Today marks three years since Murdock departed. Three years since he put his tired head in my lap under the late afternoon sun and my world forever darkened. How can it already be three years?  How can it only be three years?

I think that one of the most difficult parts of being present when a loved one’s time is ending is the memories that are created. I remember every moment of that day.  I remember what I wore. I remember the smell of the fall air. I remember what I forced myself to eat (which Murdock gobbled up with far more enthusiasm). September 14, 2022 was also the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral procession. I remember the sound of the marching footsteps that seemed like a ticking clock counting down our time together. That day was surreal; and that that day holds the memories my mind most frequently wanders to is simply not fair. That time fades the thousands of happy memories that came before it, while keeping the last, the most difficult, the clearest, is cruel.

But grief is like that. Not fair. Cruel. In the last three years, I have tried to become an expert on grief. I have listened to podcasts, read books, talked to therapists and friends, and attempted to assign words to my feelings. Grief is a topic we humans are uncomfortable with. And to make things more complicated, every grief experience we encounter can be radically different from any other. There are no rules. No usual. No normal. So, for all of the time and effort I have invested, the lesson I have learned is that grief simply is what it is.

Maybe my experience of grief this time is better explained by what it is not than what it is. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t have defined stages. Grief is not a bank – there is not a finite sum of mourning which you just need to “withdraw” before you are done. The weight of grief is not lessened if you have anticipated the loss. For all of the imagining I did before that moment three years ago, nothing prepared me for these three years since. 

I have heard grief described as waves. It has not been that way for me. Waves can be gentle or crashing – but there is still a rhythm. Grief has had no rhythm for me. It is not predictable. It does not follow the constraints of time or logic. 

And so, here I am, three years later, knowing less about grief than I did before enduring the departure of my best friend. It just is what it is.

On that day three years ago, the lyrics of a song kept running through my mind:

Let the world stop turning,

Let the sun stop burning,

Let them tell me love’s not worth going through.

If it all falls apart,

I will know deep in my heart,

The only dream that mattered had come true:

In this life, I was loved by you.

When you can’t figure out what something is, when the path you are traveling cannot be predicted or defined or planned, maybe you just have to cling to what you do know. I know that being Murdock’s mom has been my greatest blessing and grandest adventure. I know that because of Murdock, I learned lessons that will last a lifetime and experienced the inexplicable bond between soulmates. I know I have felt, and given, unconditional love. 

I know that the only dream that mattered has come true.