Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah.
The Tears Returned
After Rosie died I didn’t return home for a week and a half. I spent a few days at my parent’s house and then headed to Tahoe for a week. The Tahoe trip had been planned well in advance and, while I considered canceling it, as it felt like an odd time to be out having fun and socializing, it also seemed like a great opportunity for distraction. I told myself that, if at any point it didn’t feel right, I could cut the trip short and drive home. But the real deciding factor was when I realized that there’s absolutely zero chance that Rosie would have wanted me to mope around the cabin, alone, instead of being with friends, having fun and making memories.
So I went.
And sure enough, the Tahoe trip proved to be the emotional vacation that I needed. I had a great time with really close friends, got five days of snowboarding in, and overall felt much more stable than I had been. So stable, in fact, that I wondered if maybe a large portion of healing had taken place during that trip and if most of the crying and grieving were behind me.
But as soon as I left Tahoe and began the four-hour drive home, the emotions came flooding back—as if they were hanging out on the sidelines, patiently waiting for my trip to end. It didn’t help that Rosie and I had driven that route a handful of times, so there were little memories, routines and reminders scattered all the way home.
And, sure enough, the tears returned.
When I finally arrived back at my cabin, I stood on the front porch and prepared myself for the tsunami of memories and emotions that were waiting inside. I collected my courage, took a deep breath, unlocked the door and stepped into the home Rosie and I used to share.
And… nothing happened.
No tears.
No reaction.
The things that I would have sworn would break me down… didn’t. Her empty bed. Her food bowl. The pile of dog toys in the corner. Her adorable rain jacket hanging on the wall. None of them brought a single tear.
Forty-five minutes earlier I began bawling when the song “All Your’n” by Tyler Childers came on the car radio, and now I couldn’t even cry to my dog’s empty bed.
I felt numb.
In my numbness I went about doing chores (that seems like an appropriate trauma response, right?!). As I finished sweeping the floor, I looked down at the pile I’d collected and realized that the majority of it was Rosie's hair. Which caused the teary floodgates to open again.
I suppose that's just how grief works—it comes and goes, in unexpected and unpredictable ways. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out it reminds you that you don't.
As of the writing of this piece I’ve now been home for four days and, while I sometimes forget she’s gone and look for her when I walk in the door, or glance over at her bed to see if she’s awake or asleep, I have already begun to settle into this new reality. It’s not easy, or fun, and I miss her terribly, but I know I must put one step in front of the other, take it day-by-day, and move on with my life—allowing her to share my heart, always, even if she no longer shares my home.
“Grief is like the ocean; It comes in waves; ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."
— Vicki Harrison
P.S. Below is a link to the song, “All Your’n,” if you’d like to give it a listen. I find it hilarious that love songs have started to remind me of my dog.
