One year. One year since Murdock looked at me with those velvety, floppy ears and big brown eyes and I felt myself melt with love. One year since my world felt complete. One year since my heart broke forever. 

One year. I have dreaded those words. I knew holidays and birthdays would be lonely. I knew that family gatherings would never be the same. I knew that my life would change beyond recognition. And I knew, I always knew, that this day would be the most difficult of all. 

There is a saying that time heals all wounds, that as the days and weeks and months go by, grief becomes easier to bear. I have found the opposite. This one year mark reminds me that I have gone through all of the seasons without him, all the holidays and birthdays, and tomorrow morning when I wake up, I will have lived that day without him before.  Time means distance, and as more and more time goes by, I feel further and further from my boy, making my sadness a heavier load to carry.

There is a scene in the movie Elf when Buddy sets out to find his father. He is shown on an iceberg, floating out to sea. That’s how I picture Murdock, slowly drifting away. He is always with me, of course, but as the days go by the memories get just a little fuzzier. With time, maybe I won’t remember what those velvety ears felt like, or the exact shade of his big brown eyes; maybe I won’t remember what it felt like to melt with love. I just want time to stop – the growing distance between us pains my already broken heart.

While I feel the distance grow, this day, and the days leading up to it, have thrown me right back into what this time was like last year. During those days, I disconnected from myself. I was stronger than I ever could have imagined in all the years I dreaded what was to come. In the days before his passing, I told him all the things he needed to know. I told him who to look for in heaven. I told him he would get to be a puppy again. I told him to never leave me. His hearing was mostly gone, so he probably heard none of this. I knew even then I was really trying to comfort myself. In the moments and hours after he left, I somehow did not fall apart. I remember saying over and over that night “I can’t believe I got to be his mom. Of all the people, in all of time, I was chosen to be his mom.” 

A month later, that strong stranger in me disappeared and I fell into deep, true grief. So, in many ways it feels like through my memories, I am living those days last year again, for the first time; feeling all the pain, all the sadness, the depth of my loss – without the strength I had then.

I don’t know what I am supposed to do today. It’s a day to be marked, but how? How do you commemorate the day your best friend left and the lights went out in your world? But, it is also the day my soulmate got his angel wings; when he had no more pain; when he could run and swim again; when he could once again be the pup he was meant to be. When, without the limitations of animal understanding, he could finally comprehend how very much I love him.

The past year has taught me that I don’t have to be strong. I don’t have to be resilient or disconnected from what I feel. Today is impossibly difficult.  I miss Murdock more than I ever imagined possible.  But even through that, I can still say, and I will always say: “I can’t believe I got to be his mom. Of all the people, in all of time, I was chosen to be his mom.”