In August 2009 my beloved mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. And I remember coming home from that horrible appointment with that horrible doctor (Alrighty then! We have Cancer! How are we feeling today!) and going into some type of manic-cleaning rampage.
I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.
After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.
I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.
In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.
Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.
And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.
I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.
After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.
I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.
In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.
Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.
And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.
1 comment:
In Heaven, there are no leashes, the car windows are always rolled down on endless rides over country roads (with no bugs to fly in our eyes!) and the biscuit jar is open all the time, on the floor - not on the counter!
I'm so sorry Eileen, to read about the loss of your dear Lucy. Having just lost both of my dogs these past two years, I understand that feeling of sorrow and loss. Isn't it a strange dichotomy that the gift of experiencing the deep, deep love our animal companions give us cannot help but break our hearts wide open when they go?
Big hugs to you in this time of sadness,
Shannon
www.shannonpresson.com
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