Posts Tagged 'service dog loss'

Three Years Ago Today

Gadget died, November 19, 2009.

Gadget lying on his front on a brown couch, his chin resting on a red quilt on Sharons knee. Sharon -- bundled in a turtleneck and hoodie -- has her hand on Gadgets neck and is smiling a little fixedly toward the camera.

Gadget and me in November of 2009

It was a week before Thanksgiving. We knew his death would come soon, but I had hoped he would hang on till after Thanksgiving. I wanted to be grateful for his presence. But the mast cell cancer raced through him, consumed him like a brush fire, destroyed him on the cellular level so that the pathologist couldn’t even be sure if he was looking at lymphoma cells or mast cells. We took our best guess, but it didn’t matter, because there was no halting it. Gadget was ready to die a week before the “holiday.”

In my former life, Thanksgiving and Passover had been my two favorite holidays, which I had celebrated with my two best friends every year since 1993. They had stopped speaking to me, so the holiday was also full of that loss.

My parents and Betsy’s mom came and tried to give us a normal Thanksgiving. I just wanted it to be over. I was a dull, relentless pain wrapped around hollowness. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling OK again, or normal, or happy.

A lot has changed since then. I still don’t really have anyone to celebrate holidays with. Those two former friends are still gone from my life, just as Gadget is. But I have Barnum. I am much less sick. I have projects I’m passionate about. Barnum has taken me on a completely different voyage than Gadget did. Thank dog.

I’m not overflowing with gratitude today, nor will I be this Thursday, I expect. The only way the day will be different is that my usual Thursday PCAs won’t be working, and a couple of other PCAs will work backup. Ah, there. Something I’m grateful for: The PCAs who are covering shifts on Thanksgiving.

The thing about anniversaries is that sometimes they sneak up on you and you don’t know what’s wrong till you’re sobbing with snot running down your face, crying in confusion, “What’s WRONG with me today?” And other times you anticipate the day with dread and then it passes, like a wave that had already pulled you out to sea, so by the time it crashed against the shore, you only felt the slight pull, the rise and fall.

I’ve been swimming in the tumultuous ocean for the last few weeks. One or more of my tick-borne diseases are acting up, causing worsened cognition, emotional disturbance, and migraines. This has made everything harder. I’ve been very triggered. Too many reminders of the season — of the onsets of my illnesses, of the trauma of natural disasters, of the losses of friends to death or … what is a neutral term for friends who have decided they don’t want to be your friend anymore? Anyway, a season of loss.

Fortunately, I’ve been very busy, and not too sick. I am in the midst of some exciting interviews for Ability Maine. I’m working on my book project very . . . very . . . very slowly. I’m trying to figure out what will go here: sharonwachsler.com. So, there are new beginnings.

But, for tonight, kindness and gentleness toward myself. If you learned anything from Gadget or loved anything about him, please post it in the comments or send me an email. If you’d like to light a (yartzheit?) candle in his memory, you can do it here.

- Sharon, Gadget — forever in my heart — and Barnum, blessedly healthy SD/SDiT

Supporting the Bereaved: Light a Virtual Candle

As part of my series on support for people who are coping with assistance dog loss, I wanted to share a very simple resource that can be appropriate for a wide range of people and circumstances. I learned about it from Lymphoma HeartDog Angels list.

Gratefulness.org is an international website that allows you to light a virtual candle for any reason. It has an understated warmth that I find comforting and conducive to self-connection. You can light a candle for yourself or anyone else who is going through a rough time or a celebration, to let them know that you’re thinking of them, to commemorate an event, as a memorial, or for any other reason.

I have found it to be a simple, yet meaningful way to reach out. The reason I think it’s a particularly useful resource for assistance dog loss is that so often people don’t know what to say to someone who is grieving. Our culture has a hard time dealing with grief and death in general, and when it comes to deaths of nonhuman loved ones, it gets even more dicey. Add to that that often people who are sympathetic to pet loss don’t understand the differences between pet loss and assistance dog loss, and words can sometimes feel like more of a barrier than a bridge (though I am putting together information on what you can say or do when someone you know is dealing with assistance dog loss).

