By mid-morning, it was clear our 12-year-old dog was struggling. It was the Monday before moving day. I was hyper-focused on the fact that in less than a week, we would pack up our daughter’s belongings, load them up into two cars, and travel 13+ hours to her college dorm. We’d made the lists and carefully planned every detail.
But we all know that no matter how much planning we do, life sometimes gives you a karate chop to the neck, and you wind up disoriented and nauseous.
Lucy was fine until she wasn’t. That morning, I peered into her eyes and have never seen the kind of look she gave back. She’d been sick the night before, but something was suddenly very different. Her body trembled and her breathing was labored. The agonizing sounds she made in the last hour of her life will haunt me for a long while.
Our vet was incredibly compassionate, gentle, and forthcoming about what we were dealing with. My husband turned to me and quietly said, “it’s time to let her go.” Through sobs I could no longer contain, I blurted out, “I’m not ready!”
And I definitely wasn’t. Weeks later, it’s still hard to believe she’s not here.
Shredder of tooth-fairy money, lover of belly rubs, and my ever-present shadow, Lucy rarely left my side. She was constantly underfoot. There’s no way to count the number of times I contorted my body to avoid tripping on my face because I didn’t see her standing right there.
She was our family dog, but she was also kind of my dog. She napped at my feet when I worked at my desk. She snuggled against me every time I watched tv. She was right there, hoping desperately for something to drop when we ate every meal. Her presence was completely intertwined with our daily lives.
The first day or two, I was consumed with grief. We are unapologetically dog people, and she was part of our little family. But time doesn’t always wait for our emotions to catch up. We moved forward with packing, list-making, and planning for the big event in front of us.
Days later, after a tearful prayer and hug, we said goodbye to our newly minted college freshman. Our youngest child had left the nest. After a long scenic route back home, we walked into a jarringly empty house.
There was, of course, the tangible absence of youthful presence. No clothes draped over the banister. No shoes kicked off under the table. No abandoned dishes in the bedroom. No Sol de Janeiro lingering in the air. But there was also a tangible absence of my faithful companion.
Her favorite napping spots sat empty. Her bed was no longer in our bedroom. The upstairs loft looks like a completely different house with her food and water bowls missing. By the end of the week, my emotions felt like they’d been rubbed raw by a cheese grater.
I wasn’t ready.
I’m learning that, for whatever reason, my first instinct is to gently wrap my pain in layers of platitudes and positive thoughts. If I wind them around and around the grief, then maybe it won’t actually seep out. Because if it seeps out, I have to feel it and sit in it and process it. And that really cuts into my mindless Instagram scrolling time.
But in His kindness, God reminds me, through the wisdom of many others, that there is nothing wrong with just accepting that sometimes, life plops a big steaming pile of suffering in your lap. And honestly, we’re never truly “ready” for it. No one ever said, “Oh look! An opportunity for refining I wasn’t expecting! I am so ready for this!”
It’s ok if we’re not ready. It’s ok if we’re mad and devastated. But I’m also learning that steaming pile won’t disappear without giving it the time and attention it needs.
That week, a lot of my prayers sounded kind of like, “Seriously? This is what we’re doing right now?” Because it was just too much. It was one more thing to carry when I was already so emotionally weary. Sometimes it’s that one little crack that splits our heart wide open. The last little drop that sends the entire glass overflowing.
And on top of everything else, losing Lucy so suddenly felt just like that. I sobbed over that dog. But I realized that so much of it was an overflow of grief I was also feeling from saying goodbye to a significant parenting season.
I could clearly see where God showed up in the details that morning. I was so glad we were home, and not traveling when it happened. We were there together to say our goodbyes. But at the same time, it felt painfully unfair and cruel. And yet, I know I’m not alone in the sadness. He is right here with me. God is more powerful than the pain, and I trust Him with the details.
All of that is true….and STILL…life is really, really hard sometimes. I wasn’t ready for it. And that’s ok.
While we’re still in the early weeks of empty-nesting, I have moments when the significance of this change knocks the breath out of me. And when the tears threaten, I’m becoming more comfortable with allowing them to interrupt whatever I’m doing. I know they’re not here to bring more harm, but to begin the healing.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not only to Lucy, but to the life and role I’ve known so intimately for the past 20 years. I wasn’t ready for empty bedrooms, quiet evenings, and clean sinks. I still don’t feel ready for this new season.
And that’s ok.
