One Of The Worst Days

By Ana V. Ramirez 

I have much more experience with loss than I wish I had. This is the story of one of those losses, my heartbreak and how mindfulness helped me to get through it.

It was my birthday, and I was planning the sort of afternoon that makes me happy: a trip to the beach with Mr. Bear. My favorite park, my canine soulmate, my camera. I just had to finish my work and then I’d be off.

Mr. Bear had not wanted to eat that morning, barely eating the chicken that topped his kibble and the pills in the homemade peanut butter pill pockets. It wasn’t unusual for him to skip meals but I was a little concerned that he had taken his meds with so little food. Aside from that, the day began like any other and I went to work in my home office. Mr. Bear took his place on the carpet behind me and went to sleep while I started to work.

Early that afternoon he got up and I knew at that point that something was different. Mother’s intuition, maybe? Who knows. Clearly something was up but I didn’t know what. He started pacing and panting heavily, his head pointing towards the floor and his tongue hanging down in a way I hadn’t seen before. Something was definitely wrong.

Having lived through several sick dogs I figured he had an upset stomach. After all, he had taken medication with just a bit of food. Makes sense, right? He vomited, confirming my diagnosis.

I took him outside and he walked slower than he ever had, would take a few steps and stop. He turned around and wanted to come back in which was odd, even though he wasn’t much into walking, he never wanted to come inside. He lead me back and I followed.

Our beach trip was out of the question at that point. Even though it was a short drive I wasn’t going to subject him to the car ride or anything else that might stress him out.

I texted with my friend who is a vet, explained what was happening and told her what I thought was wrong. She agreed with me and since it was almost closing time at my vet’s I decided to wait. Thinking about that choice puts a knot in my stomach because that was one of those defining moments that sets off a chain of events. I made a decision based on my experience and what had happened until then but, looking back, it’s one of the times during that day when I know I made a mistake.

That evening, for a brief period of time, he seemed to find peace. When he fell asleep I felt that my diagnosis had been confirmed. I breathed a sigh of relief and told myself that he was going to be alright. I was wrong.

That night his discomfort continued. At one point he stood at his bowl and quickly drank all of his water. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN RIGHT THEN AND THERE THAT SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY WRONG. But I didn’t. I continued to think that what was happening was not a big deal and that if he didn’t improve by morning I would take him to the vet. My decision to wait was another mistake.

He didn’t get better so I decided to take him to the vet. But instead of going to the emergency animal hospital first thing in the morning I chose to wait until my vet’s office opened at 8:00 am. We were there minutes before they opened and found out that doctors did not arrive until 8:30. Only half an hour? We’ll wait. That was my third and worst mistake and I will forever regret the choice I made.

In the vets he was just as uncomfortable as he had been at home. And then, for a moment, he laid down. My relief lasted only for a moment and then he stood, only to have his back end fall back down as he let out a long, deep howl. That howl was his last breath. He collapsed and died and I wasn’t even holding him.

Before that and since then, I have never screamed the way I did that day. From the bottom of my stomach came these screeching cries. Loud. Long. The terror that he was gone radiated from my gut, up through my lungs and out of my mouth. And yet my screams couldn’t fully express the shock, grief and pain that I was feeling. I kept screaming, feeling out of my body looking down at myself holding my limp dog and crying out in agony.

He was gone.

Eventually I had to leave him there, at the vet’s office, for cremation. I had to come home alone in complete disbelief. Just me and my pain. It’s not that I think I could have saved his life. I know that given how quickly it all happened whatever was wrong was beyond repair. What tortures me is that he should have died peacefully, in my arms, and not in the back of my car.

I wrote this that day as I tried to deal with the pain.

I feel sick. I can’t sleep. Here I am again without a dog in my life and completely lost and heartbroken. Why? Why did I have to lose him? I loved him so deeply and I was not ready for this.

I can’t stop thinking that I want to disappear. I can’t stop blaming myself for not having taken him to the vet. The pain is suffocating me. How will I carry on without his presence, his velvety fur, the comfort he gave? I had so many plans for us and for what our life was going to be like. We were going to move to the nice apartment where there are walking trails. He was going to get to enjoy colder weather.

Now I am lost. Pointless. Useless. Alone.

I’m missing something without a dog—a part of me is also gone. But I know I need to feel the pain of losing him before I can move on. I need to let it out and let it stabilize. This is why I wanted to have two dogs, so that I wouldn’t have to face life alone.

I was in so much pain and I wanted so badly to escape it. The flashbacks were the worst. I would see him collapse in front of me, hear that painful howl and see his lifeless body and hear my screams. It was an endless loop of sadness.

There were very dark thoughts floating around in my head telling me that there was no reason for me now, that no one would notice if I was gone and that the only way to stop the hurt was to stop existing. I kept thinking how it was all my fault—that I should have done something—that I had made too many mistakes. And yet somehow, I knew deep inside that it wasn’t the answer.

I knew that the only way out would be through.

I sat with my pain. I leaned into it. I spoke to Mr. Bear and apologized over and over as I cried. I journaled. I didn’t leave my apartment for days – encountering and interacting with people was too much for me to handle. But I didn’t run away from all the hurt. I let it hurt.

I knew that to get through the pain I could only take it a day, an hour, a breath at a time. I focused on being in that moment, at that time, then the next, and the next, until eventually I could get to the end of another day. This moment is my life, I kept thinking. Without judgment I let the thoughts go by me like tumbleweeds. Every day that went by was a tiny victory. It was a day that I had won against the desire to escape.

Shortly before all of this happened I had re-discovered drawing and learned of a type of meditative drawing called Zentangle. It’s very simple, and very soothing. That discovery became the core of my mindfulness practice during my grief. Drawing allowed me to be completely in that moment and entirely focused on the patterns on the page.

Meditating, writing, drawing, crying, everything that put me in that exact moment helped me to heal. Eventually I even made it out of the house to buy drawing paper. And the healing continued.

Being in the moment also meant I had to accept the fact that he was gone. I made it a point to fully “be” in my apartment and to see the places where he used to lay and to acknowledge that he wasn’t there.

My fault or not, there was no way to change what had happened. Acceptance was and continues to be a challenge for me but I realized this: I made the last year and a half of his life the best it could be. He was deeply loved, cared for and rarely left alone. The time he had with me was short but it was rich. His physical body is gone but the bond and the love we shared is not.

I got to make a difference in his life and I got to let him know that there are good, loving humans in this world. I am immensely proud of what we had even if it was only for 17 months.

In spite of the pain I felt when I lost him, this experience also showed me what an honour it was to love a creature into the next life. I got to be his last human, I got to spoil him, I got to experience his love and gratitude, his companionship. Strangely, it also helped me realize how badly I want to do this again.

Sounds crazy, I know. Why would anyone want to go through that kind of hurt again? Why not just get a puppy which will likely live much longer?

Here’s the thing: all dogs show us how to be in the moment because they live in the “now”. When you have an older dog it makes you even more aware that each minute is precious. Senior dogs are a constant reminder that mindfulness is the way to live. Here. Now. This moment is all we have. For me to have the honor to make another magical creature’s last days on earth the very best they can be is a gift for both of us. It’s the legacy I want to leave behind.

Losing Mr. Bear was one of the most painful experiences of my life. That pain helped me grow and it taught me that being in those painful moments is just as important as being in the happy ones. I made it through the pain because I made the conscious effort to be mindful.

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Ana V. Ramirez  is a photographer, artist, writer – not always in that order.

Find her work at AnaRamirezPhotography.com