Death.

Native American ancestry allows me, in the eyes of those who know me, to behave in ways many would never give themselves permission to behave. It is my absolute belief they are missing out on much by not turning loose of their inhibitions and simply being who they feel like being when they most need to be that person. Death and loss are perhaps two of those times. When a loved one dies, our brain wants to shut down. We feel the intensity. It is deeper than one can imagine. On a biological level, our vagus nerve short circuits. We experience sensations we really don’t want to have, like not being part of our body, or suddenly becoming disconnected from our environment, from other people, from ourselves. Our actual brain chemistry seems to turn on us and we begin to feel detached from reality. Social mores jump in and people offer all kinds of ridiculous nonsense. Ridiculous because when you are in the throes of grief after someone very significant to you has died, you cannot hear words. What you hear is their needing you to hurry up and act like your old self again because your grief and your emotions make them uncomfortable. Forget it! Don’t hurry up and act like anything except how you feel. Experience your true feelings. Touch your pain and suffering. Sit with it. Walk with it. Talk to it. It’s the only way you can get through it and can grow from having felt its intensity. There is no stronger grief.

Many years ago I was in the middle of a college class when a person from the administrative offices called me into the hall and told me a family emergency required I go home immediately. I knew, I sensed, those sensations of impending doom. When I heard my brother had died, I could not move from the spot where I was standing. Literally, I could not move. Like a person frozen in time where there is no ability to step forward, no possibility of going backward, nothing above, nothing below, only static, I remained there, suspended without time or space. For several months I would suddenly leave whatever class I was in to go outside and walk. The teachers and my classmates allowed me quiet time. My journey through grief, toward healing, could only be traveled by me. In later years I continued to experience new travels down that path when elder family members passed away, or when friends died. With each journey, I became a bit more prepared for what to expect, but the suffering is always brand new.

The loss of pets is no exception. People can be unbelievably stupid about not understanding how devastating it is for some of us when a beloved dog or cat or horse passes away. Loss is loss, and our brains don’t know the difference. Our brain doesn’t have a compartment for loss of a person, and another compartment for loss of a pet. I will say this again, because many need to hear this: Loss is loss. Our brains don’t know the difference!

A few years ago I lost one of my best friends. She was a rottweiler who grew up in my home. When she was a four week old puppy, I made a little papoose type of bag, and I carried her on my back throughout the day while I worked on the ranch, or around my house. She grew to become an enormously powerful creature who had the timidity of a small child, the loyalty of a knight, and a heart as big as the universe. When I walked the ranch, she was beside me, her nuzzle often reaching out to touch my hand, let me know she was a fierce protector. When I rode my four wheeler around the ranch, she sat on the extra seat and dug her big feet into the cushion so she wouldn’t fall when we sped around trees. Often when I had company, she’d sit between them and me, and emit a low growl when they leaned, in her opinion, too much into our space. Because of her breed, she had inherited weaknesses, and half way through her eleventh year of life, her heart began to fail. I watched her health deteriorate like water down a slide. My own heart seemed to beat with hers. She could hardly walk, and had begun to refuse most of her food. Then, on a Saturday morning, she spotted a coyote sneaking into the yard where a cat was sleeping. Her old fierce nature took over and she chased the coyote off the hill, across a large pasture, and into the distance. It was to be her final hurrah. When she returned home she collapsed. For a week she struggled to hang on. I sat with her. I slept with my head beside her. I was terrified of losing her; but I was losing her. I knew she clung to life because of me. I knew she was worried that I could not handle her passing. Always the loyal friend, she did not want to be the cause of my despair. The morning she passed, I heard her heart take its final beat. For an hour I held her in my arms, unable to accept her death. All the while I sensed her presence in Spirit.

Her friend and companion was my other dog, a massive Great Dane mix. He had maintained vigil with me that week. He could not understand her demise, but when she died he left her side. I later found him sitting on the crest of a hill. I sat with him and put my arm around his big shoulders. He began to howl the most sorrowful cries I’d ever heard. I cried with him. Together we sat on that hillside and grieved until the next morning.

Grief is primal. Grief is necessary. Pretending we are okay after we lose a loved one is not only harmful, it is a stupid thing to do. I don’t care who says what, if you are experiencing loss, you must grieve. You must feel your feelings, and you must become very well acquainted with how you feel. It is that familiarity that will walk you back into the sunshine of your life, eventually.

We cannot live our life without losing much of what we love most along the way. That is our journey. That is how it works. But we can learn to be friends with our deepest emotions, and our journey will be better for the learning.