Caught off Guard

There’s a certain strange confirmation in the early days, weeks and months of an all-consuming grief period. The fog, the crushing, it means we love them, really love them. We’re validated by “all the love that needs somewhere to go.” The months after that? Confusing. All over the place. Less predictable. And sometimes tinged with guilt. Because “If I am having a good day without him, what does that mean?” A fear of forgetting?

Here I am eight months in. Most minutes of my days I feel pretty whole. Curious. “Normal.” When I pictured my future self without him in the years of his old age, this isn’t what I had in mind.

But then I check back, and here’s where I also go: anger.

Because our world tends to validate some types of grief and mourning over others. It's absolutely possible that a good chunk of folks will roll their eyes to my speaking of “still” mourning a pup eight months later. But what about other losses? The business you started that didn’t flourish the way you wanted. The friendships that morphed. The decisions a loved one made. The job offer that never came. The partner that moved on. The team you outgrew. So much in addition to the loss of a human can crush, causing time to become a wonky figure. Are we just supposed to shrug all that off? I don’t see many greeting cards for these types of events. So here’s where I’m at. I’m supported. Proud. Honoring. Practicing. And absolutely still getting caught off guard –including this past weekend.

Below is a story that emerged from that experience. Maybe it will strike a chord. Maybe not. But above all else, I hope to acknowledge that whatever may be flowing through you is nothing less than real.

---

I do what I do every morning. Sit in my little carved out sanctuary space flanked by monsteras and ferns. Practice my yoga. Breathe. Move, flow and lie on squishy pillows embraced by my fuzzy rug. Drink warm green tea out of a mug I pick from my kitchen cabinet - whichever I’m feeling that day. This ritual has become essential in keeping me from spiraling into overdrive between pings and rushes of the day’s noise chugging full steam ahead. It’s a thought – hours of life shrunken into a single second – that makes the first ripple. Today, I peer down at my chosen mug and am whisked away to a little sandwich shop in the sunshine.

We sit at the picnic table outside as I devour a grouper sandwich. It’s a late lunch, one I have craved all morning during our beach walk. I take a bite right when a fellow patron strikes up a conversation. When the waitress fawns over his dapperness. It’s always about Ferg, who is curled up beside me ready to catch any crumbs.

I am right where I want to be, savoring the nostalgia I tasted so many summers down here. I look at my sandaled feet that are free to dangle and breathe because they are not all suffocated by salt stained winter boots.

I crumple the red and white checkered paper onto the tray and Ferg trots behind me through the door as we scan the cafe’s front little shop section. The whole building has been torn down and renovated, but the swag looks the same. Same serif font. Same vintage colors. Same name. My beach, my memories. I pick up a white mug from the shelf and flip it over to check the price. Sheesh, when did mugs get so pricey? But it’s the memory I am investing in. We ring up and wave goodbye to the nice people who took our food order. The same ones who melted when we first walked in. Oh my gosssshhhhh look at that little guy HI BUDDY! Whatshisname? Forever the connector, he is. I open my eyes and look at my ceramic relic.

Classic. Creamy off-white. Thick and sturdy. Holds so many memories. Timeless. Ferg in a cup. Hi, you.

My throat tightens and everything drops and more than anything I want you curled right here, right on my chest again. I want traces of your windblown hair on my yoga pants and crackled charcoal nose breathing next to mine.

It’s this association, this thread that when pulled a millimeter more brought me down for the count last June for an entire day unable to function. Caved in over my knees lying in the hotel bathtub halfway across the world on deployment. Texting my team, I just need a minute. Knowing damn well I needed more than that.

Today, I still feel the searing ache. But I can move a little more now, I can flow through. I can get up and do things and feel okay. Lots of times, more than okay.

And today, when my eyes are wet before anyone will see me or hear me or witness me as anything but a dog mom, I have already had the most important conversation of my day, the one that connects me closer to me, to us, and to the comforting warmth staring back up at me between my hands. Knowing you are in all of it.

And then, I let the day’s crumbs guide me.