Two years. Two years since the love of my life ate some homemade treats, fell asleep in my lap, and went off to heaven. And the lights went out in my world.
Two years. It seems like it has been an eternity – but also that it was yesterday. It feels like I have slogged through the last two, long, years, just punching in on the timeclock of life. At the same time, the memories of the moment he left, and the days leading up to it, are still more than I can bear.
I made the decision it was Murdock’s time on a Sunday afternoon – and the vet came to our home to send him on his way Wednesday evening. Those days were an out-of-body experience. I didn’t know what to do. The clock ticked away, counting down, both slowly and way too quickly. I have distinct memories of those days – the love Murdock’s visitors showed him and me; the endless hours I stared at him trying to engrave his every piece of fur in my mind; the ice cream we shared on our last night (true to form, he ate my Superman ice cream when I wasn’t looking). It was our own, surreal, Passion story.
I have a lifetime’s worth of memories of Murdock – having a unique dog gives that gift – but they are seldom tied to exact dates. But the days leading up to his departure, I remember. I remember every moment, which has made the last few days particularly difficult as I replay them in real time.
I was cleaning last week, and it occurred to me that it had probably been a long time since I had vacuumed a piece of Murdock’s fur. In the myriad of thoughts during the anticipatory grief that consumed me before Murdock’s passing, I feared that day, the day when there was no more fur fluttering around my house. I used to find Murdock’s fur everywhere, in the most inexplicable places, but now, here I am, living the days I dreaded.
For me, the most difficult part of grief has been the movement from presence to memory. In the time immediately following Murdock’s departure, he still felt so close. I didn’t have to reach to conjure up his sweet face in my mind’s eye; every room in my house told a story of him; I could hear his bark and still feel how he filled my heart. He was still so obviously here. It’s not so easy now. There are days when I wake up in the morning and he is not my first thought. There are times when I am gone for hours without looking at the clock to check whether I need to get home. I don’t like it. I much prefer the deeper, more acute grief that I felt right after he left. It made him feel closer. That all being said, I know he is here. There is absolutely no doubt he is here.
No one tells you that grief can be a lifelong companion. It may change how it looks and feels, but as you continue your journey (maybe when you are vacuuming or eating Superman ice cream) you will be reminded of it’s presence. But grief also brings along love to keep us company. Love for my sweet boy, love for the life we shared, love for the adventures we had. Grief and love. Without one, I wouldn’t have the other. Two years later, I have learned that I wouldn’t trade either one.
