HELLO...GOODBYE/ Beauty Reals

He was here, and now he's gone. Hello...goodbye.

Lincoln passed away in April. I am bereft. It is by no small miracle I stay afloat as grief pummels me with its persistent and turbulent waves. To ease the pain, I watch videos of his running through snow mounds in the rear garden, and of his licking the faces of my daughters' while rolling around in their rooms on Christmas morning. One video in particular, of our singing happy birthday to him, always brings me to tears; he’d just turned two. 

It helps (a little) to see him alive and doing well. To be honest, it hurts like hell to see him alive and doing well. “He should still be here!” my broken heart shouts between my ears. “He is in a better place.” This, I say aloud, while grief stacks like bricks in my soul. I force this sentiment down my knotted throat, continuously. 

I am the person who once saw distress over the death of a pet as unfathomable. I'd think, "A mere animal, a four-legged friend." Now, I am the person at a complete loss over how to act post pet; struggling. Memories of wrangling his toy out of his mouth, and disciplining him for compromising the sanctity of pillow after pillow, are sharp on my mind. My daughters mourn him as they hunch over from the pain of his absence, missing his wet kisses. 

I'd give anything to yell, "No, Lincoln!" To walk into my home and say, "Hello, baby! Hello, baby!" (because saying things on repeat while using a distorted baby voice is just something parents and pet parents do). What I wouldn't give to search the house only to find him lying in the bay window, waiting for my daughters and husband to walk up the street. He'd sit there for most of the day, just waiting. But once they'd arrive, he'd literally defy gravity, flying down two flights of stairs to greet them at the door. Once he saw them, he'd do backflips to show his loyalty. He did this every single day. His life was one I wish for: relaxed, patient and present.

Lincoln allowed us to sleep late on the weekends but never allowed us to eat bacon or kale without him. Lincoln was forthcoming and honest, a stand-up guy. My youngest spoiled him, my middle child nurtured him, and yet, my oldest never let him forget he was a dog. That said, we loved him equally and deeply. He held us to a routine. He made us better, more responsible, more profound lovers of everything. Even now with no Lincoln to sit underfoot or nuzzle at my hand as I write, grief is an unbearable companion. 

There were times I’d let him lie on my bed, one of my favorite things to do, just to watch him nuzzle himself to sleep. The nuance of his facial expressions and body language had become a favorite pastime. I didn't realize he was dying; I didn't know it was the last time I’d feel his breath near my face. And yet, I didn’t expect his dying to hurt this much.

The day he passed away was a horrible one. He’d stopped walking, and he'd refused to eat and drink. At the veterinarian's office, X-rays showed a bowel obstruction. Surgery was recommended. So I took him to a surgeon on Franklin Avenue. During the drive, Lincoln climbed into my lap and pressed his body to mine, while licking my face and burying his head in the nook between my collarbone and shoulder. At that moment I was convinced he knew his fate. While I for one couldn’t bear the thought. Moments before we got out of the car, he pressed his body against my body as if to breathe me in one last time.

Upon entering the surgeon's office, they called him by name. They'd said they were taking him for blood work; told me not to worry. It was the last time I saw Lincoln alive. Later that afternoon, I received a phone call notifying me Lincoln had a 20% chance of survival with the recommendation to euthanize. Lincoln died on the operating table at 4:10pm. 

Afterward, we attended a gymnastics meet for my youngest daughter. She placed 2nd overall, her all-time best. But then, the most challenging thing we've ever had to do happened next. After the meet ended, we walked our daughters to the car and delivered the crushing news: Lincoln's gone. Silence encroached. Then, the floodgates opened wide. The sight of my anguished daughters was excruciating. 

I once stated: I write to test thought both foreign and familiar. So this is one of those times. Foreign in that it's the first time I've lost a pet. Familiar in that death of any kind is deafening. Lincoln's sudden death was a sizable loss for our family. One I'm far from reconciling. If only I'd had the chance to say goodbye I would have whispered, "Goodbye, my sweet boy. You've left an everlasting imprint on my life. I'll love you forever."