Recently I read a book called Denali: a man, a dog and the friendship of a lifetime.
The story of a young man’s unique friendship with his beloved dog, Denali. Following Denali’s death at 14, Moon struggles as his grief is ‘so sustained and intense’. On sharing his grief with a friend he is told: “that’s because your bond was so strong. When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend, but you also have to let go of that chapter of your life. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become: it’s the last parting act of friendship.”
I thought of my own grief from losing Oscar, and as I continued to read, I felt comfort in the author’s words. I too have to let go of a chapter, and I know Oscar would want that. Yet moving on to the next chapter does not mean I’m moving on from him. It simply means that I cannot continue to live in his chapter, for he is no longer there. He has completed his journey and now I need to complete mine. And as hard as it is do so without Oscar, it is something I have to do to ensure my happiness.
Bear Dog would want me to run, be free and be happy, just as he was. He would want me to grow and I truly believe it was Bear’s last parting act of his love and friendship. It was the completion of his journey.
So as I now step into this new chapter, I now know I can reread, I can embrace photos, and I can allow my heart to be filled with only love as I relive the beautiful memories of our chapter together. But I cannot go back.
So I shall go forward.
Sometimes I feel the reason we cannot move forward is because we do not want to let go. In moving forward, it is as if that previous chapter did not exist and there is an element of guilt associated with that. We feel we are betraying their being, their memory. I personally feel in moving on, Oscar is left behind. But rationality reminds me that this thought process is completely irrational. Oscar has not been left behind, he is firmly imbedded into my being. He will always be here.
He loved me, I was his person. If he could speak to me now he would be saying, in his gruff little voice, these words:
Remember how special our relationship was. remember the warmth of our closeness. Yes, I have now crossed the rainbow bridge, so please be happy that I am ok. Please laugh again, smile again and do yoga again. That was our thing, remember? I loved it when you would lie on the floor, particularly when you did downward dog, I loved that one the most as it was my cue to chin chew. Without my help you would not have been able to do those complicated poses.
You would also not have been able to go in the right direction without me sitting upright in the car. And the funny way I would walk when I was in a hurry. Particuarly when we were on the way home from a walk. It was as if my back legs had to move faster in order to propel my whole body up the hill. I had a very important walk. But of course there were moments when I had to suddenly stop to sniff. That happened frequently. You would sometimes get mad, well not really, but then we would continue on.
When I was navigating in the front seat, I’d get mad when we stopped. I didn’t always understand that you stopped because you had to: i.e. traffic lights. But I would whine in my own unique way and I would tilt my head to the side, tongue hanging out whilst I looked at you, willing you to keep moving. And as soon as we stopped anywhere other than traffic. Id really let you know I needed to get out and explore the surroundings.
And my Stanley is here, by my side. His loyalty is heartfelt. His calmness his aloofness, his professorship ways as Mum says. He does not bounce like Oscar, he is unassuming, quiet and totally devoted.
Together we now have this new chapter, we don’t know what is written, we just need to be present, with each other and enjoy what may come.
Following the loss of my precious Oscar aka Bear, there were moments when the grief was so intense and the sense of despair overwhelming. I was broken in so many ways. As was Stanley.
Then Freida unexpectedly entered our lives.
Being only 8 months since losing Bear, I did not feel ready to bring another soul into our lives. Yet I was soon to understand just how profound her arrival would be in allowing us all to begin to heal.
Here’s why.
Her being has warmed mine. She is uncannily like Oscar in many ways, yet also very different in others. I look at that difference favourably as she is not Oscar, obviously, and nor do I want her to be. She is Freida, a beautiful, loving soul who exudes happiness. Her tail does not wag, it thuds. And alongside the thudding her entire back ends moves in rhythmic motion to the thudding.
