Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 2: Coping

This is part two in my four part series on grief and pet loss.  Click the link to read Part 1.

I had the chance to sit down with Becky Murray, a Licensed Professional Counselor at Veterinary Specialty Center in Buffalo Grove. We discussed the death of pets and the many ways that humans grief their furry friends. Murray agrees that grief is a “Bizarre  way of being” in part because it is so different from our normal way of being. We are used to schedules, routines, and a linear way of thinking. We complete tasks and move on to the next one. Grief is not like that. With grief the thoughts, memories and feelings are not linear. They can pop into our heads at any moment. Grief is also not something you finish, and move on from; not like the events that make up our daily lives. You can’t allot a set amount of time to grieve and then say “ok I’m done, on to the next thing!” Grief is not something you can check off your “to-do” list. As anyone who has lost a loved one—human or pet—can tell you, life is not the same after the loss.

Grief and loss change people. They change life; which is not to say that life doesn’t go on. It just isn’t quite the same. There are the immediate changes—not having your furry friend greeting you when you come home from work, the empty cat bed by heater, the food bowl you don’t have to fill.  And there are the larger changes; adjusting mentally and emotionally to losing your friend; the knowledge that you will not see them again (at least not in this life, in the form you are used to.)  These are huge changes. It will take time.

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I made a memorial shelf for my cats who have passed.

In the days after my cats died I felt like life was never going to get better.  I didn’t know how I could go on living after such a loss.  According to Murray, that is normal.  When we are grieving it feels like we are doing everything so poorly, she says. “After the loss of a pet your goal should simply be to function a little better each day” says Murray. You can’t compare yourself to who you were before the loss of your pet. Instead, compare yourself to who you were the day after the loss.

What is important, she says, is that you function a little bit better over time. After we euthanized Muffin I spent the next 24 hours crying hysterically. I held her bed in a death grip; I slept with her bed and some of her toys, and I cried hysterically. I did not leave my house for two days. But on the second day I went longer between crying. I didn’t cry hysterically. I was slowly finding peace settling back in my soul. Even after the tears stopped flowing, there was a sting in my heart every time I realized Muffin wasn’t sleeping on her favorite chair or next to the pillows on my mom’s bed. I knew she wasn’t but you get into habits of expectation and it takes time to break those habits.  When my Sam died in 2009 I was at work. My parents called me to tell me he had passed and for weeks afterwards I panicked and tensed up every time my cell phone rang. I was terrified that something had happened to someone else.

I told Murray my stories of grieving my cats and mentioned that each time it was different. The pain was different, the thoughts and emotions were slightly different. She said that was normal. “Every loss is different” she says. This applies not just to each loss we experience—the loss of Sam left me numb and shocked for days, while Muffin’s death left me an emotional wreck—but also the how each person experiences their loss. While I cried hysterically over my cats’ deaths, other people may not cry in public. Some people want tangible memories of their cats while some don’t want anything physical to remember their cat by. Some people adopt another cat right away, some will never adopt another cat again.  Murray says however you grieve “as long as it’s not hurting you, not other others it’s ok.” Each person grieves differently but most of these people are experiencing what Murray calls normal grief.  Perhaps you expected to be crying hysterically, but find you can’t cry. Perhaps you don’t feel a crippling grief the way I did. That’s ok.   Murray says the way we grieve is “not a measure of our love” for our pets. We all grieve differently. Don’t judge yourself if  you grieve differently from your partner, your siblings, your friends.

Beyond normal grief, there is complicated grief.  Complicated grief is when you find you are not getting better; you are not getting through the grief. If you find yourself dealing with complicated grief, or you know someone who is, please reach out for support. A licensed therapist can help work through the grief. However you may find that something as simple as reaching out to a support group can help with the grief.

Resources:

PetLossHelp.org

PetLossCanada.com

ASPCA/Pet Loss

Association for Pet Loss & Bereavement 

Veterinary Specialty Center- Counseling Services – You can find books and support hotlines here.

 

Phone Numbers: CVMA Pet Loss Helpline and Support Group: (630) 325-1600

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 1: Grief is Weird

Grief. Grief is weird.  It has been almost 5 months since I lost Muffin to cancer; I thought was past the worst of the grief.  I was not “over” the loss of Muffin, I hadn’t forgotten her, but the sting of the loss wasn’t so great. I wasn’t breaking down in tears whenever I thought of her. In fact, Muffin wasn’t in my thoughts much at all.  I was thinking instead of Crash, Sneakers, Mama and Little Black. I was thinking of work, bills, life. Then I changed out the litter boxes. Muffin had this thing about clean litter boxes. Whenever I brought up a freshly washed litter box with new litter in it, she would appear from nowhere to use the box. Within minutes of me putting the clean box down Muffin would appear and “christen” it. I thought of this memory a few weeks back when I was changing out the boxes. It was a good memory and I smiled a bit before the floodgates opened and I got smacked with the emotions all over again. I was so sad. From that moment on I was suddenly being reminded of all the goofy things that Muffin and Sam did.  I would be doing something completely unrelated and suddenly be crying over my lost cats. I could be in the kitchen cooking and remember how Sam had to sit on the cutting board (we won’t think about how sanitary that was…). Or  I would be drifting to sleep and remember my last moments with Muffin, the agony I was feeling at that moment. So I repeat, grief is weird.

