Coping with Unexpected Loss
On May 13, I had to let Amber go after a brief, sudden illness. Less than a year and a half after I lost Buckley, I was faced with grieving yet again.
It’s not like I hadn’t experienced loss in my life before. Most of us who’ve reached the age I’m at have had to deal with loss. I lost my mother in 1994 after a brief illness. I lost my soul mate cat Feebee in 2000 after a valiant seven-month battle with lymphoma. I lost my office cat Virginia in 2002 after a brief decline following a fourteen-year-long life with FIV. I lost my father in 2004 to heart disease and cancer. And as those of you who’ve read Buckley’s Story know, I lost Buckley after she was diagnosed with restrictive cardiomyopathy and given a very poor prognosis that she outlived by a considerable amount of time. I had lots of experience with grief, and I survived all of these losses more or less gracefully. I learned that there is only one way to deal with grief, and that’s to go through it. There is no way around it. You can’t run from it. I learned about the stages of grief. I learned that you don’t go through them step by step, but rather, that you sometimes cycle through them over and over, until, at some point, mercifully, you may find that you’ve reached the final stage, acceptance. But even reaching acceptance doesn’t mean that you ever really get “over” a loss.
So you’d think that with all this personal experience in grieving, I would have been better prepared to handle losing Amber. The force of my grief caught me completely off guard. And I realized, in the middle of the shock, the tears, and the pain, that I had never lost a loved one as unexpectedly and suddenly as I lost her. Twelve short days, from the time that she was mildly ill to the time that I had to let her go. I never expected her to not get better when I agreed to hospitalize her. I always expected her to come home. I spoke with one of the doctors caring for her at 4:30am the morning of May 13. She had had a good night, and he thought that there might even be a chance that she could come home later that day. Six hours later, her doctor called to let me know that she’d taken a turn for the worse. There were other things they could medically do to try and save her, but her prognosis was poor. I made the agonizing decision to stop treatment, bring her home, and spend the afternoon with her before my vet came to the house that evening to help her with a peaceful transition.
I’m still in the middle of the early, intense stage of grieving. As with all my losses, there are commonalities. Despite the incredible outpouring of love and support from not only my ”real life” friends, but also my online friends, there are times when I feel alone in my grief, disconnected from the world around me and normal everyday activities. I’m physically exhausted most of the time – grief takes a toll not just emotionally, but physically. I try to take care of myself as best as I can, by trying to eat regular meals, getting some exercise, and staying connected with friends. But it’s hard. Going out into the world is challenging – how can life be going on when my world has changed irrevocably? In The Healing Art of Pet Parenthood, author Nadine M. Rosin, after losing her nineteen-year-old dog Buttons, writes: “…being out in public felt totally bizarre, as if the world had come to an end because of some horrible disaster, life as we’d known it on the planet was over, but I seemed to be the only person who knew about it.” I’ve rarely heard this particular emotion of feeling out of synch with the rest of the world expressed better. I’m limiting social engagements to activities with friends who understand my grief, and I’m fortunate that most of the people in my life are animal people, and they do understand. I simply don’t have it in me to make polite chit-chat with those who don’t.
I know I’ll make it through this, just like I did through all my other losses. But I am realizing that this one may leave me forever changed in ways that the others didn’t. And perhaps it has to do with the suddenness of the loss. I’ve always had time to prepare for loss. While anticipatory grieving is difficult, I believe that it does help in the end – you have time to get used to the idea of eventually having to go on without your loved one. But Amber was a healthy, happy cat who had rarely been sick in her life. There was nothing that could have prepared me for this. Perhaps, as I come out on the other side of this, I’ll have some words of wisdom on how to cope with sudden, unexpected loss. For now, all I can offer is that it’s much harder, much more painful, and much more complicated than my other losses. With the others, I rarely second-guessed myself. I didn’t rail at the universe for having my loved one taken from me so quickly and so senselessly. I didn’t blame myself for decisions I made during Amber’s last two weeks. I just grieved. With this one, I’m discovering new territory as I go through it. When I get to a point where it makes some sense, I’ll share it with you.
What I can say is this (and I’ll do my best to take my own advice): grief is a process. Be gentle with yourself as you go through it. Allow those who undertand to support you, and stay away from those who don’t. It’s too painful to deal with people who say things like “it’s only a cat,” “you should get on with your life,” “when are you going to get another one?” and other careless things like that, or worse, those who don’t say anything at all. Yes, it may be their own discomfort with death that makes them remain silent, but it’s incredibly painful for the person going through the loss to not receive some sort of acknowledgment.
Grief can be a transformational experience. It rips your heart wide open, and you’ll never be the same. It’s up to each individual whether they’ll choose to let grief destroy them, or whether they’ll do the challenging and difficult work that will ultimately allow it to be transformed into personal growth and expansion. To honor Amber, her love, and all she has brought into my life, I don’t see how I have any other choice except to let something good come from this devastating loss.