She is gentle, sweet and all kinds of kooky, rolled into a bundle of wild boar coloured wiry fur. Like Bear, she adores affection, and will demand what we have now dubbed her face cuddles. She will climb onto my lap and nuzzle her head and nose against my cheek and remain that way for a number of minutes. If Im sad, she knows and she will simply bring herself close, allowing me to feel the rhythm of her gentle breathing. It is calming and beautiful. As is her being.
And whilst her presence has healed the intense pain of Bear’s loss, it is her effect upon Stanley’s well-being that is also profound. He too was immensely broken at losing his brother, soul mate and best friend. In the months following Bear’s passing, Stanley was lost. Freida found him.
Our little family is complete again. I still have moments when the tears flow with such intensity, yet in those moments, Freida will appear, nuzzle my face gently, and rest her warm, wiry body against mine.
As a young woman I tended to ignore my instincts that suggested someone’s behaviour was not indicative of a positive, fulfilling relationship. Probably due to many years of relentless bullying that mentored a deep lack of self-belief and self-love.
Yet as time passed, many positive experiences and relationships allowed me to nurture self love and as that grew, so did my ability to listen to, and honour my instincts. As such, there were very few times in which I didn’t act on instinctual signals.
Until recently.
For reasons not yet determined, old behaviours surfaced and I found myself becoming that frightened little girl who, many years ago, sheltered from the tormenters, ran from the bullies. Past fears dictated my behaviour and the strong, fearless woman I am now, hid in the shadows of self doubt. I forgot how to protect myself and so I became caught in a web of negativity and narcissistic behaviour.
Then I remembered.
Remembered I was not that frightened, bullied, little girl. I was a strong, independent, loving woman who did not cower to narcissistic behaviour.
So I acted, and closed a chapter that should never have been reopened.
Without realising, I was being swept up in the drama and negativity of other’s actions.
I was allowing myself to engage, until realising this morning that this engagement was causing immense disharmony to my being.
So I need to disconnect. To once again become grounded in the present, and not allow my self to be carried away with the negative.
I have the choice. The choice to change, the choice to be better.
Many years ago, after suffering an immeasurable loss, I read the quote: when tragedy strikes your life you can choose to be one of two things – bitter or better: I choose better.
I have had to remind myself of those poignant words, and perhaps edit them slightly.
When negativity enters your life, you can choose to be one of two things – bitter or better: I choose better…
So I choose to live in the present moment, see the happiness, see the positive and revel in the good.
I will never be able to change the actions of others, yet I can change how I respond and react.
So rather than engage in bitterness, anger, and disgust, I shall embrace the quiet, the peace and the beauty of the present moment.
In the background, gentle music fills the chilly winter air. On the floor, my two precious pups lay curled together in front of the heater. Frieda’s dark, shiny head is tucked beneath Stanley’s chest. Their rhythmic breathing, restful and calm. How I cherish them.
Their presence enriches my life and allows me to find contentment in just being, there is no longer any rush to get to somewhere else. I enjoy the Now. Something I had always struggled with. I was constantly searching for somewhere else to be, someone else to be.
Yet now, I feel such freedom. Freedom from that feeling that had enveloped my mind and being for so many years. Maybe it came down to feelings of not fitting in during my younger years. In having those feelings, the need to flee and be somewhere other than where I was dominated my being, thoughts, and feelings.
A couple of weeks ago, we had an intense argument that led to an intense conversation about true feelings, needs and expectations. Afterward, I felt as though I’d been washed clean with honest words and feelings. Years of anguish, doubt and hurt collided with fear and expectations that morning. In the aftermath, recognition and understanding and the need to always communicate with honesty and clarity prevailed.
I feel we moved forward in so many ways. We are family and we love each other deeply, I know that, and I feel so grateful and proud of them.
So where to now? For the moment I will take the Now, second by second, minute by minute, day by day. I do know that sometime in the next year, I will find my forever after place. A place where rolling green hills shape the landscape. A place where birdsong is ever present and a place where I can sit and listen to life. Life in all it’s gentle splendour. A place where I will take those long, slow walks in the company of my precious dogs and nature.
