Greiving – Stuck in a cycle of endless tears

We were a Family Unit. Jamie, Me, Jake, and Buster. We were nearly always together now that Jamie is retired. Dad, Mom, Brother 1 & Brother 2. This probably sounds really strange to couples that have children, those without pets, or those who have “outdoor” pets. Our family unit worked though, and we were so very tightly knit.

Jamie and I planned EVERYTHING with Jake and Buster in mind. We quite literally regarded and treated them as if they were our kids. For instance, Dinner Time was 8:30, so we very rarely made plans that wouldn’t allow us to be home in time for the boys dinner, and were never away from home more than 6 hours at a time without making “babysitting” arrangements for them. They slept in bed with us, and were rarely more than a few feet from one of our sides.

I work remotely from my home office, and Buster has a special Window Seat a few feet from Mommy where he’d spend most of his days. Anytime I left my office to grab a coffee refill or lunch, he’d hop out of his window seat and trot along next to me. When I was having a rough day – stressed out or upset about anything – he’d make his way over to me and rest his head on my lap, looking up at me out of the top of his eyes and whimpering until I scratched his head. This was his way of distracting me and cheering me up. When I was really upset about something, he’d make the leap of faith into my lap and lean into me, nuzzling into me with his head and nose.

Whenever I arrived home (most frequently from a training ride), he’d always be waiting at the door for me, wiggling his little butt, and SO happy to see his Mommy and give me “kisses”, licking the salt off of me.

Buster passed away rather unexpectedly early Tuesday Morning, and I have never felt the kind of Grief or Emotional Pain that I have experienced over the last 48 hours. I literally feel as though someone has reached into my chest and ripped a huge chunk of my heart right out. I can’t do ANYTHING without a reminder of Buster, his sweet little expressions and gestures, his smell, his mannerisms, the feel of his fur under my fingertips as we lay on the couch together (a nightly ritual). . . For the first 18 hours, I cried pretty much non-stop. Every time that I would finally get the crying to stop, a picture of him lying there lifeless on the floor, or a sweet memory of him wiggling his butt in joy would dance through my head, and open the water-works right back up. Logically, it seems so silly to be so fully incapacitated and full of grief over an animal. I’ve lost my grandparents, and while I loved them VERY much, the pain and sense of loss didn’t hold a candle to that which I feel at the loss of my sweet, sweet boy.

I don’t know how to move on. EVERY LITTLE THING that I do in my day reminds me of him:

• I wake up and instinctively reach for him to scratch behind his ear
• I choke back tears and realize that my snuggle buddy isn’t there to nuzzle me and cheer me up, which sends me into an even more hysterical fit of crying
• I pull it together and walk out of my bedroom, and my eyes fall on the spot that we found him lifeless
• To the right is his food and water bowl, and to the left in my pantry, all of his special “scooby snacks” and his food
• I walk through the living room, and see the couch pillows that he always used to hoard and lay on top of (because the couch cushions simply weren’t soft enough for his spoiled butt!)
• Into my office, and there’s his window seat, and his nose-prints still all over the window
• Another wave of tears, followed again by the realization that my snuggle bud isn’t there – I literally miss his smell, and the feeling of burying my nose in the scruff of his neck and breathing in his scent, as his soft fur tickles my nose
• The neighborhood cat runs by the window, and I realize that he’s there to “play” his daily game with Buster, but won’t have a playmate today
• I go to the bathroom, use the last square of toilet paper to wipe away a few tears, and instinctively go to call for Buster to take the empty tube to daddy and fetch a new roll. More Tears.
• A picture of him with his perked up “puppy ears” and wiggly butt, running down the hallway with a roll of toilet paper gently held in his mouth runs through my head. . and I fall apart all over again.
• My furry security blanket isn’t there to help ease the tears. OMG it hurts so bad.
• I take my bike out for a short spin to get some fresh air and try to ebb the flow of tears. As I ride back into the driveway and open the garage door, I realize that my sweet boy won’t be there wiggling his rear end and smiling up at me, waiting to lick away my sweat when I open the door. Dammit. Here we go again with the waterworks.
• I walk in the door, Jamie gives me a hug, I see the sadness in his eyes, and just can’t hold it together. We hold each other, shaking and crying for several minutes. He pulls it together before I do and tells me that it’s all going to be okay, but I know he’s lying, just trying to take care of me, and that’s not fair to him. I just don’t know how our family unit will ever be okay again without our Buster.
• Jake is grieving too, and I try to be strong for him, give him all the snuggles, extra treats, and keep him busy so that he doesn’t keep sniffing around and looking for his brother. How will he handle it when he realizes that his brother, who is usually attached at the hip, isn’t coming home? How do I hug him and tell him that it’s going to be okay when just the act of wrapping my arms around his warm, soft, furry neck make me break down into tears again?

