My Teacher Lives On.
I am learning something new. How to grieve like “normal people” grieve.
As someone who has lived with depression all of my life, the concept of “sadness,” just sadness, and grieving, without sliding down into the abyss of the darkness….This is a whole new experience.
My Maddie is gone. She was my companion, my Soul-Companion, the longest relationship I’ve had with a being I shared a bed with. She was also a Little Brown Dog. And she is gone. Physically.
For anyone who would say, “She was just a dog,” it would be a good idea for you to either stop reading now or — if you choose to continue — prepare yourself to open your mind. Because she was not “just a dog.” Ask anyone who met her.
And so, now, I am wrestling. Wrestling with how to grieve, how to feel sad, how to navigate this experience.
How long does “normal” grief last? Is “normal” sadness something that comes and goes? Can I allow myself to grieve and feel sad without worrying about it becoming a slide down into the abyss of a depression? What does that even look like? How do I allow myself to feel this without losing myself or defaulting into Spiritual Bypass?
For the moment, I am feeling like the “rainbow ball of death” that shows up on a Mac when it can’t find the way to respond to the command. I am on pause, out-of-step with the world, trying desperately to understand what is being asked of me and to respond to it. And I can’t. So, I am just….here.
For almost fourteen years, my days and nights were all about what Maddie needed. How long I would be gone from the house, her meal times, her outside times, walking with her, snuggling with her, taking care of this being that owned me and my heart.
Living without her now feels very selfish. I don’t have to consider anyone else’s feelings or needs in the house now. Just mine. Whenever and whatever I want. No eyes looking at me as I eat, hoping I will share. No more longing gazes as I prepare to leave the house. No more needs to be met or anything to care about. I can just leave, eat, sleep, and be in my home, without any concern for another. It feels strange.
I keep looking for her, expecting to see her move when I move (which she always did). Looking up from my Zoom screen to see her on the couch, either gazing out the window at DogTV or looking at me, with Love and the hopeful expectancy of a snack or a snuggle. Each time I look and see that she’s not there, the rush of nausea comes over me. And then the ache comes in like a giant wave. Knocking me down.
I underestimated the amount of space Maddie occupied in my mind, heart, and life. I thought I knew. My mind thought I could handle her absence. My mind did not consult with my heart on this perspective.
From the moment we met, it was clear that something new and special was starting. Maddie was just 8-weeks when we met. She was quiet, humble, sweet. And so funny.
All she wanted was to be Seen. And treated with Kindness and Gentleness.
Soon enough, though, the stubborn streak surfaced! She was SO stubborn! Especially about going outside when it was raining. It was always a battle of wills with the rain.
She figured out, by doing it, that she could eat anything and not die. A full bag of fun-size Snickers bars, half a box of Cheez-Its, a gluten-free scone wrapped in plastic wrap (AND the plastic wrap!). She began with a fancy diet of only raw food and, pretty quickly, it became clear that this was not a gourmet-only girl. This girl was a Hoover! No finicky eating here!
She also moved well. During our almost fourteen years together, we moved from Anchorage, Alaska to San Francisco. And then to Boise, Idaho. And then back to Anchorage (three different apartments there). And then, across the country from Anchorage to Ithaca, NY (stopping at motels and hotels along the way). Finally, Ithaca to Cleveland, living in two different places here.
Maddie would figure out what was up as soon as she started seeing boxes, packing cloths, and the tape come out.
What was never in question was that she would be going with me.
And, oh, the adventures on the road! From the terrifying moment when she leapt from the car window to chase the prairie dogs at Devil’s Tower to the sweet encounter we had during a traffic stop on the Alaska Highway (a fella ran into the woods to take care of his bodily needs and then swung by our window to say howdy to Maddie on his way back to his car). And, of course, our tender and memorable visit to The Field of Dreams in Iowa.
Maddie was the best co-pilot ever.
She was, in all ways, the perfect partner for me. Better than any human. Her Love of me was completely unconditional. She put up with a lot.