A place where I can sit on a sunlit verandah watching the clouds, listening to the nothing.
A place that will allow me to breathe in my twighlight years with peace, tranquility, and love.
No longer needing, wanting, or yearning.
For I have found all I need in who I am, and in the few beautiful, precious souls who complete me.
She was tired. So very tired. And as the moments wore on, she could feel the levels of fatigue rise within her, feeding her anxiety. In an instant, her emotions exploded and poured from her being with the same intensity and fury of lava erupting from a volcano. Words spilled from her mouth. Words that articulated caged feelings that had lay dormant for weeks.
This outpouring of emotion, in such intense form was out of her control, as according to World Health Organisation (WHO), she was experiencing the ‘occupational phenomenon’ known as emotional exhaustion. WHO states emotional exhaustion is on the rise in the workplace, particularly for those whose roles are laden with high expectations and prolonged exposure to stressors, which are defined as a previous traumatic life event or situation.
Further, The Centre for Studies on Human Stress (CSHS), defines a stressor as “anything that causes the release of stress hormones“, which are our bodies natural response to stress and prompts what is colloquially known as our ‘fight or flight response’. The Mayo Clinic states, “stress is often interpreted as a threat to survival. When this happens, it increases the release of stress hormones from your brain, further contributing to your experience of emotional exhaustion.
Jane Leonard from Medical News Today writes that an emotionally exhausted person may appear unusually cynical or pessimistic, and may lose their motivation to perform simple tasks. If an individual is exposed to stressors for a prolonged period, the level of emotional exhaustion rises and they may react with fear, aggression or an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Further, it is important to allow the emotionally exhausted person to express these emotions, as an intense outburst is often an emotive release and as a result of the stressor being eradicated. The Mayo Clinic confirms the latter by saying that once the ‘stressor’ has been removed, “… the amount of stress hormone released is decreased so you are able are able to feel more emotionally balanced...”
So as aspects of her life changed, the intensity of her emotions began to recede and she realised she was okay.
She realised it was also okay to fill silence with intensity and conviction. It was okay to display caged feelings. It was okay to be vulnerable.
And it was okay that her emotional explosion appeared erratic and out of character. It was needed and in fact, immensely cathartic.
I yearn to call, to share, to listen and to speak with the one person who really understood.
For there were no boundaries, no walls and no pretence.
No need to impress, no yearning for approval, no feelings of inadequacy.
With you, I was always me.
Sometimes I lose that woman who shone in your light. The woman who bathed in your wisdom, bathed in your strength. That woman who, in your presence, allowed herself to breathe, to believe, to shine.
I took a drive to the ocean the other day. It was a day you would’ve embraced. For you loved the ocean, particularly on cold, stormy days. You often said that’s when the ocean was really alive.
When waves crashed on hardened sand, and heavy, black clouds weighted the sky with intensity and fury. That was when, you said, the ocean was truly alive.
On those days, when the weather raged, you’d forage for shells, often finding those that hadn’t fallen victim to the endless pounding of fierce waves. You’d always find those that remained whole, pure and as one. A reflection of you perhaps.
The morning after you left, I took a walk by the ocean. The sand was scattered with shards of broken shells, I paused for a moment and at my feet lay a perfect shell. Did you place it there?
I took it home. It now sits in the frame of your picture.
You’ve heard the old adage: life’s too short to be somewhere, do something, etc etc. Personally that saying has at times been the catalyst to powerful decision making, propelling me onto paths I never expected to walk and moved me in directions that nurtured my soul and nourished my appetite for incredible adventures.
I don’t often voice those 3 words, rather, for me its a feeling, a response to a situation or probably more profoundly a knowing that something within that situation just isn’t right. My body responds negatively. My being tenses and withdraws and there’s an intense feeling of being caged and unable to move. I ponder my emotional and physical response before the feeling envelopes me and urges me to act.
And I do.
