Last week, I did a hard thing. I did not foresee that I would still be doing new, hard things two and a half years after losing Murdock. But then again, one thing you learn after loss is that no matter how long and strenuous your anticipatory grief may have been – your imagining was seldom accurate.
I am a minimalist to my core. I think I could pack and move from my home within 24 hours. Extra things feel chaotic – and that includes the collection of photos on my phone.
A couple of years ago, I tackled the project of deleting “unnecessary” items on my phone and computer – emails, documents, apps, text chains, and photos going back 10+ years. When in doubt, delete. (In the case of a picture or video of Murdock, never delete.)
As I went through year after year of memories, I felt my anxiety rising. I was getting closer and closer to 2022 – which meant the last months of my boy. What would it be like to see his final months, to see the progression of his aging, to see his “lasts”? I took a lot of pictures during that time, not wanting to forget a thing – the way he looked at me, the wayward piece of fur on his ear, his favorite napping position. As if through the camera, the three-dimensional, living him would transfer to my soul so that not an ounce of him would ever be forgotten. But now, I couldn’t bear to look. I stopped my project for more than a year.
Last week, I finally felt that it was time. And it was hard. During his last months, I am not sure I recognized how frail my boy was becoming, or how tired he looked. When you are with someone every minute of every day, those changes aren’t so evident. There were a lot of pictures of him sleeping; there was a lot of gray fur; there was a tumor in his mouth that grew exponentially. But, there were also pictures of time in our yard, of walks, of trips to the river and of him eating ice cream (and pizza and steak). Our precious time together, when I knew the clock was ticking but didn’t know when it would stop.
As I flipped closer and closer to the day he departed, it became more difficult. But when I got there, the photos actually allowed me to see how peaceful that day was for him, even if traumatic for me. And to be reassured that I made the right decision at the right time. He was ready – even if I was not.
But then, the pictures stopped. September 14, 2022. The end of the pictures of my boy and our life together. Not seeing any more pictures of Murdock was more difficult than seeing the last ones. It isn’t the memories that make grief difficult – it’s that there will never be any new ones to add. We flip through the photo album and it just suddenly, abruptly stops. A blank page.
I put off looking at those last months of memories for more than a year, not wanting to re-live that painful time or Murdock’s impending departure. But I am grateful I have those pictures. It’s the blank pages that began September 15, 2022 that are truly difficult. Our times with loved ones are not always easy or happy or fun – but the good and the bad together create an album of memories of a fully shared, and deeply loved life, together.