No other “romantic” relationship (or, a better way of stating this: any attempt at a relationship) ever got between us. My consideration of her was always in the forefront of my mind. And heart.
When we arrived in Ithaca, it didn’t take long for her to become certified as an Emotional Support Animal. It was all too clear that she had stepped into the role of working dog. I was sliding rapidly down into the abyss, getting swallowed up by the tsunami of sadness, setting up camp in the Valley of the Shadow, and every other metaphor for a profound depression that you can think of.
Every morning, though, she would look at me, letting me know that I needed to get up, put on some pants, and take her outside. And she would give me that same look throughout the day, reminding me to get up off the couch, to not disappear into the darkness (there’s more about this in my book https://www.revrachelhollander.com/book — p.337)
Once we settled back into life in my hometown, she learned how to navigate multiple doors, both to go out of and also to sit at while awaiting my return. She walked the neighbourhood with me, deciding which direction we would go (it was much more fun to let her lead) and letting me know that she no longer wanted to socialize with other dogs or children (too many sudden moves).
In 2016, through the use of a nifty app on my phone that allowed her to “speak,” Maddie was able to make a run for President. This is where her journey of fame truly began.
The videos would go out on Facebook and get a wonderful response! Her optimistic approach to being our new President was refreshing during that challenging year. Eventually, though, she threw her support behind another worthy female candidate, much to the dismay of those who were ready to help Maddie get to the White House.
When the pandemic lockdown came along, Maddie began to sing. Without the use of an app, that is. It began one morning, as we were waking up and preparing to get out of bed. She sat, facing me, and simply began to sing. And her singing often crossed-over into sounds that were very similar to words. A distinct, “good morning” was heard in one of the songs. In another one, after I tell her I love her, it sounds pretty much like she tells me she loves me too.
It was hilarious, a little weird, and — I eventually found out — the result of her losing her hearing. It was that moment that I realized that my girl was aging. It just never seemed possible.
The hearing continued to wane, along with her vision. A pulled muscle, here and there. A mild limp that came and went. Maddie was getting older.
I thought we could handle what was happening until she developed dementia.
It was at that moment that she reminded me of the promise I had made to my girl.
From early on in our relationship, I promised her that I would protect her dignity at all costs. That her quality of life would always be more important than my needs. Any of them.
We sat and talked about it. We cried and snuggled. And we chose the date for her farewell.
That moment arrived six days ago.
These days, in this first week, I find that convincing myself to get into the bed at night is so difficult. And the first moment of waking up, when I forget that she’s not there and I reach for her, is like a stab to my heart.
And the moments throughout the day, when I am reminded of her absence, when the quiet of the house becomes so loud, when some moment nudges me and I look for her….
It feels somewhat akin to a pendulum swinging from a sudden, sharp pain, like a pin prick, to the dull ache of — as Evelyn Waugh wrote — “A blow, expected, repeated, falling upon a bruise with no smart or shock of surprise, only a dull and sickening pain and the doubt whether another like it could be borne.”
Waves of sadness, hitting me from behind, knocking me down, over and over again. And waves of comfort coming from family and friends, reaching out to help me stand up again. And again.
Receiving was never my strongest quality. I am good at giving, caring, and supporting others. Accepting that kind of support for myself, not so much.
Maddie taught me many lessons during our time together. She taught me about True Love, Profound Trust, and, in the end, she taught me how to let her go. Now, she is teaching me how to receive. My teacher, from the beginning and now, perpetually, she continues to show me how to live as a better version of my True Self.
A couple of days ago, I took my first solo walk. It wasn’t easy to get myself going. I felt un-steady and like I was missing something. I was.
And then I heard her voice. “You can walk faster without me. I always stopped and sniffed and did my business, always making you wait for me. Now, you can walk faster. You can get stronger. I’ll be right here. With you. Keep walking.”
Thank you, Teacher. Thank you, my Sweet Maddie. I will.