In doing so, I’ve come to realise that life truly is too short to spend time pondering or worrying whether you should or shouldn’t be somewhere or be doing something that causes stress. In my experience, if I’ve had to ask myself if life is too short to be where I am, then maybe I’m not meant to be there. And when I have acted, I’ve found myself having some incredible moments. In 10 days, I made a swift decision to move to Taiwan to teach English, in which I made lifelong friends. I accepted a photojournalism job in India where I found myself constantly taking selfies with an hilarious water buffalo whose name was Buff. And I began an 860 kilometre walk across Spain that was one of the most self-reflecting journey’s I’ve ever embarked upon.
Our footprints are meant to be left anywhereand everywhere. So if you do find yourself questioning where you are from an emotional or physical perspective, maybe it’s time to leave your footprint and begin a new journey.
Life really is never too short, maybe it’s just the time spent in one place that is …
She did not use words to voice her excitement, rather, Mum’s excitement was shown through expression. Her smile grew wide and her eyes sparkled like those of a toddler who delighted in the gifts that lay beneath the Christmas tree. Her fingers glided over the electronic buttons embedded in the armrest, and her eyes rested upon the menu that was placed neatly on her seat alongside the amenities pack.
As she began to settle in her Business Class seat on a Qantas flight bound for Frankfurt via Singapore, tears began to glide down her cheeks. She turned toward me and slowly mouthed a simple, ‘thank you’.
I will never forget that moment. She was so happy, so thankful and so excited. I hugged her warmly, then together, we chinked our chilled glasses of champagne, took a long sip and revelled in the moment.
Adjacent to us, my boys then 10 & 12, were excitedly exploring the gadgets, gifts and myriad of entertainment on offer in the expansive seats that made them look very small. And whilst Mum’s excitement was contained, theirs was not, and with every new discovery, squeals of joy permeated through the cabin.
Watching my family’s happiness, I was thankful. Thankful for being a Qantas employee whose benefits included free Business Class tickets to any destination in the world, and thankful that I could share those benefits with those I loved.
I had surprised Mum with the tickets after previously speaking with Dad. He did not want to come, rather, he felt a trip with Mum and my two sons was a perfect idea. Knowing Mum adored Europe, I knew that was the perfect place for us to go, and as I believed, as did Mum that the best experiences were those that happened serendipitously, our itinerary was unplanned. The only sure thing was the month long booking of a hire car that we’d collect on our arrival into Frankfurt Main, and from there, who knew.
Many hours later, with Mum and Rob in the back of our hire car and Max, as self-appointed navigator in the front, we set off through the dark, underground car park in search of the exit. This simple task turned into a laughter filled adventure when the boys spotted a sign with the words Ausfahrt splashed across the vivid, green background. Farting noises and giggles followed and despite discovering it was german for exit, throughout our journey, it was a constant source of amusement for them.
On Christmas morning 2007, with giggles abated, we finally emerged from the darkness to find ourselves immersed in a spectacular, snow filled landscape.
It was indeed a very merry Christmas.
For the next few weeks, the laughter was in abundance and the adventures numerous. You loved that trip and in the years following, you spoke of it often.
Lake Annecy, France
It has now been 14 years since that wonderful adventure, and as today is the anniversary of my first year without you, I felt sharing some of our adventures is a fitting tribute to honour the beautiful, funny, crazy and incredibly loving woman, mother and grandmother that you were.
I’m so grateful for our relationship, so grateful that I was always there for you and so grateful you were always there for me. I’m so happy I took you to Europe, Bali and many other destinations we found ourselves in. So grateful we spent the afternoon of Christmas Day watching the world go by at Mooloolaba beach from the comfort of the car. Dogs on laps, we laughed as you did a running commentary of people strolling by. You loved that. You loved it when we took many leisurely drives through the countryside. We would stop many times to take in the quiet, and simply to be.
Mum, I could write for hours about all the things we did together, and I love that only we shared so many crazy, laughter filled moments.