Meanwhile, if you are so inclined, you can light a virtual candle in honor of anyone or in memory of loved ones — your’s or others’ — that will “burn” for 48 hours. The website gives you a pause screen to reflect before you light the candle, and you can also include a note, as well as send the link to the bereaved if you’ve lit the candle for them.

Although there is never any word or gesture that works for everyone, lighting a virtual candle appeals to me for several reasons. First, lighting candles are part of most religious or spiritual traditions, so it can be an evocative offering for people across a wide range of religions and cultures. However, there are no prayers or religious or spiritual texts or symbols on the site, so for people who are atheists, it can still be a way of saying, “I’m thinking of you” without foisting unwelcome religious messages on someone who may not share your beliefs.

Also, since these are virtual candles, they are not creating products of combustion. As someone with multiple chemical sensitivity (MCS), I can’t be around real candles, and I don’t like it when people tell me they will light a candle for me because even if they are 100 miles away, I don’t want them to contribute to pollution in my name. But these virtual candles are smoke-free!

When I first heard about it, I thought it sounded hokey, but then when someone did light an online candle for Gadget, and I went to see it, I was moved. Not only is the site tastefully done, but the way the flames flicker is very realistic and calming, I find, and I like how the candles burn down slowly over a 48 hour period, so you can revisit the same candle as your feelings wax and wane. Mostly, though, it told me that someone cared. They cared enough to go and light the candle and think of me. They put something “out there” with Gadget’s name on it that I could visit. That is often what people want the most — to know that they, or their loved one who has died, matter.

- Sharon and the muses of Lady, Jersey, and Gadget

P.S. This is probably obvious, but in the case of some people who have lost a guide dog, a visual message, such as the candles at gratefulness.org, may not be enjoyable. However, there are many other ways of saying, “I am thinking about you, and I care.” I am preparing future posts on this topic.

Guest Post: Dealing with Second Dog Syndrome

I’m delighted to be able to offer this guest post today by psychologist and long-time guide dog partner, Kathie Schneider. You’ll learn more about Kathie and her new blog in her bio at the bottom of this post.

Reading Kathie’s article made me aware that one can go through “Second Dog Syndrome” with any successor dog — not necessarily only the second. I experienced virtually every emotional twist and turn she describes below when I got Barnum, even though he was my third dog, not my second.

I hope you will find this post as supportive and informative as I have. If so, give Kathie some love in the comments. And I hope Kathie will return with future guest posts about assistance dog grief, loss, or transition.

- Sharon, the muse of Gadget, and Barnum, SD/SDiT

Three Steps to Dealing with Second Dog Syndrome

By Katherine Schneider, Ph.D and guide dog user for 39 years

If you’ve had more than one service/assistance dog and someone brings up the subject of second dog syndrome (SDS), I’ll bet you know exactly what they’re talking about. Maybe you didn’t have it a lot or maybe it didn’t hit you until your third dog; but comparing, and finding you don’t love or like second dog as much as first dog, is as natural as dogs greeting by smelling each others’ back ends, but not nearly as much fun.

The first step in dealing with second dog syndrome is accepting it as real and forgivable. Of course you compare; young children learn to pick out what’s different in a picture and we praise them for noticing differences. New Dog may look different, act different, work different, and even smell different. You had history with Old Dog. All you have with New Dog is hopes and dreams. As Old Dog gets further in the past, memories of the bad things they did fade first; in other words, they become a saint. New Dog is young and foolish and the bad things they do are right here and now.

Most of all, you have changed. You’re older and perhaps less flexible, both physically and mentally. If Old Dog worked well for you, it was a life changer for you, kind of like first love. Now you’ve come to expect that level of dignity and independence in a functioning service/assistance dog. New Dog has big shoes to fill. If Old Dog didn’t work out well, you’ve got a million ideas of what you and New Dog need to do differently this time.

