Good Grief

Courtesy Schultz Museum

  It's a point of exasperation, that, a phrase Charlie Brown would sigh when presented with an overwhelming but often senseless mini-speech by his feminine counterpart Lucy.  But only now with my dog missing from my life and our house noticeably emptier have I thought of its origins.  My wife and I are indeed still grieving but at what point does it become too much or too little?  When does the normal period of "good" grief end and when does grief begin to slowly ooze its way into the world of depression?  Our neighborhood has lost almost all of its dogs, many of them having circled and walked and adorned our streets for over ten years, just as our dogs did; we got to know each others dogs as they pranced and prowled and barked their warnings of "don't come near my owner" or "hey it's you again" with friendly wags of their tails.  But as each dog passed away almost every one of the neighbors moved on to a new puppy, the majority of which seem to be hybrid non-shedding versions of the latest mixing of experimental breeds, genetic mixtures that appear to end in an "oodle" as in Labradoodle or Party Doodle or Schizodoodle.  Even those who have just lost their dogs in the last few weeks or months have moved on and are approaching breeders for a quick replacement of sorts.  But my wife and I are far from that point and besides, we only take in those animals who seem to magically arrive at our doorstep or are rescues and are generally older (our last dog was considered "unadoptable" by the Humane Society and removed from their website due it being over nine years old and needing meds everyday for its thyroid and other ailments -- she lived with us for another five years and became the best companion and sister to our other rescue, a born-with-dislocated-hips pup and the one that we just put down after having her grace our lives for nearly 14 years).

   Some people hang on to grieving for years, my one friend celebrating the birth and death of her husband (as well as their anniversary) for years until she, too, passed away.  And for many the death of an animal may be considered far different than that of a person dying, something which alone breaks down into a variety of categories: someone elderly vs. a child; someone with cancer vs. someone with an unanticipated disease (pancreatitis or choking, say); someone hit by a car vs. someone randomly murdered while dancing away in a nightclub or attending church (it happens almost regularly here in the U.S.).  And yes, those divisions and rationales are there, as are those from the mothers of Kurdish or Syrian fighters who have lost their children to war or a stray piece of shrapnel, all from a conflict they have no interest or understanding (indeed, do any of us?).  Sometimes death itself doesn't make sense; it is so final, as my wife says.  But the hollow feeling of loss is no less real for those who have lost a job or a marriage or a limb, that comfortable world suddenly rocked by the reality that certain, indeed many, things are out of one's control.  For some reason Bill Bryson's talk of the liver seemed to serve as an example: When fully grown, it weighs about 3.3 pounds, roughly the same as the brain, and fills much of the central abdomen just below the diaphragm.  It is disproportionately large in infants, which is why their bellies are so delightfully rounded.  It is also the multifariously busy organ in the body, with functions so vital that if it shuts down, you will be dead within hours.  Among its many jobs, it manufactures hormones, proteins, and the digestive juice known as bile.  It filters toxins, disposes of obsolescent red blood cells, stores and absorbs vitamin, converts fats and proteins to carbohydrates, and manages glucose -- a process so vital for the body that its dilution for even a few minutes can cause organ failure and even brain damage...Altogether the liver takes part in some five hundred metabolic processes.  It is essentially the body's laboratory.  Right now, about a quarter of all your blood is in your liver.  Wow, one has to be amazed and filled with wonderment, but coupled right with the pluses of this massive organ is a host of hidden disorders, ones which do not involve alcohol (the thing most of us associate with liver damage).  As Bryson notes: Nonalcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD) is an illness most of us have never heard of, but it is more common than cirrhosis and far more baffling.  It is, for instance, strongly associated with being overweight or obese, and yet a significant proportion of sufferers are fit and lean.  No one can explain why...Perhaps the most unnerving aspect is that victims usually suffer no symptoms at all until most of the damage has been done.  Even more alarming is that NAFLD is starting to be found in young children...An estimated 10.7 percent of children and adolescents in the United States and 7.6 percent globally are estimated to have fatty livers...about one in thirty people in America born between 1945 and 1965 --that's two million people altogether-- will have hepatitis C without knowing it...Hepatitis C can live within victims for forty years or more, steadily demolishing their livers, without their being aware of it.  

    Okay, enough Bryson you may say (although interestingly, he notes that our brains over the past 10-12,000 years have continued to shrink in size by as much as a tennis ball); but just delving into the details of what's hidden inside our bodies seemed to reflect both the balance and the mystery of life; here we have something so wondrous and beautiful, quietly and steadily working away in a protective background and yet still so vulnerable to being chipped away.  The miracle of life itself, one could say.  There are many sites that deal with grief and the grieving process, a time when it seems that life is so cruel and so without direction that the clear road ahead now seems filled with mud, or worse, ending at a cliff (one hospice site provides a list of helpful links for dealing with many such emotional situations, from suicide or the loss of a child, to the feelings that come from PTSD or a miscarriage).  WebMD said this about grief: There’s no “normal” amount of time to grieve.  Your grieving process depends on a number of things, like your personality, age, beliefs, and support network.  The type of loss is also a factor.  For example, chances are you’ll grieve longer and harder over the sudden death of a loved one than, say, the end of a romantic relationship...In some cases, grief doesn’t get better.  You may not be able to accept the loss.  Doctors call this “complicated grief.”  And rather than "numb" your feelings they suggest you acknowledge them: Give yourself time...Talk to others...Take care of yourself...Return to your hobbies...Join a support group.  On the other side of the fence, what do you say to someone who is going through such grieving?  As a piece in the New York Review of Books said: Consolation is not social change.  Solace is not enough.  

Our two girls, still in our hearts...

   Everyone has their own way of dealing with life's ups and downs.  Sometimes a simple hug or the knowledge that you're "there" can prove to be all that's needed.  Friends have sent us many cards and remembrances, and others have hinted at other shelter dogs needing a home, every one of those wishes being well-intentioned; but all have also cautiously kept their distance, giving us time to dwell in what simply "is."  And admittedly we can slowly feel that overwhelming tide now beginning its process of retreating, our guilty feeling of things returning to "normal," the extra time once spent on walks and cleaning up now being absorbed by other duties.  Even the snow that has come several times since is covering up and dissolving any remaining outdoor traces we had of our dog...her pee and her bits of poop, even her pawprints.  We will indeed re-emerge in time, as we have before.  And we also know that while our cats are working out the new dynamics of a dog-less home, that we are doing the same.  We still miss her, as much as we miss our other dog and those that have passed away earlier, from our moms and other family members, to our friends and other animals.  All have touched our lives, all have helped shaped us into who we are, all have brought us memories of all sorts and helped us to recognize and realize what we could or could not do.  Perhaps it will be the same when we pass on, us never knowing who or what we touched and if it was for the better or for the worse.  It is simply how life works; and while it can be complicated at times we should be content that life continues to work as a fine-tuned machine, bringing us new discoveries and insights, even if it's sometimes in a manner we don't really understand or like.   And perhaps that is the main lesson: be grateful and cherish what you have.  As George Harrison wrote for the Beatles: ...the time will come when you see we're all one and life flows on within you and without you.