‘Slipping’ on rainy streets in Singapore, crazy ‘mattress rides’ in France, being the ‘pied piper’ on Austria’s winding roads, sipping vin chaud in quaint bars, and feeling like fugitives in Switzerland. How could we forget Delphine throwing cooking oil on unsuspecting drivers in Germany, then the laughter filled snowmobile rides on France’s glorious snowfields. At home, those endless hours chatting downstairs, whilst Dad sat snoring happily in an adjoining chair. How we laughed when in unison, we would say, ‘Ken/Dad, go to bed…’.
I am so lucky to have so many memories and so many photos of our life together.
I won’t pretend to say I’m not sad, I am, I’m heartbroken knowing I can no longer create memories with you. Yet despite my sadness, I know you were so happy that we were so close and that replaces all my sadness with joy.
Mum, you were my best friend and my greatest support.
IF only there were a guidebook that prepared you for the emotional trauma the IVDD journey invokes. Yes, there’s an abundance of information and support out there, however when IVDD invades your reality, confusion, despair and grief wash over you in ways you’d never imagined.
As a dachshund owner for nearly 20 years, I believed I knew enough about IVDD to ensure I’d taken precautions to reduce the probability of this insidious disease entering our home.
I now know that despite my knowledge and preventative measures, IVDD was destined to crash into our lives and the emotional trauma left in its wake had me feeling bereft and at times, inconsolable. I’ve blamed myself, rehashed scenarios of the should’ve, could’ve, but the reality is this, there was simply nothing more I could’ve done to change both mine and Oscar’s life path.
What follows is our IVDD journey and the emotional trauma it forced upon us both.
Oscar came into our lives as an 8-week old, bundle of standard wire-haired fluff. At the time my Dad was an All-Breeds judge, and his contacts in the dog world were varied and vast. As such, Oscar’s breeder was well researched, well known and above all, well respected. Over the years her dogs had very few litters and IVDD was totally absent in her bloodlines. From a background perspective, the chances of Oscar succumbing to IVDD were remote. Of my four dachshunds, Oscar was the one I was least worried about.
On the night of September 15, 2020, Oscar went to bed without showing any sign of pain or discomfort. At 5am the following morning, I woke to see Oscar struggling to get off his bed. I shot out of bed as I thought he was ‘stuck’ on something. A stupid thought I know, but at that moment IVDD did not enter my head, particularly as he did not appear to be in any pain, moreover, he seemed to have his normal, happy disposition. I looked around him and could see no reason for his inability to move – it was only on lifting his back end and have him collapse back onto the ground that panic set in.
I was terrified. I scooped him into my arms and raced down the stairs and frantically started knocking on my 24-year old son’s door. As the door opened, so did my emotions. I began to sob uncontrollably, and I could barely get the words out. Max was confused, yet somehow managed to understand my garbled mutterings about Oscar being paralysed. I placed him in the car, and with sobs racking my body, I somehow managed to get him to the emergency vet, 10 minutes later.
After what seemed an interminable wait, it was explained Oscar was Deep Pain Negative and they suspected Stage 5 IVDD. She explained he would be transferred to North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS) at 0800 and would undergo a CT and MRI to confirm their suspected diagnosis. They brought him out for a hug before asking me to await the surgeon’s call later that morning.
At that point shock had numbed my reality. I was floating in a fog of confusion and concern and all I wanted to do was be with Oscar. I wanted to hold him and comfort him, despite my all-consuming fear. I wanted to take him in my arms and run as far away as possible. Shield us both somehow with the ‘if you can’t see us, then we can’t see you and all of this is just a horrible dream’ approach. Denial was hijacking my thoughts, in all its ugly glory.
