Today, the one year anniversary of losing you...

You've been gone a year today, our little Willie.  When you left us that day,  your lifeless little body lying on the daybed, I tried to envision my life without you.  I felt a sob caught in my throat as I tried to suck in some air, my red rimmed eyes filled with an endless supply of salty tears and my heart... so heavy.  

Dad and I wandered about the house as you lay there, trying to find a place to set ourselves down but no comfy sofa or cushy chair could relieve the emptiness.  We needed to decide on where we would place you for your eternal rest but neither of us could utter the words, neither of us could speak. 

We hadn't slept more than a few hours the previous night, trying desperately to  comfort you as you coughed, your eyes wide with fear, looking to us for some answers, some relief.  We had none to give.  We could only give love.  You accepted it, you gave it back, your little paw resting on our leg or your little chin nuzzled into our warm flesh.

Each morning brought hope those last few weeks when we'd go outside and the coughing stopped.  You didn't cough when you were standing.  You'd mosey around the yard as you always did, sniffing your favorite spots, spritzing your favorite spots and stopping periodically to lock eyes with me as I wandered about with you, my heart breaking.

I heard him flip the switch for the basement lights and moments later, Dad was in the yard with a shovel. Through blurry eyes he sized up the exact spot where he'd plunge the shovel and begin to dig.  Looking out the glass of the kitchen door, I knew I had to go outside with him. I couldn't let him do this alone.  He had done it two times before in the 21 years we've been together, for your brother Bart in 1996 and then again, your brother Ben in 2008.  And now, my dear WorldWideWillie...you.

We gathered your furry little body in our arms, the little green St. Patrick's Day bow still attached to your collar and gently placed you in the ground, our tears dropping on top of you and your favorite giant brown bear.  It was then that I knew I would grieve for no more than one year, that I would write this blog, bringing it to an end on the one year anniversary, which is today, my little love.

Now as I write in a new blog every few days about a new chapter in our lives: www.worldwidewaftage.blogspot.com  I can finally say goodbye to you.

Saying goodbye to sorrow, a conscious choice to stop grieving requires a certain strength I didn't know that I possessed.  Ironically, this past year or so has brought a rash of sorrowful events, not dissimilar from those that others experience in their lives, not so unique and not so surprising.  And when I cried for you, my Willie,  I gathered in all the sorrows from the past years, the sorrows from a lifetime and grieved them along with the loss of you.

So as we waft our way into our new adventures, we let you go, we let the sorrow go and bring with us, into the future, the lessons we learned, the love we've known and the precious memories of you.  

A year ago today...

Dear little Willie, it was a year ago today that we went to the groomer for your usual St. Patrick's Day haircut.  You proudly strutted out the door fully aware of the little green bow attached to your collar and how handsome you looked.  

We had an appointment with our vet, Dr. Waag, later in the day to check into the cough you had that awakened us several times each night over the past week.  As little dogs age, that often develop problems with the little bones in the trachea which may cause coughing. The vet didn't sound worried when I called after the first night of coughing saying to give it a few days and see if it went away.  It didn't. 

You were nervous as always when we walked into Dr. Waag's foreboding clinic.  You sniffed around for a few seconds settling under the bench where I usually sat  when waiting.  You always loved sitting on my lap but here you were nervous, preferring to sit on the floor near my legs, your cold little nose tapping my leg every so often, your little front leg touching mine.  In an animated tone, I reassured you that nothing bad would happen.  But you remembered the last painful shots you'd had here and how tightly we held you to keep your from squirming.

Dr. Waag warmly greeted us while walking us to the big scale.  You stepped on without hesitation remembering that it was your Mom that hated the scale at the doctor's office, not you.  You'd lost 2 pounds.  We had been walking everyday all winter so maybe that attributed to the weight loss. No big deal, right?

They took you out of the exam room for an x-ray while you looked at me with those expressive eyes, asking, "Why are they taking me away from you?"  Again I reassured you and minutes later you were back in the room with me, anxiously sniffing around the room, contemplating a few spritzes to which I gently said, "no bad potty." You came and sat by me, again your little nose tapping my leg. Ten minutes later, Dr. Waag came back to the exam room with a sad look on his face, one that we had seen three years earlier, the day we let your brother BenBenBen go to doggie heaven.

The news was heart wrenching.  You had a mass that filled your chest cavity, pressing onto your lungs and heart.  We'd have to wait several days to have the U of M veterinary department review the test results and determine the prognosis.

The next few days were a haze. Dad and I speculated on the outcome trying not to imagine the worst. The coughing at night escalated to awakening us every 2 hours during which you'd jump off the bed, frightened and confused until the frenzied coughing jag ended and gingerly climb up your pet steps back on the bed nuzzling up against me. Our hearts were breaking for you, for us.  

Five days later, Dr. Waag called with the worst possible news.  You would only last two more weeks until your heart and lungs were crowded out by the savage, malignant tumor.  We had imagined, months, not weeks.  Surgery and traditional treatment were not viable options.  Our precious little WorldWideWillie's life was about to end. 

I took this photo of you the night we got the worst news. 

You dragged your toys onto our bed, up the two sets of pet steps 

in order to rest your weary head.