So when you think those thoughts of “Old Dog would never have done that,” “I don’t love/like New Dog,” and “I wish I still had Old Dog,” chalk it up to second dog syndrome and say to yourself, to New Dog, or to a friend who might understand, “I’m having a SDS moment, forgive me.”

If you acknowledge those second dog syndrome thoughts instead of trying to fight them, they lose some of their power. You’re not wasting your time and energy feeling guilty. Instead you can begin step two: When you find yourself comparing, try to add an “and” occasionally. Old Dog was better at this and New Dog is good at this. On a really bad day it may be, “And New Dog looks cute when he/she is asleep.” When others point out, “Old dog would never have done that” about your New Dog, all you can say is, “Yes and I really miss Old Dog too.” Unless of course you have time to educate the thoughtless passer-by about second dog syndrome. Included in that education could be the fact that New Dog is not a replacement, but a successor. Old Dog will never be replaced.

The third step is give it time and work. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither are relationships. Gradually you may notice more things about New Dog that you like and they will grow up and settle into their job. If you take care of them like a valued employee, they’ll work to earn your trust and love. In my experience, they’re quicker to love than I am anyway, so as I find myself with each successor dog in the middle of my heart I learn that I have a big heart. Then when people ask, “Which was your favorite, really?” I can truthfully say: “It’s just like your kids; they are each my favorite in different ways.”

* * *

Katherine Schneider, Ph.D. is a retired clinical psychologist, blind from birth and living with fibromyalgia. She’s written a memoir, To the Left of Inspiration: Adventures in Living with Disabilities, and a children’s book, Your Treasure Hunt: Disabilities and Finding Your Gold. She’s had Seeing Eye dogs for 39 years. Her latest writing venture is a blog, Kathie Comments, about subjects ranging from aging with disabilities to assistance/service dogs to disability activism.

Via the Way Back Machine: Bereavement for Service Dogs

I started this blog with the goal of providing support and resources for other grieving partners of assistance dogs. For a variety of reasons, I have not posted most of the information I’ve collected. One reason was that I wanted to present it all in a complete, comprehensive, and organized fashion, and I just haven’t managed that yet.

Lately, I’ve come across many people facing loss around assistance dogs: A friend online who had to retire her guide dog and has not been able to get another yet. A client of one of my healthcare providers whose service dog has died. A post on a social network by someone who’s experiencing anticipatory grief as she sees her service dog aging. A friend who is struggling with serious health issues in her assistance dog and doesn’t know what the future holds for their working partnership.

All of this need for support — and the fact that my grief has softened into something much more comfortable — has spurred me to action. I’m trying to post a resource here and there, when I’m able, because when I was coping with Gadget’s illness and death, I needed much more support than I got. I found so little in the way of resources that met my needs for shared reality around the loss of not just a companion and family member, but a personal assistant, a breathing complex of assistive technology, a partner, a coworker, a teacher and student. Many kind people offered support, and I was and am grateful for it. Still, losing an assistance dog is a unique form of loss, and I was lonely for others who understand all the aspects of this complex loss.

Here is one resource I did find specific to service dog grief, and it was extremely helpful.

The Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement (APLB) used to have a service dog committee that was specifically for support of assistance dog partners dealing with the retirement or death of their canine partner (both anticipatory grief and grief after-the-fact). They had an excellent page on the unique issues associated with assistance dog loss, as well as an online chat. Unfortunately, these services are no longer available.

However, it’s still possible to access their terrific page describing assistance dog loss issues through a cache-retrieval site called “The Way Back Machine.” I started working with a new therapist when Gadget was dying. One of the first things I did was to print out this information and mail it to her. It gave her more understanding of how this loss was affecting my life.

Here it is: Cached page from APLB on Bereavement for  Service Dogs.

Please note: Because this is a cached (not current) document, the phone numbers and links (names, email addresses, events) are not current. Nonetheless, the information about what it means to lose an assistance dog or end a partnership is timeless.

