Tuesday, September 16th, 2009

You are all so wonderful...all of you who have sent me messages of support and empathy through facebook and e-mail regarding the loss of Madelyn.   I assure all of you who have not heard back from me personally I have read every single one.   And while to a certain degree there is nothing that can take away the pain or fill the void right now, your words have support have been soothing.    You need to know they stick with me.   Little things that some of you wrote when I first talked about Madelyn's cancer came to me last week, helping me through the process. 

I've received some sweet messages, cards, a couple of books, and a pretty thoughtful condolence gift from the guy who helps me with this website: a box of See's Candy Nuts and Chews (see my last blog for story behind that.)  The note that came with it reminded me that Madelyn is enjoying her own box now too.

It's been a week now.  The reality that Madelyn is really gone has begun to sink in.  But the void I feel in my home and in my heart is still there.  Pet owners who have had to say goodbye know exactly what I'm talking about.   It starts in the morning when I wake up.   The first thing I have done for 12 years is stretch over to the side of my bed and drop an arm to give Madelyn a pet and say good morning.   It's a rough start to the day to be greeted with the realization she's not lying there.    I head downstairs for coffee and wait to hear the sounds of her carefully working her way down each step and heading to the door.   It's time for a walk.    I wait to hear her the hurried click click click across the kitchen floor every time I open the refrigerator or start making something to eat.   I always had a focused audience in the kitchen.   She would make herself comfortable in the most inconvenient spot where I would have to be careful not to trip over her moving around.   I hate the open path that now is there.   I am having to be more careful preparing food or eating it as crumbs and spills will stay there until I clean them up now.   My little vacuum cleaner is gone.   I still feel the inclination to grab a treat for her on my way out the door.   I still glance toward the area where her dog bowls were to see if she has enough water.   I have even grabbed the gate I used to keep her from going upstairs when I was gone and started to put it up before I realized it's no longer necessary.   I want it to be.  And I want to hear her climbing up the stairs and settling next to my bed when the lights have gone out and she's finally eaten her dog food after being convinced no more scraps and treats are coming today.  

I'm doing better.   I really am.   But I'm still vulnerable to a wave of grief in so many moments in my days.   I miss her in so many of them.  I wonder how long it will be until these ingrained rituals will start to fade.  How long until I can take run and not expect an eager dog to be waiting for her spin around the neighborhood upon my return.  How long until I'm out and about and not thinking "I should get home, Madelyn hasn't been out in a few hours."   And how long until I don't look for her every time when I walk in the door?
  
When my last dog died, someone gave me a copy of the Rainbow Bridge and it brought me comfort.  (I have clipped a copy below).   I have seen it many times since then.   Then last week one of you sent me one I had not seen before.  Though it brought a whole new flood of tears, it brought some peace to my aching heart.   It captures better than I can the way we miss our pets when they are gone.   And the images it offers have brought me some comfort as I make my way through the pain of losing your best buddy.  

Thank you all again for you understanding and empathy.