Grievances of a Griever

How does one describe grief? I don’t mean the visceral aspect of it – but, the simple definition of the word. Online dictionaries use phrases such as – poignant distress, sharp sorrow, painful regret, keen mental suffering – and the like. They’re all very accurate, I must agree, especially as someone who is navigating this all-consuming, debilitating emotion right at this very moment.

I lost my first-born fur child recently. I don’t know how long ago, but I do know the date. Strange, isn’t it? My brain vividly remembers the date, what the moment looked like, what the air smelled of, what the shape of the moon was, how many stars I could count on that fairly clear-skied night… but, I don’t remember how long ago it was. The part of my brain that needs to calculate this, refuses to function. Perhaps it has been long enough to start to feel some semblance of normalcy. Or perhaps it is all too fresh and raw for me to even contemplate writing about it… Either way, that part of my brain continues to remain tightly shut.

Liah was my stepping stone into motherhood. As a childfree-by-choice individual, I have always known that dogs would be my “children”. I plan every aspect of my life around my dogs and Liah marked the beginning of that intensely complicated, yet immensely gratifying journey, over 15 years ago. As she grew from a puppy to this absolutely gorgeous lady, I evolved with her. She was my teacher. She was my divine child. She was unlike any other dog I had and she will always remain special that way. She was unbelievably beautiful – so much so that random strangers on the streets and at the vet’s would comment on her beauty. No body believed how old she was and I would smile proudly on the inside when they stared in disbelief as I told them her age.

My life revolved around my Liah. And then one day, when she fell ill and declined rapidly and breathed her last – all in less than ten hours, my life came to a cruelly startling halt. I always knew this day was coming, but that evening I realized just how ill-prepared I was. And I probably could never have prepared enough. I could have never fathomed the intensity of heartbreak I was going to be dealt – my chest still hurts physically. Grief, as they say, is a full body experience. And yet, it is such a poorly understood subject. Often, we are taught to mask it, shake it off, move on, substitute it with whatever coping mechanisms… and so much more. What makes navigating through grief tougher is having to deal with people’s remarks. I am sure most of them are well-intentioned, but I have learnt over the course of multiple episodes of grief from having lost several loved ones over the years, that we often tend to use the wrong words and phrases when attempting to share our condolences. I hope this shall serve as a guide to anyone that is dealing with confronting someone who is grieving the loss (of a fur child particularly).

1. “Get over it/ You will get over it.”

If I could reach into my phone screen and slap anyone that says this, I really would. There is just no “getting over” losing a loved one. Somehow, people find it easier to pass this remark when it comes to pet animals, but here’s the hard truth – some of us pet parents love our children more than a parent loves their human child. Grief is not an illness that you recover from. It is this heavy jagged rock that falls from the skies onto your shoulders one fine day that you are forced to carry around for the rest of your life. Some days, the rock weighs lighter and the jagged edges don’t make one bleed as much. On some days, the rock weighs in harder, piercing into your skin, breaking open wounds all over again and crushing your very being. And that’s that. Rinse and repeat.

2. “What happened though?”

Irrelevant and inappropriate. It doesn’t matter how someone passes away. The death is what remains. Don’t pry for information. Don’t ask insensitive questions. I had people ask me how old my child was when she passed. How does that matter? Were you going to tell me that it was alright because she was “old” when she passed? Or would you have sympathized a little harder had she been a young dog? Doesn’t matter either way. Also, please don’t go around asking friends and family of the grieving person the same question.

3. “My dog passed away XX months/ years ago. He was really sick and…”

I have been divided about sharing this as one of the ‘don’ts’ but allow me to explain on why I decided to eventually. As a dog parent, I realize that statistically a substantial percentage of my followers and peers on social media are dog parents too. So, there is this (unfortunate) probability that you have grieved the loss of a fur child as well. However, now is not the time and place to be discussing your grief. For one, you are hijacking my right to grieve by choosing to narrate your version of grief (which is a hundred percent valid, no doubt). Moreover, your grief deserves its own undisturbed, sacred space and time as well – and that is the only rightful way to honour the child you lost. Not by plugging in your grief into someone else’s.

4. “This makes me so worried about the day I will lose my fur child!”

Anticipatory grief is really hard. And it often compounds during other events of grief. When you decide to share your (very real and valid) sense of anticipatory grief about your own fur child, you are not helping the grieving person at all. In fact, you make matters worse. Also, please remember that I still have two more fur kids. And I am already dealing with anticipatory grief as it is.

5. “Death is the only constant/ Everyone dies/ We all must deal with death.”

No shit, Sherlock! I vividly remember learning “All living things die” as one of the key differentiators between living and non-living things in elementary school. So, a philosophical viewpoint on this macabre subject is a poor response to someone sharing their grief. This is another group of people I would like to punch in the face, by the way.

6. “They are watching over you/ They don’t want you to cry/ They are now in a better place.”

They are not watching over me because there isn’t a place that dead people go to.

They don’t know/ care whether I cry or not because they are dead.

They are not in a better or worse place. They are just dead.

(Also, there is no better place for my child than beside me – her mother.)

I know that these statements offer comfort to many grievers, but I am not one of them. As an atheist, I do not subscribe to any spiritual/ religious connotation of death and such statements only seem to belittle my grief.

So, what do you tell a griever? Nothing, honestly. Because nothing would matter or make a difference. But if you are going to share condolences, please be mindful of how you phrase your words and of what you say, to begin with. You could send them “love and light”. You could send them “tight hugs and love”. You could offer to drop by and visit – and refrain from doing so if they wish to grieve alone/ with their close family. And when you reach out to them after several days, best not to ask them “How are you?” – because they are most likely still an inconceivable mess and would have difficulty framing an answer that doesn’t disturb you. I have often found that the best kinds of messages I receive are the ones that simply tell me that you are thinking of me and that you just wanted to say a hello.

On the other hand, if you are beside a grieving person, the best thing you could do is to sit with them in silence and allow them to grieve – however they wish to – with zero judgements. Because grief is a deeply personal journey. And one that must be undertaken all alone.