Working in the world of veterinary hospitals and animal rescue groups, I am confronted with grief on a regular basis. I have seen so many people lose a beloved pet. I have seen so many different responses to that loss. Some, like me, cry hysterically as they ease their beloved pet’s exit from this life. Others are much more practical about their loss. They understand that having pets means loss. That is the sad reality, our furry friends don’t live as long as we do, so we are going to lose them.  Some people cry, others don’t. Some need to be with their pet to the very last moment, while others don’t want to be in the room for the euthanasia procedure. Some people want ashes back, others do not. And ya’ know what? That’s just fine. Everyone grieves differently.

I love the idea of the Rainbow Bridge, and my cats waiting to be with me again.

I love the idea of the Rainbow Bridge, and my cats waiting to be with me again.

I’ve had coworkers who told me they couldn’t look at pictures of their cat for years after she died. I had one coworker who threw a party in memory of his cat, because he was so loved by so many. Some people want to hold on to the ashes of their beloved pet, keep them on a shelf with a picture and a collar. Others want the ashes to spread in a meaningful spot, perhaps a childhood home or perhaps they even want to bury their cat’s remains somewhere. The first cat I lost as an adult was a cat who was in hospice care with me. He was one of my favorite cats from the shelter I worked at and the two of us had a great bond. When he died I got his ashes back and spread them in a little pond near my house. It was a perfect spot for him because he was obsessed with water, especially running water.  We all respond differently to the loss of a pet.

The important part of grief is not how you grieve, but that you do it. Grief is a painful experience, and it shakes the ground on which you live.  I was grieving for Muffin before she even died. The anticipatory grief was hard, but the grief after the loss was harder. When I was looking for resources to help me through my grief nothing seemed to fit my needs. So, I am going to write about pet grief. I will write what I needed to read at the time. Hopefully it will help someone with the loss of his/her pet; if not, it has helped me grieve, which is a good start.

 

Articles on Grief & Death:

Euthanasia: A Vet’s Perspective

The Anniversary Reaction: Grieving Your Pet

Moving Forward and Bracing for Cold

After several days of mourning my beloved Muffin I am actually surprised how well I am doing. Yes, I have my moments of sadness and I question my actions with her, but overall I am doing well. I can’t figure out why I have healed so well, so quickly. Was it because she had been so sick and I knew it was time to let her go; was it because the loss wasn’t sudden– she had not been an active part of the household for a month; or because it is a relieve not to be worrying about her anymore? I don’t know; maybe it was a little of everything. Or maybe it has something to do with the two days I retreated into the house over the holidays. Cold and massive amounts of snow kept me housebound on my days off, and grief made it much more comfortable. When I finally returned to work on Friday I had over two days to mourn on my own and with my family. This was a huge help.

Of course I am far from recovered from her loss. I will never forget my girl, nor will I ever stop loving her. She was a wonderful cat and I am lucky to have had her in my life for over 18 years. My baby girl is at peace now, and no longer suffering. That is what everyone wants right? To be at peace? I just hope that heaven and Rainbow Bridge are real so that one day I can be reunited with her, Sam and the other cats I have lost in my life. It would be sad if we only had our short period on earth with those we loved. Especially our four legged friends, because sometimes they can provide the best love and support.

Now it is time to shift gears and focus on my ferals. It is supposed to be dangerously, bitter cold the next few days. Wind chills making it feel like -50 yes that says negative fifty degrees. Seriously, I don’t want to go outside in that; I can’t imagine Momma and Little Black and even poor little Poosh and Cow (who I haven’t seen in ages) living in that for days. Momma and Little Black at least have some electric heating pads to help take some chill off. They have heat reflecting blankets, and I have microwavable discs I can toss in their house. I am going to worry about them though. Especially since Momma has disapeared. She did this the other day when we were in the middle of like 36 straight hours of snow. She did this during the Snowpocalypse of 2011 (at which point she went MIA for 2 weeks). I can only hope she has found a  garage somewhere in the neighborhood where Poosh, Cow and a pile of other cats are snuggled together to keep warm in this dangerous cold. (I picture a giant pile of cats in the middle of an unused garage, taking turns on the outside of the pile. Just like the penguins do!) If so, I hope Little Black finds them as well. I would rather them both be gone and hope they are together than have just one hanging around  the next few days. Right now Little Black is hanging out on the deck all alone. She looks so sad and lonely. I can’t tell if she is waiting for me to come outside, Momma to come back or just getting some fresh air. She is sitting on an electric heating pad that I thought was broken, so she is keeping her toes and tooshy warm.

