A week ago my 10 year old dog, Basil, died. I bought him a week after arriving on the shores of Gabriola. I was lonely and needed something to cuddle. He was just the trick. Basil was such a funny, nervous boy, with chronic ear infections until I discovered raw food for him. He'd yelp if a twig "attacked" him on a walk, yet LOVED to wade around the murky, gooey edge of our pond, searching for "goodies". How he loved all things slimy. My kids caught him downing an entire rotting bird, slime and all. When he realized they were coming to try to take it away from him he just gulped faster. I'm surprised it didn't kill him.
In thinking about Basil today, I find I have a vague sense of guilt surrounding his passing. I had recently told a friend of mine that I'm not much bothered by guilt, but I'm realizing this is not the case when it comes to death. I feel guilty about every dog in my life that has died. I also feel guilty about my mom and my young husband's death. I was their primary care giver and have always felt uneasy about whether or not I had done a good enough job. So are these feelings I have really guilt, or is it possible they are simple grief? After his wife died, CS Lewis penned the following words in his book, A Grief Observed, "No one ever told me grief felt so much like fear." Yes, I've felt that same horror, and now I'm thinking, "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like guilt."
How we process the deletion of loved beings from our lives is obviously personal. We each do it differently, some of us putting on a more cavalier face than others, but always in the end it is a cutting away of ourselves, a lessening, a loss. And yet, here in this moment, I am reminded that each loss I have suffered has made me more aware of the importance of compassion in each action, for we are never guaranteed another moment with that being. Life is unpredictable at best, and kindness now is so much better than regret later.
I will think fondly of Basil, trying not to feel guilt, and I will translate this "guilt" feeling into one of grief. I will cuddle Molly a little extra and give her more attention. I will call my kids more and hug them too much and take the time to snuggle my husband and laugh with my friends. I will try to respond to conflict with gentle words. I will thank Basil for his tenderness to me, because with all his nervous ways he was still a tender dog who seemed to be extra concerned when I was down. I can still see his sweet head, chin resting on my knee. He's looking up at me, wondering why I'm sad and just being there, like he always was.
In thinking about Basil today, I find I have a vague sense of guilt surrounding his passing. I had recently told a friend of mine that I'm not much bothered by guilt, but I'm realizing this is not the case when it comes to death. I feel guilty about every dog in my life that has died. I also feel guilty about my mom and my young husband's death. I was their primary care giver and have always felt uneasy about whether or not I had done a good enough job. So are these feelings I have really guilt, or is it possible they are simple grief? After his wife died, CS Lewis penned the following words in his book, A Grief Observed, "No one ever told me grief felt so much like fear." Yes, I've felt that same horror, and now I'm thinking, "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like guilt."
How we process the deletion of loved beings from our lives is obviously personal. We each do it differently, some of us putting on a more cavalier face than others, but always in the end it is a cutting away of ourselves, a lessening, a loss. And yet, here in this moment, I am reminded that each loss I have suffered has made me more aware of the importance of compassion in each action, for we are never guaranteed another moment with that being. Life is unpredictable at best, and kindness now is so much better than regret later.
I will think fondly of Basil, trying not to feel guilt, and I will translate this "guilt" feeling into one of grief. I will cuddle Molly a little extra and give her more attention. I will call my kids more and hug them too much and take the time to snuggle my husband and laugh with my friends. I will try to respond to conflict with gentle words. I will thank Basil for his tenderness to me, because with all his nervous ways he was still a tender dog who seemed to be extra concerned when I was down. I can still see his sweet head, chin resting on my knee. He's looking up at me, wondering why I'm sad and just being there, like he always was.