I recommend giving copies to family, friends, coworkers, or counselors who are willing to learn more about the unique issues in losing an assistance dog through death or retirement. I also recommend this page to assistance dog partners, themselves, as it can be very validating about what you’re going through.

To see my current list of grief resources, please visit the After Gadget Grief Resources page. I hope to continue to update the page as I add more live links. Please share this post with anyone you know who has suffered or is facing the loss of an assistance dog.

With wishes for peace and healing for all who grieve,

Sharon, the muse of Gadget, and Barnum, SD/SDiT

Signal Boost: IAADP’s Assistance Dog Grief Pilot Program

I’ve posted previously about the International Association of Assistance Dog Partners (IAADP), and I frequently encourage people involved with assistance dogs to join the organization. Why? It’s a unique organization in that it represents and supports all people with assistance dogs (ADs), regardless of the type (guide, hearing, service, or combo) or training (private-trained, program-trained, partner-trained, or a combination) of the AD. And, while most members live in the US, like its name says, it is an international organization.

IAADP provides benefits to partner members, including an information help line and discounts for certain supplies and veterinary products. It’s also a terrifically effective activist organization. And it has a great newsletter, Partner’s Forum, that is entertaining and very informative.

Anyone can join IAADP, although to be a partner member (to receive partner-member benefits and to vote in elections), you must be a disabled person partnered with an adult working service dog who meets certain criteria. However, trainers, puppy raisers, AD programs, and other interested parties can get a lot out of a friend membership or provider membership, as well as supporting an excellent cause.

I’ve been an IAADP member since I trained my first service dog in 1999. Toni Eames — one of the founders and long-time officer of the organization — used to be listed as the person to call for grief support. Sadly, three weeks before Gadget died, Toni’s husband, Ed Eames, the president of IAADP, died. Obviously I did not call her for grief support. I figured she had more than enough grief to deal with on her own. Ed’s loss was a loss to the entire assistance dog community, in fact.

However, in the years since then, Partner’s Forum has had some articles — and referred to pamphlets — about grief-related issues. I’m hoping they’ll eventually appear on the IAADP website. Meanwhile, in the April 2012 edition of the newsletter, the following information appeared:

Pilot Program for Grieving Partners

Are you grieving the loss or the impending retirement of your assistance dog? Would you like to participate in a monthly support group by phone with others in the same situation? A committee of the IAADP will start offering these phone calls in June, 2012. If interested, email ADLC[at]iaadp.org and one of the call facilitators will be in touch with you to see if the group is right for you. Since the committee has no idea how many assistance dog partners may be interested in this service, the first ones who contact ADLC[at]iaadp.org will be served first.

If you’ve been through the loss of an assistance dog and would like to  consider helping the committee, please also contact us at the above e-mail address or call 888-544-2237 and leave your name and phone number for a return call.

We want to be there for you in this time of transition.

So, if you’re interested in offering or receiving support on assistance dog loss, and you are not yet a member of IAADP, this is a good time to look into that. You can also find the announcement at the IAADP website’s Assistance Dog Loss Committee page.

- Sharon, remembering Jersey and Gadget, and currently partnered with Barnum, SD/SDiT

Don’t Leave Me This Way

I’m not sure if it’s the time of year, or if it’s that I have more support now and am not in a horrible crisis every other day, or if it’s just taken this long for the reality to hit me, but the grief is hitting me. Now, after years. Coming up on the three-year-anniversary of my good friend Norm’s death and the two-year-anniversary of my service dog Gadget’s death, it doesn’t take anything for me to start crying.

The Disability Blog Carnival for October is on the theme of music. It seems as if the theme of music is a popular one for disability- and illness-related blogs. I’ve seen it crop up as a theme for contributions in previous editions of PFAM, ChronicBabe carnival, and disability blog carnival posts. I generally sigh and move on when I see a call for blogs pertaining to music, because — I usually feel like a freak admitting this publicly — I don’t listen to music.

