The Little Things

Editor’s Note: I wrote this last night, and re-read it this morning. I know it rambles even more than I normally do, but I’m posting it as is. Any editing will take out some of the pain, and the pain belongs there, so deal with the ramblings, or just don’t read it. You’ve been warned.

For those of you too young, or extremely fortunate to have not lost a loved one yet, I’ll give you a hint on what to expect.  I mean besides the gut wrenching emptiness their absence leaves, and the profound sadness and depression that seems like it will go on forever. Those things you know about, or at least have heard about. What never gets mentioned, at least I’ve never heard about, is the little things we all take for granted that aren’t there anymore. Someone dies, you know they won’t be there anymore. That seems obvious. Then why, when you go into a certain room, do you look for them? Why at a certain time of day do you expect them to walk in, sit down, cough, laugh, or a thousand other little things you never even noticed until they aren’t there, and now you’d give anything to have them.

I find myself closing doors so Boots won’t get outside. Well, that’s not an issue anymore, but the door gets closed just the same.  I get up in the morning, and start to open his can of food. No, that’s not there anymore. I go to clean his litter box; whoops, not there is it?

And your mind won’t stay focused on them being gone continually, so time after time during the day it comes back to you. Oh yeah. Damn.

I won’t say life totally sucks, even now. Today I was out on the bus, and a few things made me smile, even chuckled a few times.  And I know from other lost loved ones that it eventually gets easier, over time, lots of time, but I know also from experience that I’m not done crying.  I can fully expect to just break down weeping without warning for the next few months. Then when you think it’s all done, another one will hit out of no where.

You’ll hear it described as a healed over wound, that doesn’t hurt anymore, but there’s always a scar to remind you of the event. I think it’s more like a body part that is lost, and you learn to function without it. You learn to live and work and walk and whatever, but some things you just can’t do anymore. Nope, not juggling anymore, that arm is  gone.  Too bad, I really liked juggling, and I remember juggling, I just can’t do it anymore without that arm that’s not there. That’s a missing loved one, part of your body, part of yourself.

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4 Responses to The Little Things

  1. Kathy Moore says:

    I am deeply sorry and understand the pain your heart is feeling. Boots is and was a sweet loving part of your family, your fur kid. Like a human child, they are filled with life and depend on you for survival, to play, for companionship and mostly love. Don’t think about his loss as a scar, scars are ugly. I think about losing a furkid as a pawprint on my heart, always there, always on my mind and forever a part of my heart. Boots is a sweet pawprint on your heart.

    • Dwight says:

      Thanks Kathy… Joannie and I both know the sorrow will eventually be replaced by happy memories.. It’s getting to that point that takes time.. Your comments are helpful and we appreciate you greatly. Thank you.

  2. Larry Johnson says:

    Dwight, you’re right on. I lost my dad 31 years ago next Friday. And yes I still remember the day, February 26th, 1979. I found the same thing as you find now. Much of it is habit (feeding Boots for example). Habits take time to develop and time to break. It’s not the memory of our loved one that causes us to do it. It’s doing it that causes us to think about our loved one and the loss.
    It may move to the bak of our mind but the memory and love never leave us. After 31 years I still cry sometime when talking about my dad and on special days – like Father’s Day his birthday, his death, Christmas and more. I still love and cherish my dad and his memory and I always will. My live is richer and fuller because of him.
    (Now I’ve got myself crying again…)