 

Add to the horribly cold temperatures another 6-12 inches of snow on top of the foot we already have. I will be on edge until the warmer weather rolls around Wednesday. By Wednesday we are expecting temperatures to be above zero, looking at 27 degrees Wednesday. My poor girls.  If I thought I could  trap Momma I would bring them inside for the next two days, just so they could stay warm. But Momma hates the trap and Momma is not hanging around right now. I dread taking Little Black in, just in case Momma needs a snuggle buddy. So please, keep those of us in the MidWest in your thoughts these next few days as we battle dangerous cold. I worry about all the animals and the homeless humans, who are stuck outside in this weather.

If you are in the Midwest, or the Northeast, or anywhere that is bracing for this horrible cold weather (seriously, it should be ILLEGAL for it to be this cold!), make sure you have shelters for your kitties. Shelters can be quick and simple or they can be a little more complex and fancy. If you are looking for a few quick ideas for kitty shelters visit Alley Cat Allies Winter Tips website.

Eighteen Years Wasn’t Long Enough

It is with tremendous sadness that I share my first post of the year. My dear sweet Muffin crossed to Rainbow Bridge last night. After a month of fighting so hard to keep going, it was clear that it was time to let her go.

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Sweet Dreams Baby Girl 1995-2013

 

Shortly after finishing up my post last night I noticed that Muffin was having labored breathing. She sat down next to her food bowl and her sides were heaving. I thought perhaps it was a side effect of the chemo medicine I had just started her on. The kind nurse at the emergency room informed me it wasn’t, then said she thought Muffin might be having an allergic reaction. When they ruled that out I said I would monitor her, and if it didn’t improve in an hour I would bring her in. Well, it didn’t improve in an hour. So out we went on a very snowy New Year’s Eve. I knew in my gut that she wasn’t going to come home with us. Not the way I thought I knew previous times, but deep in my soul, I knew.  Sparing all the details at the ER, after examining her, they discovered fluid in her chest. As soon as the doctor told me that, I broke down in tears. I knew then that she had at most days with us. I had them drain the fluids. They got 180mL out of her before they had to stop, because she was  getting ornery. Then I knew, I knew she wouldn’t make it to 2014. I knew she wouldn’t make it to Thursday, when my regular veterinarian is open.

They brought her back to us, and we cried. She was finally done. You could see in her eyes, the fight had gone out of her and she looked so, so tired. Even as I knew it was time, part of me fought so hard.  Inside I was screaming, “No! NO! Don’t do it! TAKE HER HOME! MAKE HER BETTER!” Especially after I told the doctor of my decision. I wanted to grab her and run away. The realization (that I have been trying to come to terms with for weeks) that she wasn’t going to be around anymore stabbed my heart and tore it to a thousand pieces. I kissed her, hugged her, stroked her. I just kept telling her over and over her fight was done. I told her we would find a way to survive without her. I would have stayed there all night holding off just a little longer. I kept wanting to say NO! NO COME BACK! BRING MY KITTY BACK! But I knew that it would never happen. My kitty, my sweet Muffin was gone. Her spirit and personality and soul were gone. She was trapped in a failing body and nothing good would come of it. When I finally told my mom to let the doctor know it was time, I broke even more. As Muffin’s life slipped from her, I held her the best I could. Kissing her, loving her and told her her fight was done. Once she left me and joined her brother over the Rainbow Bridge, I lost it. I vaguely remember screaming, crumpling in on myself as I howled with grief at the loss of my beautiful little girl. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t leave her sweet, soft body behind. My mom finally went to get a someone so they could  take my sweet girl’s body away. I wouldn’t leave until they took her.

It has been so hard to cope. Part of me feels at peace. I am not worrying about her anymore. I am not stressed about her anymore. I don’t have to watch like a hawk to see if this round of medicine makes her better. I know she is not suffering. I know she is at peace. The other part of me is completely broken. Wondering how I will ever cope without her. Wondering how I will ever live without my girl and what the point is. I slept with a death grip on her bed and her Christmas stocking which was filled with some of her favorite toys.

So begins the slow process of healing. Please say a prayer for her. And let’s say a prayer that there is such a place as Rainbow Bridge so that one day we can all be reunited with our four legged loved ones.

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Eighteen years ago I brought this tiny ball of fluff into my life.