Everywhere I turn in this home, and every thing that I do – every part of my daily routine – there is a piece of it that Buster was an integral part of. How am I ever going to heal this broken heart when I can’t go 30 seconds without a reminder of my little boy, his sweet disposition, the way he would look at me, the special bond that we shared. I shared so many of my secrets with him. I cried and laughed with him in my arms. He shared in my little daily victories with his “happy puppy dance” & perked up ears & wiggly butt, and soothed me through so many bad days with that knowing gaze of his that wordlessly told me that everything was going to be okay. He was truly one of my “best friends”, outside of Jamie of course. I could always count on him to be right there by my side, and to never, ever judge me. Is that a little sad? Maybe, but it’s true, and I don’t really care how pitiful it sounds right now. One of my best friends and confidants just left me with very little warning, and nothing that I do or say can bring him back, and I just feel so very alone and cold. Jamie shares in this grief, so I don’t want to weigh him down with my emotional baggage, but I feel like I’m going to explode into a million pieces if I don’t find some way to move past this. C’mon Christie. He was a dog. He wasn’t a person. I totally get that in my head. But tell that to my heart. How do I put my heart back together and move past this cycle of never-ending tears and grief.

I am trying to move forward. I realized yesterday afternoon that being at home was not good for my mental health, because I am just so surrounded by memories of Buster here, and right now, those memories bring so much pain and tears, rather than joy and smiles. I know that eventually this will change, but I’m just not there yet. So I left yesterday afternoon to drive down to Corpus Christi. This in and of itself was a heart wrenching decision. I knew that I really should stay at home with Jamie and Jake, as they too were grieving, and we really should grief together as a family. . .but it was absolutely ripping me to shreds to be in this house with these memories, and I ultimately just had to remove myself in order to try to pull myself together. I stayed with Trevor and Bell in CC last night, and rode the 80K Independence Day Gravel Grinder benefitting ALS with Beth, Trevor, and some new friends this morning. I was able to reflect on some positive memories of Buster without tears, and my friends so wonderfully helped to keep my mind occupied with positive conversations and catching up. They let me discuss my feelings and share special memories of Buster, but didn’t push me to discuss it more than I freely opened up about, and I felt a million pounds lighter by the time I left Corpus Christi, and like moving forward, and “getting over” this might actually be possible. I actually smiled and laughed this morning, and it felt so very good.

Then, I began the 3.5 hour drive home. 3.5 hours in a car by myself and my thoughts was not so great. The skies opened up with torrential rains about an hour from home, and I felt like the weather absolutely perfectly reflected my mood. I wanted to stop my car, get out, let the rain pelt me, and just scream at the top of my lungs. . but I just kept driving. I pulled into the driveway and once again realized that “wiggle-butt” wouldn’t be waiting on the other side of the door to welcome his mommy home. I held it together long enough to hug Jamie and Jake and get into the house. Progress. But then I saw the lovely tribute that Jamie wrote this morning, and the water works opened all over again.

I just can’t bring myself to re- visit FaceBook or Instagram yet, and I apologize. I genuinely appreciate so very much every kind comment and word of encouragement that my friends have shared, but every time that I think I’m strong enough to scroll through them and respond, I read the first one and just can’t hold it together. Thank you all so, so very much. I will read each and every comment and respond when my emotions are a little less raw, and I can do so without falling apart. That may be 2 hours from now, or it could be 2 weeks.

I’m very much not okay right now, but there is nothing that anyone can do or say that will make me okay. This is a heartache that I know will heal with time, and I just need to let time do it’s job. I will be okay. In the meantime, I’ll be burying myself in work and training, trying to numb my thoughts and emotions as much as I possibly I can.

I’m not yet able to form complete and eloquent thoughts about Buster without just completely falling apart, but Jamie wrote a beautiful tribute this morning that perfectly expresses my sentiments in words that I’m just not yet able to utter, and I’d like to share:

Buster,

You were always there to make us laugh or just comfort us during troubled times. You never judged us, when we needed to just talk to someone. You could sense frustration and sadness from across the house and would just walk in and rest your head on our leg; as if you was just saying “I’m here, it will be okay.”

You never left our side when both momma and I were recovering from surgeries. During our pain, you would just snuggle closer and just stare at us. Through your soul filled eyes, we could see that it was your way of saying “I’m here, it’ll be okay.” During my rehab, you were so patient with our short walks and you would keep looking back to check on me.

You were your adopted brother’s guardian, and you tolerate his antics. He was always dropping his ball on your head, but you never got mad. During storms or loud noises, you would cuddle up to him and put your head on his back. Once again, “I’m here, it’ll be okay.”

You loved helping us carry stuff to and from the car. Or the best was when I would bring momma home some sweets from the store and you would take them to her. I can’t remember the number of times you brought us toilet paper when we were out.

While traveling didn’t seem to be your favorite thing to do, you still seemed to enjoy all the new smells from Monterey, CA to Knoxville, TN and all states in between. Always friendly to everyone with an occasional lick to the face.

Even to the end, you would wag your tail when we would walk over to you in your bed.

Hopefully you knew that we loved you just as much as you loved us.

RIP little buddy. Thanks for all the great years and until we meet again.

P.S. Leave the squirrels and rabbits be up there..