Beautifully stated! I so love the part about the outside world….so true! And for me, grief causes me to question everything….me, what’s important, others around me (should they be around me? Do I care to be around them?) How did I get to this place? When was the last time things made sense? Will anything make sense again? It’s like I am lost in a field of tall grass, and I have lost my path.
thank you so much for this. my cat died yesterday. I wrote about him here: http://lindasyoga.blogspot.com/2010/05/dharma-teaching-from-my-cat-on-buddhas.html and here: http://lindasyoga.blogspot.com/2010/05/today-is-good-day-to-die.html
this is from a Buddhist perspective
Dayna, I think what you’re describing is what I hinted at when I said grief can be a tool for personal transformation. It’s what we do with these questions when we surface that will determine how we get through our grief.
Linda, I’m so sorry about Sox – and I didn’t look at the date of your post until after I left my comment on your site. Please accept my deepest condolences – I will keep you in my thoughts. Your beautiful post provided a great deal of comfort for me as I journey through my own grief.
This is an incredibly powerful piece, Ingrid, & should be included in every anthology dealing with animals & pet loss. It says it all & then some. You’ve done Amber proud.
Thank you for the reference and acknowledgment, Ingrid. As I talk about more in the latest edition of my book, I would encourage grievers to fully surrender to the pain- let it completely “destroy” you, if you will.
When there is absolutely no more resistance to it (trying to “feel better” or “live with it” or “accept it” or “be with it” or “get over it”) one is powerfully and often, dramatically transported right into the heart of the present moment- the NOW, like never before.
Common signposts to fully being there: a feeling of great love, relief, and spaciousness… a living connection with the being who has passed and a sense of the agony and the love merging into peace. You are in my thoughts, Ingrid and I wish you and Amber great peace in this time of deep transition. ?
P.S. That ? was originally a heart
Not sure that one is ever prepared for a loss. And yes grieving is a process and transformational. I hope you find some comfort knowing that you provided Amber with an incredibly loving home. Take care…
Thanks for your beautiful words, Tammy – coming from you, that means an awful lot.
Nadine, thank you for your wise words. This experience is making me re-evaluate a lot of beliefs I’ve held for a long time. I think there is something to be said for leaning into the pain rather than running from it. I reread the last two chapters of your book last week, a few days after Amber died, and they provided great comfort. I’ll look forward to the revised edition.
Moxie Paws, thank you for your words of comfort, they’re very much appreciated.
Ingrid, if it hadn’t been for my HSLC friends, I don’t know how I could have gotten through my grief of losing my Domino, very suddenly and unexpectedly. My family tried to comfort but it wasn’t the same. They aren’t fond of animals as I am and although they were sympathetic, it was hard for me to continue with “business as usual” when my heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest.
You aren’t alone in your grief, even though it feels like it. Every time I see Amber’s picture, I break out in tears not only for her but for you and what I know you are going through. Animal lovers are luck to have one another because that’s where we get our comfort from. Your grieving should take the path that you choose for as long as you need.
Thank you for your beautiful words, Debbi – it helps to know that others understand.
I came to your heartfelt post through Linda-Sama’s Facebook suggestion. My heart aches for you. I lost my beloved Fiona to keto-acidosis three years ago. From the time I first noticed her eating a little less than usual one morning to the time she passed it was only 2-1/2 days. She was only nine years old. It was shocking and devastating, partly because of its suddenness and partly because of some negligence on the part of the intensive care vet that keeps me forever wondering if the outcome could have been different. My grief was overpowering. Only time and the healing energy of my other two cats could console me.
Oops! I hit “submit” too soon. Here’s the rest: Give yourself time. Even though people around you may feel it’s time to “get over it,” it just takes whatever it takes. And it’s different with each loss. You are fortunate to have such understanding animal lovers in your life.
Charlotte, I’m so sorry about your Fiona – what a shock that must have been. Thank you for your comforting words.
Ingrid,
Thank you for sharing your personal story. My husband passed away suddenly and I understand what you are talking about. I can relate to what you say about it either tearing you apart or something good can come from it. I have a profoundly different experience of my spiritual connection as a result of this loss. My spiritual connection was important to me before this (I am not religious but spiritual) and now it is my life giving force.
My life has not turned out the way I expected but I am so much stronger than I ever expected I was.
I’m so sorry about your loss, Jennifer. Thank you for you beautiful, and inspirational, comment. I visited your website, and I only hope that eventually, I, too, will achieve the feeling of peace and strength you were able to harness after losing your husband.
[...] to Amber after a very sudden, brief illness. I was devastated. Nothing ever prepares you for unexpected loss. In hindsight, I’m grateful that she got to spend her final few hours at home with me, and [...]