The Art of Grieving Part I

It's a Friday night, the kids are in bed, and I am up working on a case that is bothering me very much.  I can't divulge much about it, but suffice it to say that it involves a young child who wants desperately to be with her mother, and is grieving because the powers that be won't let her go home. 

Suddenly, I've started thinking about this puppy that I had when I was 14 years old.  Her name was Chubby, and she was one of a litter of six that came from our family dog, Bowsey.  Although Bowsey was "our" dog, I never really felt like she was "mine."  I loved her, but we didn't have that special connection.  We gave away most of the dogs in the litter, but my parents let me keep Chubby.  I thought she was a boy initially.  She was so cute, as puppies can be.  As you can guess, she got her name because she was a fat ball of fur.  I tried to resist, but as soon as I was told I could keep her, I loved her with abandon. 

Now that I am older, and I look back on the way I loved my puppy, I sort of marvel at the fact that I already knew to be cautious about love.  Although I was only 14, I already knew about the pain of loss, albeit in a limited way.  Maybe I subconsciously experienced the grief bourne of loss when my father had to leave the Philippines ahead of us and we were separated for a year, or when my maternal grandmother died when I was only four.  Maybe those experiences already primed my heart to be reticent.  I'll never know for sure. 

But my first conscious experience of grief was when I was around 10.  My cousin, Ate Betty, had come from the Philippines and was staying with us in California.  She had had a teacherous journey from the Philippines and made her way via Mexico, where she encountered some very bad people.  I heard about the dangerous situations she had endured and was very relieved when she finally arrived.  When she made it to California, she came to stay with us, and I thought it was for forever.  Ate Betty was wonderful.  She obviously adored me, my sister and brother.  She helped me organize my special Avon perfume bottles on top of my bedroom dresser, told me stories about our cousins in the Philippines, taught me how to give myself a manicure, and laughed at things that I said that I intended to be funny.  She used to say "by and by" when she meant "later" and "come again" when she didn't hear something we said.  I loved her so much, and I didn't know anything about holding back to protect myself from hurt. 

One day, Ate Betty's "grandparents" (technically, the woman was a sibling of a grandparent, but in the Filipino culture, your great-aunt is regarded like your grandmother) came from San Diego to take her to live with them.  Ate Betty was my father's brother's daughter.  She was very close to my parents.  So I didn't understand the factors that went into the decision for her to leave us and move to San Diego.  I remember that she went reluctantly.  I remember crying so hard I could hardly breathe.  I remember someone saying to get me water so I could calm down.  I remember flinging myself on my parents' bed and refusing to get up to say goodbye to her.  She came in say goodbye, and I remember being so distraught that the only thing I could manage to say between sobs was "don't go."  But she explained that she had to go.  Then she was gone. 

We still talked to her, and she eventually got married, moved to Texas, and visited us regularly.  In fact, I am flying out to see her in October. But it wasn't the same as having her live with us, and the memory of that separation was painful to me for a long time.    That experience taught me to hold back just a little bit. 

But Chubby was the most adorable little dog in the world, and when I learned I could keep her, I couldn't help but love her completely.  As you've probably predicted, my story about Chubby had a sad ending.  She got sick before her first birthday and died in her sleep.  When I first realized she was dead, I called my mother at work crying.  She tried to console me, and I pretended to be consoled.  By then I had become pretty good at hiding my feelings and for the most part cried only in private.  Perhaps no one in my family realized it, but I was extremely heartbroken.  Almost 30 years later, I still cry when I think about Chubby. At a young age I developed a sense of empathy for anyone who loses a pet. Even at age 14, I knew, through personal experience, that losing a pet is just as painful as losing a person. Some people think that losing a dog (or any other kind of pet) doesn't have the same impact. But trust me, your heart breaks into just as many pieces.  If you have ever lost your beloved pet, you and I share a bond, for we know the terrible feeling of grief for the selfless creature who brought so much happiness into our lives and asked for so little in return. 

I'm not really sure what the point of this post is. I guess it's a vignette of the way in which a young person learns to be a little bit afraid to give her heart so readily to someone she loves.  I guess it's my mind pondering the ways in which the little girl in the case I'm working on will be scarred by the forced separation from the mother she desperately loves.  I guess it's my ode to a puppy I loved so intensely even if only for a short time.  I guess it's only the tip of the iceberg on the topic of grief and loss.