Listening to music is taken as such a given, cutting across age, race, gender, ethnicity, disability or nondisability status. Everyone likes music, right? Wrong.

I used to like music. I used to go clubbing, even. I have my favorite songs, singers, bands, groups. But after I got CFIDS/ME, for the first two or three years, I couldn’t tolerate music at all. It took little to put me in sensory overload. Far and away, the worst sensory assaults I experienced were definitely olfactory, but coming in a distant second was repetitive sound. Then, slowly, I was able to tolerate and enjoy limited periods of certain types of music.

For the next ten years or so, on rare occasions, if I was having a “good energy day,” and everything was just right in my physical, cognitive, emotional, and sensory world, I could put a tape in the boom box (yeah, I was behind the curve), and enjoy some Abba, Madonna, Tori Amos, Sarah McLaughlin, India Arie. . . .

Then, Lyme disease and other tick-borne disease struck in 2007. For years, I could tolerate almost no sensory stimuli — sound, light, touch, even the movement of the air around me was palpably, nauseatingly painful. I couldn’t even imagine wanting to listen to music. Slowly, due to aggressive antibiotic and antiparasitic therapy, I have been improving. I don’t have to wear sunglasses around the clock anymore. People can usually sit on my bed or touch me without me screaming in pain. I still don’t really gravitate toward music. There’s something about it that feels too chaotic. It doesn’t impart information or take me on a carefully constructed journey, like a book on tape does.

But music has an intrinsic emotional sense memory. Hearing a song that was popular when I was in junior high, high school, or college always transports me back to those moments. The emotion of those moments. Because of my neurological damage from CFIDS/ME and tick-borne infections, I have to carefully monitor and modulate my emotions. Sometimes, music jangles too much. On rare occasions, though, because of its direct connection to my emotional core, music is the only thing that “works.”

This was the case when I was grieving for Gadget. Gadget died on November 19 after a successful six-month battle with lymphoma and a ravaging two-month rampage by mast cell cancer. I was numb. I was in shock. I’d already lost most of my friends, and especially my best friends, to death or the complications of my crisis-ridden life, and now my partner, assistant, caretaker, student, teacher, child, companion, brother, and friend was gone from me, too. I was in despair. I had no way to let the feelings out. Everything was too painful.

For a while, the only solace I found, the only way to release just a little grief, to cry just a little bit, was to listen to The Commundard’s version of “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” I remembered it from my college years, from coming out. Even though the lyrics are mostly directed toward a lover, the sorrow, yearning, loneliness, and alienation that Jimmy Somerville conveys in his stellar falsetto, as well as some of the repeated lyrics, called directly to me, spoke my feelings to Gadget:

Don’t leave me this way. I can’t survive. I can’t stay alive. . . . No . . . don’t leave me this way. I can’t exist. . . . Don’t leave me this way.

All I wanted, all I could say, when I was grieving was, “I want him back.” I was abandoned, bereft. I cried to him to come back, “Don’t leave me this way.” I couldn’t believe he was gone. I wanted him back. Nothing else made sense.

I plugged my headphones into my computer, found the music video of the song on Youtube, and played it again and again, at the highest volume.

Here’s the music video, if you’d like to watch it. (Note: If you’re reading this post in an email, click here to watch the video.)

A captioned version of the music video is here at dotSub.

I still listen to it, sometimes. I still choke up and think of Gadget and marvel that I am still here, and he is not. I know he didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t survive and stay alive. He needed me to let him go, to leave me this way.

- Sharon and my long, lost Gadget

Flashback: Of Grief and Relief

I originally wrote this post on January 2, 2010. It’s one of several unpublished posts I wrote in the wake of Gadget’s death. I keep finding these drafts that are basically finished, but for some reason, I didn’t think they were complete at the time. My thinking was so fuzzy back then, I’m not sure what I thought these posts needed.

