33-You Can’t Pet a Ghost
Yesterday London died. London is our almost 10-year-old dog who contracted anemia. We brought her in for a routine physical, and when the vet discovered she had a cracked tooth, they did a standard blood work test to see if she could be put under anesthesia. Her red blood cells were below normal, so we would not proceed with any dental procedures at this time.
The vet was cautiously optimistic that it may heal itself, but later that next week, London collapsed (passed out). I brought her back to the vet and the new test showed her red blood cells had dropped half again as much from the already-low reading from the previous week.
You see, her bones had stopped producing red blood cells. We did x-rays and all her organs were normal—nothing that would allow us to blame a cancer for this turn in her health. The vet was now not so optimistic. We could try a drug regimen (there were other things offered—blood transfusions, specialists which may or may not determine the cause…), but there were no guarantees.
Then I heard it: “London has decided to go home.”
It wasn’t said with any great fanfare. It just was there. In my knowing.
Well fuck.
When your connection to Source speaks, it just is… there is no question. This was that.
“London has decided to go home.”
Fuck.
Of course, London had every right to do what she wanted to do. It doesn’t matter that she was loved beyond all love. It didn’t matter that she got a baroo (an old cow bone stuffed with dog food and frozen) every night as an after dinner treat while we watched TV. It didn’t matter that spring was here and the rabbits she loved to chase were hopping around. She wanted to go home.
And she is a sovereign soul. She GETS to decide her life.
But that doesn’t mean I am not going to try to change the outcome (says the ego). We tried the drugs. We gave her a special diet of high-iron foods. I performed Reiki on her almost every day.
But it was clear after the next weeks blood test—just three weeks from her physical—that she was done. The red blood cell count had dropped to the bottom of the chart.
So, decisions had to be made.
If you’ve ever had to make those choices, you know.
Of course, when we arrive at the vet in the morning and she is the most alert and barky that she has been all weekend. Of COURSE, every doubt in my mind is racing—is this the right time? Should we wait? If we wait, are we causing her to suffer more? Is the diet finally working… should we test the blood again? …ALL the thoughts.
But you know. “London has decided to go home”.
We sit with her on the floor as the vet administers the sedative, and my “Most Precious Puppy” goes to sleep…hard snoring sleep. Then the vet asks if we’re ready.
My heart screams “NO!!!!!”, but my mind knows it’s time, and I nod…
And my heart shatters. And my husband’s heart shatters, which breaks mine even more.
And we hold our baby as she re-emerges into the place we are all going back to. And I ugly-cry soul-deep sobs that I cannot stop—I don’t want them to stop. It’s the last offering I have to give to my “Most Beautiful Dog”.
…and my husband hears her come back and say, “It’s OK daddy, it was the right thing to do.”
I didn’t get that.
I just don’t know.
Sitting with this most recent loss—trying to feel through the cannonball size hole in my chest—I run the gauntlet of doubt: what are we doing here (on earth, in this life, playing God)? Does anything I do really matter (did the Reiki work, Did the diet even help)? I cannot feel her—I didn’t hear her come back—am I even ABLE to do any of the “psychic” things I say I can?
I know this is all part of the seven stages of grief: Shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, the upward turn, reconstruction and working through, acceptance and hope.
I get home and drop London’s collar and leash on the floor so our other dog, Paris, can smell it and maybe get that London isn’t coming home. She promptly throws up on the carpet—she knows.
And I feel myself distancing from her. I know she needs support and stability as well, but part of me is mad—YOU’RE not London—and then I feel guilty for those feelings, but they are feelings I am having.
FUCK.
I look to the couch, where a mere two hours ago, London lay looking out into the backyard. The hole in my heart is palpable. I can feel the sides of it—round like someone just reached in my chest and ripped out my heart.
There is the obligatory post on social media to alert friends to our loss. And the condolences roll in. …and someone posts the rainbow bridge poem, and I get angry because it’s not like that! That isn’t what happens. It’s a Pollyanna statement that does not match the profound loss I am feeling. I weep again.
But society doesn’t really give us time to mourn our pets, so it’s back to work. People ask, and I throw up the wall as to not dissolve into a blubbering pile of goo in the workplace.
I come home that first night and am not greeted at the door. And I feel a feeling about that.
I get dinner for Paris and put down only one dog dish. And I feel a feeling about that.
I cry a few more times, once in a while an ugly cry, but more often just tears.
And the week ends. And I can talk about it a little more. The hole is there, but the edges aren’t quite so raw.
I can cuddle with Paris and not feel so much resentment, after all, I love her too.
All of it hits me like a ton of bricks on my first day off from work since her transition. And I am a moody mess—exhausted from it all. I take a nap. I keep hoping she will come to me and tell me it’s OK.
I am left sitting with thoughts about this thing we call death, as many are at times of transition. I KNOW London is ok. I KNOW she is still around. But this knowledge not comforting—at least not right now.
I have had enough readings with mediums to know that the soul never ceases to exist. I also know that you can’t pet a ghost.
So I sit with this knowing and this grief trying to make sense of them both. I think it is a holy time—a sacred time. If I had not allowed London into my heart, I wouldn’t have a gaping hole in my chest right now. And there’s the rub: the very act of loving sets us up for hurt.
But not loving really isn’t an option, because it is what we are and what we are built to do. And here’s the kicker—the loss is not really a loss at all. Energy doesn’t cease to exist; it just changes forms—we know this from physics. And we are all energy—from the same source. Ergo death is not a loss but a transformation of energy back to source—back to the ocean, if you will, of which we are all a drop.
But you can’t pet a ghost, and I would rather have my London here in my lap, giving me kisses, than wait to re-emerge into the ocean of energy and connect with that part of myself again.
Until that time, I will honor her with my whole heart—and the hole in my heart.
Go off and do big things, my “Most Beautiful Dog”. I love you.