Two Little Dogs
WARNING – this blog post is about bereavement and my own personal way of dealing with grief. If you’re going through something similar and don’t think you’re ready to read about that then leave it for another day. In your own time.
At the age of 41 I had found myself a widow. My lovely husband Dean died of flu related symptoms which his body couldn’t handle along with the Cystic Fibrosis he had had since birth. He was 46. He had been in Wythenshawe hospital frequently throughout our life together and the children were very much used to their Dad being in hospital for prolonged periods. It was strangely normal and we quite enjoyed a hospital visit – we’d see the same staff, nurses, physios and doctors who became like family and Dean always put his best lung forward when the kids went to visit him there so they rarely saw him looking very ill. He still made them laugh, played cards with them, took us down to the hospital café for tea where we people watched and imagined what was going on with everyone else there (we were very nosy!).
But his death came as a huge shock to us – of course we were used to him going in hospital but he always came back out again – and usually went straight back to work as well so we genuinely thought that would happen this time too. He was a fighter. But sadly, it didn’t happen this time and we had suddenly lost the most wonderfully loving dad and husband from our lives. Throughout the trials and challenges that CF brought to Deans life and subsequently all of our lives (and there were many), he would always use the phrase ‘It is what it is’ which to us represented an acceptance of the illness, its effects and the gruelling treatments and that it couldn’t be changed however much we may have wanted it to… and being able to say that allowed us to move forward around the illness. Without this acceptance I think we would have felt a bitterness that wouldn’t have helped us in any way and I believe that by living his life in this way, Dean prepared us all for his death. It is what it is.
Whilst that mind-set did keep us moving forward it didn’t help with the pure shock and grief that you feel at the loss of someone who is so important within every aspect of your life. The world in which the kids and I inhabited had just got shattered and it was hard to ever imagine how the pieces would ever fit together again. Our home suddenly felt wrong so I knew immediately that trying to put the pieces back together was pointless, so instead I decided to change it. So, the day after Dean’s funeral I took the kids to collect our new puppy which we named Dolly Parton.
The effect was immediate. The children smiled naturally for the first time in weeks and as any mother knows, those kinds of smiles can soothe your soul. The house was suddenly noisy again with the sounds of cooing, yapping, playing or someone shouting that they’d stood in the latest puppy poo (don’t puppies poo loads?!) And the actual physical demands of having a new puppy helped our grief immensely. It was hard work! The walking, feeding, toilet training and playing all took time but it kept our minds occupied with what was happening right at that moment – in that very moment – and when you are able to focus on the here and now, the grieving mind can have a bit of a rest. I can’t emphasize enough the impact that the demanding nature of a puppy can have when a mind is full of grief and constant thoughts of your loved one.
Dolly didn’t take the grief away from me or the kids but she absolutely distracted us and ensured that every morning we got up, out of bed to deal with her. She needed us and whilst the kids had always promised they’d do all the work if they were ever allowed to get a dog, they lied! (Note to parents – never believe children who say that). They did play with her and on the odd occasion they made a passing attempt to pick up poo (whilst gagging dramatically) or even taking her for a walk but mostly they just played, cuddled, made TikTok videos with her and she generally made them laugh a lot which is a joy to any parents’ ears, but at that point for me it felt life-saving. I felt, and still feel such gratitude for this little dog that had, without knowing, changed the direction of our grief. Our world had changed forever and rather than fight that, we had changed it even more but this time it was something positive, happy and that gave us unwavering love.
Two months later we got another dog as a friend for Dolly so she wouldn’t be sad when we went out (we didn’t know lockdown was coming and we wouldn’t be going out anywhere ever!). She is called Luna (tic). She’s ridiculously cute, as thick as two short planks and has infinite love to give.
And on those nights when the loneliness sweeps over me – a loneliness that only Dean could resolve, these two dogs will lie at my side and just be there, asking nothing of me. And I feel comforted by them. They show me the purest love and kindness when I need it. In my darkest moments that I would share with no one else, they were there and when the tears came, the kind that frighten you because you don’t know if they’ll ever stop, these little dogs were there. They were there when the children cried for their dad. They have always been there. Their love for us is unconditional, much like Deans was and whilst our life was forever changed and we would always miss this wonderful, brave man we always try to keep in our minds that it is what it is and we’ll keep moving forward with our trusty little dogs in tow. Dogs are special – for me they have been the best therapy I could have wished for. Thanks Dolly (Parton) and Luna (tic).