In this case, the original title, “Admission of Guilt,” suggests a pretty clear reason why I hesitated to post it. I’m glad that I can now grieve Gadget without feeling guilty about the complex feelings I experienced during his last days.

- SW

When the End of the End Doesn’t End

Gadget’s final week was an extension of the previous six months, and the dreams seem to be an extension of what I lived in those end days.

For about four months I fought with my brain, my body, my heart, and my bank account to defeat his cancer. I researched. I cooked. I researched more. I took him for chemotherapy, acupuncture, chiropractic, and Chinese herbs. I pilled him constantly and myself just enough to keep my exhaustion and pain sufficiently at bay to always take him for a walk, to always go with him to chemo, to always make sure he got the right supplements and medications with the right meals. Those were the days of hope, when I thought we would have at least a year, possibly two, maybe three or more.

Then, he took a turn for the worse, and I realized he probably was dying. Next were the weeks it was clear to me he was dying, but not to him. Finally, in the last week or two, he was actively dying, which was like all the months before, but brutally amplified.

Everything was more. More stress and anxiety. More effort to ensure each meal was delicious and totally digestible. More pinnacles of hope and plummets into despair. More pills and monitoring symptoms and needle sticks — all requiring more vigilance around and around and around the clock. More cleaning up messes that smelled of his body shutting down. More desperation to make him as happy as I could with trips to the pond, walks, doggy get-togethers, and to soak up as much joy as I could, myself, in his still being alive because every time we had fun or peace, I knew, “This might be our last time. . . Or this one. . . . Or this one. . . .”

I couldn’t shed months of habits overnight, just because there was no longer any purpose to them.

The first morning after Gadget’s death, I rolled out of bed, adrenaline banging through me, and began checking his status before I even realized he wasn’t there. I was ready: Had I heard gasping? Did I smell vomit? Was it time for pills or fluids?

What I was not ready for each morning was the nothing. Not only wasn’t he on his bed, he wasn’t lying in a cool spot next to the window or on the bathroom tile. He hadn’t wandered off in search of one of my personal care assistants to demand food and attention (not that much demanding had ever been involved — more like just showing up!). But, my PCAs hadn’t arrived yet because I should still have been asleep. There was nobody there. So there was nothing to be done. And I didn’t know what to do with that at all, because for six months, there was always more to do. More to try, more than I could do, more that made no difference in the end.

After taking in the nothing, I’d cry and go back to sleep.

Sleep was very big on my agenda the first few days after Gadget died because, in addition to the insomnia I have as a symptom of my illness, for the previous months, I woke up constantly to care for Gadget. During the days, I spent all my energy on two things: Gadget’s survival, and my survival (in that order). From the moment I woke to the moment I’d literally pass out from exhaustion, I was in the survival struggle.

In fact, for the first 48 hours after Gadget died, I mostly felt relief. I slept. I finally didn’t have to manage anything. I didn’t have to struggle against and fear the worst anymore because the worst had already happened.

Gadget napping on red quilt on couch.
Near the end, we both grabbed sleep whenever we could.

I’m fortunate to be able to admit this. What’s given me the courage is hearing it from other caretakers of a loved one with a long, terminal illness. It’s actually pretty common. However, it’s not an admission everyone wants to hear.

A year ago, I didn’t want to hear it from someone else. On January 6, 2008, Norm, one of my best friends, died after two agonizing years of illness. He often said to me, especially near the end, that he wanted it to be over, that he sometimes felt like it would be a relief to die. This was hard to hear, but I was sympathetic. This was because, along with understanding how it feels to be mired in pain and illness, I was keeping a promise I’d made to him a long time before, though he didn’t know it.

When Norm got sick, I committed to listening to and supporting whatever he felt. My goal was to be unconditionally loving and nonjudgemental. I think it’s the only time in my life I’ve succeeded at that.

