The Edge

Woke up dreaming about Tex this morning. I can't even remember the dream; I was in that half-awake, half-dreaming place, and I tried to shove it away before it took hold. I wasn't successful, because the only thing I remember about it is how real and alive and just "normal" he seemed. And, of course, when I woke up, he was still gone. The one constant no dream can change for me. It's been a little over three years since he died. I just went back and looked at my old LJ entries, and I found one from this past March where I had a dream about him. That one, I can kind of understand. It was close to the anniversary of his death -- something I try not to keep track of, but I suppose, subconsciously, it's always there. This dream, though ... why? I mean, seriously Fate -- WHY?!?

I don't need to remember him in such a real and immediate and painful way -- not if the universe is going to insist on keeping him from me. I don't need to feel him sitting next to me, solid and warm and oh-so-alive. I don't need to feel his hair under my fingers or hear him huff-grunting his (very amusing) displeasure at things. Because this doesn't make me happy. I wake up feeling alone and sad and like things are very, very wrong in my universe. It's been three years, already. Can't this whole grief thing end now?

Maybe it never ends. He was so much to me for such a long time. We went through everything together -- to Hell and back again, without buying the first-class tickets so that we could have the cushy seats and the snackbox during the trip. He was, literally, my kid before I had a child. And he went almost everywhere with me. A constant companion for fifteen years. I guess it makes sense that I would still miss him like this. That I would still grieve for him in such a painful and cruel way. I would prefer to think that as opposed to feeling like a fool over it. Because I woke up this morning barely holding on to my last shred of "normal" -- just long enough to distract my daughter with Playhouse Disney so that I could sit here alone in the office and cry.

The truth is, I would trade almost anything to get him back. Even now, after three years. I love Fae. I do. She is sweet and goofy and stubborn and obnoxious and, wonderfully, all the things a dog should be. But she isn't Tex. And now I feel like a fool and a traitor.

*sigh*

I suck.

I think it is impossible to let go. To really and truly lose something or someone you love and be all right with it. To find peace and feel the sting of grief leave your life. Because it just fucking hurts. At first, it hurts every day. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day. It almost feels like something big and strange and shadowy has moved in and swallowed your life. But that passes. It does, even though you don't think it will. It's like you hope it will pass, but when you're there -- in the middle of it all -- you can't really bring yourself to believe it will actually pass you by and leave you in peace. Because the hurt is all you have. Because the hurt eclipses your good, happy memories. Because the hurt feels like the last thing you have left of what you lost, and you cling to it. You don't want to admit that's what you're doing, but it is. Later -- when you can see the memories and the good times again -- you'll realize that's true. But not at first.

And things get better. Slowly. You don't think about it every day. And then, you don't think about it even every other day. And your life adjusts and changes. And eventually you can remember your lost one without crying. You can even think of them without feeling sad. This is a good thing, and you think it means you're stronger ... that, finally, you've healed.

But, really, I don't think that pain ever goes away. It's always there, right under the surface -- lurking, like some great, shadowy beast that can eat away at the facade you show the world. And there's no telling what might bring it out again. Like for me today ... something as simple as cleaning out the garage. And finding an old box of dog toys -- collecting dust and unused. Just sitting in the garage, taking up space, really. And my dad tells me: "You should throw those out." And I know I can't do it. My eyes fill with tears and I run from the garage ... only to lock myself in the office and cry like my heart is breaking. Because it is, somehow. It shouldn't be, but it is. I can feel it.

It really shouldn't hurt this much. Not any more. Not after two years have passed.

*sigh*

I just washed and packed away Tex's last water dish. The one on the second floor ... the one he used to drink out of all the time. I would hear him down there every night, dog tags clinking, toenails clicking on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, and, then, I would hear him drinking. For what seemed like hours. I would lie awake listening to him and thinking: "Geez! Is he going to drink the whole damn bowl, or what?!?" (Hey, at 4 in the AM, a person is often given to melodrama.) The thing was, if he did manage to drink the entire bowl of water, I would have to get out of bed and go refill it. Otherwise, he would carry it off, and I would have a devil of a time finding it the next day. He had a habit of stashing it under or behind things.

The thing was, no matter how irritating it was to be awakened by slurpy dog drinking sounds at 4 in the morning, it was comforting, too. It meant that my boy was there, and doing all right. It meant that everything was just fine in my universe -- all right in place, just the way I liked it.

It's been three months since he died, and I just could not pack it away until now. I washed it with soap and hot water, as I had done so many times in the past. I picked up his little mat, on which the bowl had rested. And, I stored them away. When I returned to the kitchen, it was as if he had never been here at all. Nothing is left of him, except for the photographs and the memories in my heart. And, right now, those memories are tinged with such sadness that I don't dare let myself dwell on them.

I can't stop crying. When does this get better? When?

Today, it is two weeks since Tex died. I think I'm doing a bit better. I've started trying to write again. I've stopped wandering around my house like I'm in a daze. I don't cry all the time any more, although those "quiet times" during the day -- when the house is silent -- yeah, my grief kind of sneaks up on me then. I guess because I forget to guard against it.

Tonight, though, my hubby and I went out. My mom is staying with us until Sunday, so we were able to have a kid-free night out. We ate at a favorite restaurant. We had adult dinner conversation. We actually managed to talk to each other, which, as anyone with a toddler knows, is a rarity. Then, we went to a movie. We saw Music & Lyrics, which I liked a lot, by the way. The movie is funny and sweet, and it felt good to laugh.

When we got home, we went out to get the mail, and, while going through it, I found ... a birthday card. For Tex. From his vet. Even though I called them, in spite of the fact I could hardly talk through my sobs, a couple of days after he died. Even though the stupid, addle-brained, twit of a receptionist who answered the phone (and heard me sobbing on the other end throughout the entire call) made me spell my first name, my last name, and Tex's name. And, after all that, they can't manage to remove his name from their database so that I don't get smacked upside the head with this kind of emotional bomb?

I am so mad right now. I can't stop crying. I have calmed down enough that I'm not shaking any more, but the tears will not stop coming. I'm not sure if I'm crying because I'm mad, or because I'm sad.

I haven't heard anything from his vet -- no phone call ... no sympathy card ... nothing until this. I mean, how monumentally, fucking stupid can they be? How insensitive and bone-headed? I would prefer to think they are just stupid, as opposed to the insensitive, crass jerks this fiasco makes them seem.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I know what I want to do. I want to take the stupid card down there, throw it in their faces, and tell them exactly what I think about them. But, I'm not sure if I will. I feel so emotionally fragile right now, I'm afraid I would only end up sobbing and cursing at them ... which would do no good. Maybe, I'll write a scathing letter telling them exactly what I think about them. Either way, I'm definitely finding a new vet. If this is how they care about the animals entrusted to them ... they are definitely not the clinic for me.

My beloved Tex passed away today. He was fifteen, and had had a good life. I know this, but, even so, I feel as if my heart has been ripped to shreds. I am glad I was able to be with him at the end. I loved him with all my heart, and I miss him already, to the bottom of my being.

I wish I could pour out my soul ... clickity-clack my grief out through the keyboard and onto my computer screen ... and explain just exactly what he meant to me.

But, I can't. There just aren't enough words. And my grief is too big. I think it will swallow me whole.