What Grief Feels Like

I lost my dad five years ago. I’ve been losing my mom to dementia for even longer. Earlier this month, I lost my dog. And a few months before that, I lost my close college buddy to brain cancer. It’s a season of loss.
To be human is to lose and to grieve loss. But do we know how to grieve? Grieving is necessary if we are to keep living full lives. Grieving is saying the goodbye that your loss deserves.
Grief is a lifting of anchors. When we love well, we anchor a piece of ourselves to those we love. But when someone we love dies, we have to find a way to lift our anchors if we are to live again. And the anchors can be so heavy. Some people struggle to grieve – preferring to keep its pain at arm’s length. And some are just unfamiliar with it.
Slow Grief
There are long, sustained times of grieving and there is the intense grief following a sudden death. According to a 2011 study, prolonged grief can affect as many as 25% of those suffering a loss.
I remember not needing to do much grief work after my dad died. I had watched him decline for a year and every day brought its bits of grief. The same has been true for my mom. I’ve been saying goodbye for about eight years now.
Sudden Grief
But with my 15 year-old dog, Asha, it was different. Up until the end, daily she still looked at me to chase her and play with her. The suddenness of her going made the grief more intense.
Early one day I noticed her panting for breath. When she tried to walk, she collapsed. And I thought I could hear her say, “I’m going, master. This is how we die.” I could sense it was time to say goodbye. I sat on the floor and put her on my lap, and the grieving began to wash over me. I sat there in the pre-dawn hours crying.
Eventually I got up and I journaled about her life. About why I bonded so deeply with her – how for so many years, she would go walking with me at the office, looking up at me every five seconds to say, “this way?” and to make sure we were together.
During her life, I traveled a lot. And when I was gone, she’d sit on top of the couch, looking out the window, waiting faithfully for me, her alpha, to return. When I returned home, inevitably there was great rejoicing. She’d greet me for minutes, turning around in circles, wagging her tail, smiling. We were all part of her pack and her job was to keep us happy and together.
Saying Goodbye
So now I had to say goodbye. Journaling helped put what I was losing in context. I also looked at family pictures and movies. The weight of all the love we’d shared felt so heavy as Asha stayed with me all day.
That night the family gathered for a celebration of Asha’s life. Talia and her family had come up from Atlanta and stayed the night. She’d been an important member of the family – loved by all.
Asha was still panting, but she sat in my lap as we raised our glasses to her. We had no diagnosis, we just sensed this was it and we wanted to give her a send-off worthy of her status as a beloved family member.
That night I put her to bed, knowing that might be our last goodbye. And in the early morning, when I checked on her, her breathing had stopped – she was gone.
I was thankful for the privacy of that early hour. The grief came to me in waves – great heaving, ugly grieving with gasps and shaking.
The quiet, dark morning was like a blanket over my grief, covering me. I needed to do this part by myself.
Private Grief, Public Grief
There is grief that is private – your spirit tearing and the pain spilling out into the air. And then there is the grieving you do in public. After a few hours, people began to wake up. And now I entered the phase of public grief – a time where we came together to mix our tears as we buried Asha.
We walked out to the end of our property by the forest where the deer would come to feed. She loved to chase the deer away from our lawn. I figured from this spot, she can keep an eye on the deer there.
The grandkids had never been part of a funeral. Grief was new and strange for them. “Why are they burying that dog?” Little 3 year-old Violet asked, aghast. And some of them cried just because we were all crying. When I threw the first shovel-full of dirt on her, it hit me afresh. I turned away from the grave and covered my face in my hands.
Time
Over the days that followed, Emily called in from Ireland and checked up on me. She’s got a gift that way. We need those who join with us in our desolation. At first, in the throes of grief, I couldn’t speak. But as the days past, grief began to ease its grip on my soul.
Emily called me this morning. It’s been three weeks. I’ve mostly pulled my anchors up. I can laugh again. The grief has done its work. Yes, Asha still visits me at odd times. I catch glimpses of her smile. I miss her play-times. But she left me free to love again.
My last photo with Asha before putting her to bed one last time.
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Your pain is real and a gift of love, only those that have loved pets as family can understand. What a gift from our Lord they are!
Love looks like this.
Oh my heart Seth as I read your poignant passionate blog for little Asha! Grief, it is so personal, too deep that our words fail us as we hear of other’s grief. We can barely find words to our grief. Asha, what a precious and gorgeous little companion Seth. I feel your grief and I send loving, compassionate empathy to you and your family. Holy Spirit groans and prays through us and Jesus prays by the throne of Grace.
Sandy – Thanks for your empathy. It is such a personal thing. And for that reason, of all the people who’ve engaged on this blog over the years, your story has stood out for the pain that you had to suffer, for the long struggle to process the grief, and for your willingness to share the process with us. Life is hard. Thanks for showing us that it is still worth living on the other side of great loss.
I have no words. This is beautiful. Thank you for writing this. For giving space for grief and loss in a world where pain and all its emotions are burried, rushed, ignored. This post is healing balm for the soul.
Thank you, Kelly. You know healing . You are a good healer.