wheel while driving.  I would let the emotions envelop me completely, simply observing them.  I think this allowed me to detach, so as to not become completely overwhelmed, while still letting the emotions flow.

There is no ‘right way’ to do this.  Only your way.  They will try and tell you the right way.  Nod and acknowledge them but find your own intuitive way.  Your heart will know.  There is no time frame for this.  I believe I moved through, and continue to move through, my emotions because I did not and do not fight them.  I feel.  Even the sadness has become a friend.  Sometimes I will weep alone, holding her in my mind.  They will ask “Don’t you find that painful?” To them I say no, it is more like having a coffee with an old friend.  A quiet comfort held close.

Finding something ‘spiritual’ to grab onto helped immensely.  The only way through is to have faith on what is on the other side of this.  I believe it was you who said “Just about everything awesome is on the other side of something shitty.”  I know this seems impossible today but have faith that tomorrow it will seem just the tiniest bit more possible.  Run this marathon one step at a time.  Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Fuck I hate cliches.

You didn’t lose 100 pounds overnight, you lost it one pound at a time.  Narrow the lens of the world to as short a time frame as you need to survive.  Maybe you just need to get through the next 30 seconds.  Maybe you can picture making it through an entire day.

I do not have any of the answers my friend but know I love you.  I will never forget saying goodbye to you in the parking lot of the restaurant when we went for dinner just two days after Colleen was killed.  You hugged me goodbye and said “Keep it together” I replied “Nope, I’m going to go home and lose my shit”.  You looked at me, cocked your head and said “Don’t confuse the two. Sometimes in order to keep it together you need to lose your shit.”

I see you, I feel you and I am with you.

“For a good life
we just might have to weaken
And find somewhere to go
Go somewhere we’re needed
Find somewhere to grow
Grow somewhere we’re needed”

Tragically Hip

Much Love,

Mike

 

“I Can Only Imagine”

“I Just Can’t Imagine”

When bad things happen to other people, we often say “I just can’t imagine….” Usually, we say this to acknowledge that something bad has happened and to express sympathy or regret. However, the phrase “I just can’t imagine” does neither of those things. In fact, saying “I just can’t imagine” is a bit of a cop-out. Our language needs to align more closely with our intentions. So, instead of saying “I just can’t imagine,” we should say “I can only imagine.”

Whatever our intentions, words speak for themselves. “I just can’t imagine” is code for “I don’t want to imagine what you’re going through.” “I just can’t imagine” is neither kind nor comforting. It allows us to create distance between ourselves and another person’s pain or misfortune. When we claim that we “can’t imagine” what someone else is going through, we protect ourselves. Protecting ourselves does nothing to help a person who is suffering.

Worse, when we say “I just can’t imagine” this or that we are lying. We can imagine anything we want to imagine. We imagine ourselves in others’ shoes every time we read a book or watch tv or a movie. Sometimes we worry about experiences we haven’t had and do not want to have. When we worry, we imagine what it would be like to have those experiences. Anytime we think about what has happened or what is happening to someone, we imagine it.

The truth is, we “can’t not imagine” what has happened to another person when we hear about it. We can, however, choose to stop thinking about it. Choosing not to think too much about what has happened to someone does not mean that we can’t think about it. It definitely does not mean that we shouldn’t think about it.

Historically Speaking

In my courses on African American literature and culture, I teach students about the history of lynching in the United States. This is a topic around which there exists much cultural amnesia to this day. Among other things, I insist that we try to imagine how white Americans were able to rationalize the terrorism they inflicted on blacks for over sixty years.
For example, why did it make sense to a middle-class white woman to leave church on Sunday, drive to a setting where she, along with her family and members of the community, watched the torture and murder of a black person? Why did it make sense to those present to pose for photographs with what was left of the victim? How could they have enjoyed a picnic after doing what they did and seeing what they saw?
“I just can’t imagine” is not an acceptable response to those questions for many reasons. For instance, the people who performed and saw those atrocities were no different from many of us. That ought to scare us a little. What didn’t they know they didn’t know? What difference would it have made if they had known what they didn’t know? What difference can we make in the world today knowing what we know now? Are we willing to use what we know to make a difference? If so, what kind of difference and how will we go about making it? Saying “I just can’t imagine” does not take us where we need to go in our efforts both to understand others’ experiences and to act as empathic human beings.

“I Can Only Imagine”–a Better Alternative

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of a 14-year-old boy. Gauge, the son of my former horse shoer, Brad Malone, and his wife Shanna, was killed in an accidental shooting incident. He died in his father’s arms. I have imagined what Brad and Shanna have been feeling and experiencing. I’ve imagined what they must have felt in the minutes and hours and days after they heard the gunshot and found their son. I have imagined what parents do with the dreams and visions they had for their child’s life once he is gone.

I am not a parent. I do not claim to know what it feels like to be a parent and to have that bond that apparently feels like no other. I do not claim to know what it feels like to be a parent who has lost a child, suddenly, or otherwise.

That doesn’t mean that I can’t imagine such things. What it means is that I can only imagine how such loss feels for parents. If I truly care about the people who have suffered such losses, then I will imagine what they have gone through, what they are going through, and what they may go through in the future.

It doesn’t matter if how I imagine someone’s experience isn’t entirely, or even at all, correct. What matters is that, even though I can only imagine, I imagine anyway. What matters is that I don’t cop-out by saying, “I just can’t imagine.”