As I waited at home for the surgeon to call, I begged my memory to recall the previous nights events. To play a movie in my mind so I could see if it was my fault, if I missed something. I vividly remember him doing his nightly ritual of heading outside to wee, then plodding past the bathroom as I showered. My memory clouds when I attempt to visualise him in his bed, and keeping to my nightly ritual of kissing my boys goodnight before climbing into my own bed. I’m sure I bade them all goodnight, in my usual manner, however not being able to have an absolute recall of that moment, I fear I could’ve missed something. Did he look comfortable, or did his disc explode as he settled on his bed? Was he in pain then? Surely I would’ve known that right? Yet the thought he may have been in pain and suffered through the night was terrifying. I’ve read countless stories about other IVDD cases and majority state there were notable signs, yet Oscar did not display any signs, of that I’m sure.
Later that day, as I met with Dr Nima, a surgeon at North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS), I felt terrified and lost – just as Oscar would’ve been. And whilst I listened to her heartfelt words confirming Stage 5 IVDD and all the possible complications, tears fell silently, and the helplessness intensified.
She began to speak of progressive myelomalacia (PMM), words I’d not heard before. And as she explained that it presented in only 5% of cases, I felt nausea rise in my throat. My heart raced, yet I did not want to appear weak and vulnerable, so I nodded quietly whilst digging my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort to distract myself from the wave of fear her words triggered. My nails dug harder as she relayed her concerns for Oscar, for in light of his diagnosis, the chances of myelomalacia presenting rose to approximately 30%.
Conservative treatment was not a favourable option, so Oscar was scheduled for surgery later that afternoon; a hemilaminectomy and durotomy for a severe disc extrusion at T13, L1. It was then that Dr Nima revealed the ugliest of truths – IVDD could in fact, be fatal. She reassured me that the possibility of this was slight, yet I needed to be prepared as Oscar’s condition was considered severe. Despite my despair, I appreciated her honesty. She was kind, empathetic and clearly cared about Oscar’s well-being. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and I cannot fault her care.
Yet as I continued to listen, I felt the nausea rise again. This could not be happening; I’d done all the right things and why my Oscar? My soulmate, my heartdog, my everything. Once again I felt the need to find Oscar and run. Run far, far away.
When I returned home, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I paced the house not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t protect him and now, I couldn’t hold his paw, stroke his silky head and tell him I loved him. He would be scared; he would be confused, and I couldn’t be there to support him. Not being able to be in the surgery with him, or be there when he woke was for me, the epitome of helplessness. My best friend was hurting and there was nothing I could do to ease his fear or alleviate his pain.
When Dr Nima called me later that night telling me Oscar had done really well in surgery, my heart soared. And when I saw him the next morning, I felt so relieved. They said he was doing well and even managed to walk, albeit aided with a specially designed sling to support his back legs and spine. Whilst I felt so happy to see him, he looked despondent and confused. Nurse Tegan reassured me and said he was on heavy painkillers and a little confused with what had occurred.
The following two days showed promise. There were no neurological deficits presenting, he seemed alert, responsive to physio, yet still no response to deep pain stimulus. Dr Nima was hopeful and on Friday, September 18, said he could be expected to go home the following Monday. Nurse Tegan sent me regular texts when I couldn’t be with him. I will always be grateful and thankful for the love and care they showed Oscar. Knowing he was in such caring hands made this traumatic time a touch more bearable.
The following day (Saturday, 72 hours post op), I had a mid-morning call explaining Oscar had deteriorated overnight and was beginning to show signs of ascending myelomalacia.
I cannot begin to articulate the level of despair I felt at hearing those words. I had spent the last 2 days heavily researching and I knew what this diagnosis signalled.
I hung up and fell to my knees and sobbed inconsolably. I was alone, I had no one to share this pain with and I felt so, so lost. I had experienced loss of incredible magnitude several years earlier when my little girl died from heart disease; at that moment, as I lay weeping, the grief I felt was measurable to losing Meg. That may be hard for many to understand, but Oscar was my everything and the thought of losing him was beyond comprehension.