The rest of the story, the 17 days you lasted, as detailed in the beginning of this blog, were some of the most bittersweet, memorable days of my life spending every precious moment with you, whether up with you all night while you coughed or, during the days when you seldom coughed.  You figured out that you wouldn't cough when you were standing so you often stood next to me wherever I was, your eyes half shut with exhaustion, teetering on your little legs.  

We continued our daily walks, however slowly, with many rest stops in between.  The walks made you happy, made me cry.  We went to Petco, your favorite. We went for rides in the car with the windows open so you could stick your head out and "bite the air." We sat outside in the warm sun, your head turned skyward "sniffing the air.  We didn't sleep.  We didn't care.  We just wanted to be with you.

So, I write this to you today to tell you that we haven't forgotten you and that we thank you for the lessons we learned about unconditional love, a concept nearly impossible to behold among us humans... a gift that Mother Nature has bestowed upon us humans enabling us to love her amazing creatures, blending us into one family that fulfills our lives in a magical way.

On the anniversary of the day you left us, April 9, 2011,  I will write for the final time in this blog to begin a new chapter in our lives, a new blog.

(Please visit us at: www.worldwidewaftage.blogspot.com) 

I will let you go, our dear Willie, not the memories but the sorrow, not the endearing stories, but the pain.  

Your last day...

Who are you, reading this blog??? Please tell your story in comments...

I began writing this blog about the last days of our precious WorldWideWillie's life at the end of March.  As a result I have experienced so much comfort knowing there were readers out there, sharing our joy, laughter and sorrow. 

Each day I have looked up the stats to discover how many have read the most recent post.  It warms my heart and I thank you. Each time I write, the readership increases, sometimes substantially. I am wondering if I should continue posting. 

Please post here on "comments" and tell me a little about your story. 

Thank you with all of our hearts.

Grief can be a fast moving train...

Grief, a fast moving train, bound for oblivion, overcomes us. We can let it derail our lives or we can grab a seat in the cushioned arms of those who love us. I chose the latter seeking solace and comfort from my family and friends who so willingly embraced the challenge, never minimizing the degree of my suffering by saying that it was "only a dog," or "that he lived a full happy life." I miss my Willie. My heart aches for him.

In quiet reflection, I asked my psyche, my spirituality and my body to guide me healthfully through this painful process. Answers came easily.  I increased my workout efforts, fed myself healthful foods, allowing my brain to shut off at night, welcoming dreamless sleep. I know what I have to do. 

 I gathered unhealed grief from recent times and invited it to join in this pool of sorrow, having been tucked away to face at another time…and now, the time was here. 

Two days after we lost him, it was Monday.  DDD had gone off to work early and for the first time in almost 12 years I was truly alone.  I didn’t bolt out of bed to let him out to go “good potty,” or to slightly warm a bowl of his homemade food in the microwave or pour him a bowl of fresh water, or to listen for his gentle knock at the door when he was ready to come inside.  I know what I have to do.

I took the walk to Poop Park alone, no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. Retracing the steps we took each day, soft paper towel in hand sopping up tears along the way; no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. 

Warming my hands in the cold air, I reached into my pocket to find the plastic bag we never needed to use since he refused to poop in front of me all of his little life.  He’d go for DDD but not me.  He had private places to go away from my view.  I often giggled about it thinking it was a guy-girl thing, the way we are shy about bodily functions when we first are in love.

It’s been ten days today.  I miss him so. Each night I expect to feel his tiny body nuzzled up to my feet, resting his weary chin on my outstretched foot and lying quietly all night, occasionally annoyed by my stirring after which he would reposition himself, digging in his chin to this familiar resting spot. 

The pet steps are still there, the toys, neatly stacked in his little bed.  Each day I put away another reminder knowing full well that doing so is a part of the healing.  I know what I have to do.

This Monday, a week after the lonely first walk, I decided not to cry for a few days and to laugh in its place. To laugh about the nose prints still on the inside of the glass in my car, to laugh at the treats we have found tucked into sofa cushions or hidden under furniture, to laugh seeing Max, the dog next store, digging into the spot where Willie had hidden a bone in the neighbor’s yard on the day he died, as a token of his friendship to the dogs he loved.

The corner has been turned; the healing as a natural progression that nature has given us, with the skills and desire to move on.  There still will be tears. There still will be a sudden sob with a wave of pain in our chests. There still will be his missing Easter basket filled with treats and toys.  There still will be the fishing off the dock without his excitement over the bouncing red bobber. There still will be the 4^th of July without him shivering on my lap.  There still will be an m...o...u...s…e or an s…q…u running up a tree. 

But I know what I have to do and I am doing it.

We love you Willie.  We always will.


MMM

Hi...its time to say goodbye...

WorldWideWillie's last day, Saturday, April 9, 2011 was a bittersweet day; joy for the wonderful life he so enthusiastically shared with us and many others and almost unbearable sorrow that his precious little life came to an end. 

Grief is a powerful emotion.  It comes as an unwelcomed visitor you must somehow entertain.  It starts in the pit of your stomach coming up to your throat in a rolling wave, released only by tears and sobbing.  You catch a quick breath, recover, and it rises up once again triggered by a simple thought, a sight, a sound, a smell, a well intended word or a memory.