Still, I didn’t want him to die. So, when he did, I was shocked and grief-stricken. It was a pure loss, which is what animal bereavement experts say is usually the case when a companion animal dies. They say that our relationships with our animals are usually so entirely positive, without the resentments, grievances, and other negative complications of our human relationships, that the loss is often more painful than a person’s death. I have recently heard from others whose dogs died of cancer that their grief and suffering is worse than when they’d lost a parent, a sibling, or even a child.

Norm was a dog person. He also shared my gallows sense of humor. At his memorial, I said that Norm would appreciate knowing that, to me, his death was as upsetting as if he was a dog.

This was not true for his wife, who also is disabled and with whom I was also friends (though not as close). His death was a terrible loss and a tragedy for both of us, but she had spent two years of physical and emotional agony taking care of him. I was protected by the distance of the phone line. His death for me was pure sadness. For her, it was also a deliverance: a release from the horrors of watching him suffer brutally for so long, as well as a chance to take care of herself again and to regain some of the life she’d lost before he got sick. I couldn’t stand hearing this from her. Her grief was complicated, and mine was straightforward. I didn’t want there to be an “upside” to my friend’s death.

Since Gadget’s death, I have a lot more empathy for what my friend was feeling last year. I have been met with silence, confusion, and outright denials when I mention the part clemency has played in Gadget’s death.

When he was dying, I went to an online anticipatory grief support group. When I admitted, with some guilt, “Part of me just wants it to be over.”

The host said, “That’s because you don’t want to see him suffer. It’s a completely unselfish feeling.”

I said, no, it wasn’t entirely unselfish. Seeing him suffer was horrible, and that was certainly part of it. But, I said, I was suffering too. I was exhausted, a physical and emotional wreck. I’d dug deeply into savings that I live on. The toll was enormous and seemingly endless. I wanted it to be over for me, too. I didn’t want him to be dead — not truly dead — but I also wanted it to be over.

The host continued to maintain that my only thoughts were of Gadget’s needs. She refused to hear the part of me that was saying, “I can’t take this anymore.” I didn’t mention it again.

Of course, when it was “over” — what we think of as over, his body buried in the ground — it was not, is still not, remotely over. I got my two nights of sleep, but they were laced with nightmares for far longer. And the grief, in one form or another, goes on and on. I’ve been told that in some ways, it will never be over, a thought that is depressing, exhausting, and strangely comforting. I guess because it means Gadget will always be in my life, in some form, even when that’s only in grief. . . .

I reach out for him to feel where his fur should be. I look to the foot of the bed, where his head should be lolling over the side. I listen for his snore, rumbling over the white noise of the air filter. I glance instinctively to the door, the light switch, the pillow I’ve dropped on the floor, for him to shut the door, turn off the light, pass me the pillow.

Gadget at a distance in a large pond.
At times, he feels beyond my mind’s reach.

For six months, I applied every life-affirming “treatment” I could. I didn’t just take him to chemotherapy every week, even when I could barely leave my bed the rest of the time. I didn’t only research and dispense herbs and supplements, create a special cancer-fighting diet tailored to his food allergies, consult a multitude of veterinarians and read multiple books on canine cancer. I took him on special walks — varied our routes, went to his favorite destinations (and pretty well killed my powerchair in the process). Even teaching him new service skills and relying more on his assistance felt like a blow against cancer, as if I was tethering him to life that much more tightly. How could such a necessary bond ever be broken?

More importantly, I tell myself that I still exist and matter. After more than eight years living as a “we,” a partner, an interdependent unit, an extension of another, I’ve become disembodied. The only thing that has ever been mine alone is writing. No matter how many people offer critique, proof or edit, type or transcribe, publish (or reject) a piece of writing, it is still a solitary act.

I was a writer before Gadget. After he entered my life, I often wrote to escape the demands of his training and exhausting exuberance. As the subject of some of my humor columns, I transformed scary, frustrating, or painful events with a wild young rescue into emotional release — and paychecks. Even when he curled up under my desk as I typed, the true connections happened in my mind. Writing has always been where I find myself, whether I want to or not.

- Sharon, the muse of Gadget, in the days before Barnum


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