3 years...
Yesterday was Romeo’s 3 year deathiversary. I woke up at sunrise with Mia, our surviving dog. I sobbed on the couch where I held Romeo as he died. Our ordinary couch became sacred that day.
3 years. How has it been that long? It’s disorienting how that time has gone. Much has changed during that time. The constants that have stayed: how much I love Romeo and how much I miss him.
As February left, I started to experience my physiological grief responses: long sighs, inexplicable trembling, disinterest in food. Then the crying started. Our bodies are wise; they process and express grief in their own ways.
Just like last year, we spent some time in nature yesterday, this time on a frozen river that’s slowly melting.
I also got flowers for Romeo and made a donation in Romeo’s name to the Western College of Veterinary Medicine - Les and Irene Dube Good Samaritan Fund. WCVM did so much for Romeo that it’s only right to give back in his name.
I had my third surgery for endometriosis last month and have been on rest since then. We had Romeo at the time of my second surgery in 2011. He was a great recovery companion. Gentle, affectionate, and always eager for a rest and cuddle. I didn’t have to worry about him hurting me both because the trust between us is deep and because he was the perfect size. Romeo was a terrific buffer between me and Mia (who did accidentally hurt me during that recovery) as he could situate himself next to me and create a barrier that Mia would respect. This recovery with Mia still proved to have the same challenges: she keeps trying to get on my abdomen and has no sense of personal space. Add to that her own health stuff due to aging (she is 18.75 years old now). I have been missing Romeo extra hard during this recovery and I can’t help but wonder if not having that companionship has impacted my recovery speed.
“It’s okay; we’re okay,” I have muttered to myself several times during the course of this convalescing. It made me think about how I said to Romeo, “It’s okay. It’s okay,” when he was taking his final breaths even though my brain was screaming how not okay the situation was. Why do we do that? Is it a default or desperate attempt to soothe our or their nervous system? Is it a last ditch effort of our brains to try to make sense of what’s happening? I have to think it’s an attempt to soothe, as though hearing “it’s okay” will somehow make everything so. A tender attempt at a lie hoping to make it truth, I suppose.