Over the weekend he continued to deteriorate, as did I from an emotional perspective. I spent hours at the hospital in his crate, lying by his side comforting him in every way. I held him, played music and fed him pieces of chicken and finely diced frankfurts. I felt so helpless and whilst I didn’t realise at the time, the nurses must’ve known he was now palliative as they were so kind. On the Sunday I spent most of the day lying in his crate with him. The nurses would come by and offer water and biscuits and generally just ask if I was ok. At one point, one of them gave me a huge hug, which simply allowed the tears to flow more quickly.
By Monday, Oscar had lost the use of his front limbs and was unable to lift his head. Dr Nima said he was not in pain and she assured me he was comfortable. I clearly remember her saying that even if there was only a 5% chance of him surviving, she would do everything in her power. Yet, deep down, we all knew the reality. Myelomalacia was fatal. And I’d done enough research to know that after paralysis of the thoracic limbs, which Oscar now had, paralysis of the respiratory muscles would present. I did not want that for him, so I knew I would soon have to say goodbye to my precious Bear.
Overnight, Oscar deteriorated rapidly and on Tuesday morning, the 22nd of September 2020, I was told our only kind option would be to send him across the rainbow bridge. As per his clinical notes: Oscar has deteriorated overnight with progressive myelomalacia after severe disc extrusion at T13/L1 with flaccid paralysis of both fore and hindlimbs. Panniculus reflex is absent.He is mentally depressed and less responsive than yesterday. I have had a long discussion with his owner and unfortunately advised euthanasia and the owners have accepted this recommendation.
I knew this was coming, yet when those words were spoken, I broke. I was about to lose my precious boy and that was unfathomable. I asked how long we had before myelomalacia would begin to affect his respiratory muscles. I was told maximum 24 hours.
I decided to take him home as we wanted his last hours to be surrounded by those who adored him and in a place he felt safe and loved. I bundled him in my arms and held him close as we drove home. I opened the window and as his head rested against my shoulder, I felt his breath quicken as he tried to sniff the passing air.
Being in the car was one of his greatest loves and he would sit upright, with ears flapping, nose sniffing and a look of joy on his beautiful face. As we drove home, I made sure he was doing just that and I sensed he knew I was helping him, and I knew in my heart he felt safe.
As I walked inside, Stanley and Eddie walked slowly toward me. I knelt down so they could see their brother and they gently sniffed him before Stanley gave him a slow lick on his face. I sat on the couch and cradled Oscar and noticed his breathing slow as I believed he knew he was home and he finally felt at peace. My heart was breaking, yet I felt comfort in knowing he was home and that in his final hours, he was bathed in love. As the afternoon drew to a close, his breathing became more difficult and we knew it was his time to leave. We had hoped to say goodbye at home, but sadly and despite our best efforts we had to return to NCVS.
Oscar crossed the rainbow bridge at 4.51pm on Tuesday, September 22, 2020. As he crossed, I held him close and through the uncontrollable sobs, I whispered that I would love him forever.
The emotional trauma IVDD invokes is both individual and undeniably painful.
There is no BandAid for the wound it opens, no aspirin for the pain it places in your heart. It simply breaks us in ways we could never imagine.
Many years ago, after the loss of my daughter, I read the words: ‘when tragedy strikes your life you can be one of two things – bitter or better – I choose better…’
Losing Oscar broke me, and I have had moments when I felt I would never recover. On writing his story, in detail, something changed. I realised I had been so lucky to have known him and in knowing my precious Oscar aka Bear, I had become a better person. Yes, his loss is indeed a tragedy, and in moving forward, he would want me to continue to be better, and he would want me to embrace life just as he did: with love, laughter and light.
I will love you forever my precious Bear…
What I discovered in writing about my own emotional trauma was this: it opened the door to healing, and for the first time in the 6 months since Oscar died, I began to feel the wretchedness of his loss easing. There is no doubt the pain is still raw and tears flow randomly, but I also began to fully identify with a passage I read in Ben Moon’s book. He says: “When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend through so much, you also have to let go of that chapter of your life, and who you were then. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become, the last parting act of friendship.” Denali: A Man, a Dog, and the Friendship of a Lifetime
stanley & bear 