Here’s the Thing

So, we need to stop saying “I just can’t imagine” for two reasons. First, sometimes people say it because they don’t want to imagine what someone else is going through. If you really don’t care, then drop the act. Second, and I like to think this is the more common scenario, most people say ” I just can’t imagine” when what they really mean is “I can only imagine what you’re going through.”

To admit that we can “only imagine” another’s experience is to say two important things. First, it says “I care enough to try to understand what you’re experiencing.” Second, it says “I acknowledge the likelihood of a gap between what I imagine and your actual experience.” The latter is important because it lessens our risk of imposing our own narrative on someone else’s experience.

If we really care about people as most of us say we do, then we must be willing to imagine what they have gone through or what they are going through. That’s what we call empathy. My friend Michael Cameron defines empathy as “the quality of being able to feel what others feel.” He claims that it affords us “the greatest insight into who [others] are, allowing [us] to find ways to make the greatest impact in their life.” The mission statement of The Empathy Museum (yes, it’s a thing) speaks to the transformative power of empathy: “empathy can not only transform our personal relationships, but also help tackle global challenges such as prejudice, conflict and inequality.”

When we imagine what someone else is going through we nurture the development of empathy, which is one of the most valuable human traits. We also nurture one another as human beings and honor one another as fellow travelers on this wonky journey we call life. I can only imagine where we’d be without one another.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate you.


Can’t Move On After a Trauma? Then Step to the Side!

Several years ago a very traumatic event dropped me to my knees. didn’t think I’d ever be able to move forward. “I just don’t know how to go forward,” I said to my good friend Erica. (Yes, the same Erica from my last blog post about not settling for a life you don’t love!) “I just don’t know how to move on” I explained. “So don’t” she replied. “Just step to the side.”

Step to the side? Really? That wasn’t an option I’d even considered. No one “steps to the side” in a crisis. Isn’t that against the rules? You can’t just step to the side when your life falls to pieces. Nope. You’ve got to move forward. You have to suck it up. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. Move forward. Forget about it. “Just get back to your normal routine” proclaimed well-meaning friends and associates who barely knew me, let alone what I needed to do. No matter that I was writhing in pain, paralyzed, barely able to breathe. Forget that I could barely get out of bed let alone dust off the residue of the trauma that had occurred so quickly. “Just move forward,” the world said, “Keep going forward.”

Granted, there are people for whom “moving on” is exactly what they need to do in the aftermath of a crisis or traumatic event. I was not one of those people. I wasn’t sure about a lot in those first weeks and months. I was sure, however, that “moving on” wasn’t happening any time soon. Call it a lack of resilience, call it weakness, call it whatever you want, but forward motion was not something I was capable of at that time. I knew it even if no one else did.

Stepping to the side, however, was something I could do. In fact, it was exactly what I needed to do. So, it was exactly what I did.

What Happened When I Stepped Aside

I have the luxury of a job from which I was able to take a leave of absence, which I did. Although I wasn’t sure about a whole of things at that time, I was sure about what I needed to do in the way of self-care. At first, there were days when I just retreated and gave myself permission to feel nothing…or everything. I just let myself “be” whatever I needed to be in any given moment.

At one point, I took my dog Reese and the two of us embarked on a road trip. We visited a friend who lives in Iowa. We stopped at parks in towns that were off the beaten track as often as we wanted. We detoured to places I’d never heard of just because we could. Somewhere along the way, I remembered how to laugh.

Reese #1 Missouri

There was something restorative about watching the obese, 11-year-old, labrador retriever who had adopted me right around the time of my crisis as she romped like a puppy in the autumn leaves in parks across several states. Through her antics, beautiful Reese invited me to remember what joy looks like. She made me believe that one day I would know that feeling again.

Gradually, the idea of moving forward seemed like a possibility. When I was ready, I stepped away from the side and back into my life.

Had I not taken Erica’s advice and given myself permission to “step aside” I am not sure I would have survived that terrible ordeal. I’m not trying to be melodramatic. It was awful and I wasn’t feeling particularly tough. For me, stepping aside was a life saver. I have no regrets.

Going Forward

Thankfully, not everyone has huge life crises that cause them to step aside from their lives for weeks or months at a time. But we all have moments when we are at our wits’ ends and feel like we cannot “go forward” for one more minute. Parents have moments when their children have driven them to the edge. Employees have moments when the workload is too much or a boss or colleagues have driven them to the point of feeling crazy. How much better might our days be if we would just allow ourselves to “step aside” in such moments, if only for five minutes?

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How much more focused and calm would we be if, instead of pushing through the craziness to our own and others’ detriment, we allowed ourselves to pause, if only briefly? How much happier and more grounded would we be if we allowed ourselves space to, say, sit quietly and meditate over a cup of coffee before moving forward? How much better equipped might we be to tackle the tough stuff if we gave ourselves and others permission to “step aside” from time to time?

This is hardly an original idea and many practice it regularly in different ways. However, the merit of “stepping aside” may not be in the forefront of our minds often enough, given the pace at which we live our lives today. Think about it. To what extent are you aware of your own need to step aside from time to time and do you honor that need? If so, how do you do that? If not, why not? What form does your self-care take? Please share.

As always, thank you for reading. I appreciate you.