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Sabrina_Buster10

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Posts: 26
 #1 
I've seen the replies to my posts lately and wanted to say thank you for your support and kind words.  There's no rhyme or reason to grief sometimes and I've been having a really hard time lately.  58 days since I let Sabrina go.  Not over or around or under, but through it.

Sabrina & Buster's Mom

Mondo

Moderator
Registered:
Posts: 994
 #2 
I am glad this site is helping you.  Yes, we have to go through the grief. Avoiding it will only make things worse in the future.

It has been 4 years and 3 years since I lost my boys.  Still think of them every day.  We rescued a couple of girls a couple of months after our last boy Toby left us.

Love never dies, and thus the grief is never completely gone. But the smiles overtake the tears .. over time.


Hugs
twinkiesmom

Registered:
Posts: 837
 #3 
I understand so well what you are feeling. Grief to me is like the waves at the beach. You think the worst has passed and calmer waters are ahead and then another mighty wave crashes to the shore, starting the cycle anew. Coming here has helped so many of us, we know people here "get" what we are experiencing. My heart gets broken all over again with each loss of a loved one but to quote a Garth Brooks song, "I could have missed the pain but I would have missed the dance". This pain of mine in it's second day comes after 16 months of joy and love with my beloved Nugget. And as broken hearted as I am right now I know there will be another dance. Sabrina and Busters Mom, you are in my thoughts and prayers.
Sabrina_Buster10

Registered:
Posts: 26
 #4 
Waves.  Yes, waves.  Mine have gone from full blown panic attacks that would wake me up, then to anxiety attacks, and now sometimes I wake up and can't catch my breath and reach for Sabrina and she's not there.  But I can see her.  Sense her.  Feel her.  The line from the Garth Brooks song is very comforting.  Thank you.

The veterinarian who gave my Sabrina peace sent me this story.  It's related more to humans but I think it applies to all creatures.

 

“Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

 

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

 

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

 

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

 

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

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