Don't stop bereavin': A handy guide for coping with loss

At my dad's funeral, I valiantly offered to serve as "urn bearer," the carrier of the ashes from the chapel to the gravesite, but halfway there, under the weight of the emotional burden, I collapsed with dramatic gusto on a little grassy knoll in the parking lot.

My brother, his face dusty and tear-stained, leaned over me and took me in his arms. "I can't carry it for you," he said. "But I CAN carry YOU!" And he did, up the side of the volcano in Mordor, where we finally scattered my father's ashes into a sea of molten lava, restoring harmony and order to all of Middle-earth.

The memory of his funeral is hazy and I'm not entirely sure of the exact facts of the day, but I do remember that was the same week I got my first DVD player, and someone had given me a copy of Lord of the Rings, and the picture quality was so crisp and realistic that even now, eight years later, pieces of Tolkien are still woven into that memory.

That stress-induced memory blur is just one of the ways my mind helped me cope. And I know what you're thinking, but just because after he died I lost thirty pounds and developed a panic disorder, that doesn't mean I didn't cope.

I'm telling you, I cope like a motherfucker.

For example, Old Man Farley died last month, in my arms, on my birthday.

He hadn't been doing well for a couple of days, so late that night I laid down with him on his dog bed and put my arms around him, and whispered in his ear that he was my best friend and that I was lucky to have known him, that he was the most loyal dog there ever was.

I told him that if he had to die it was okay to let go, that I'd be alright, and not two minutes later he stopped breathing, and everyone was like "Oh how beautiful, he must have heard you give him permission to die, and he just let go! What a gift!" and I was all "WALKIES, FARLEY! WALKIES!"

And people were like, "He's dead, Becky. He just died in your arms. And look, there he is right there, still dead." And I was like "WALKIES! *crazy eyes* WAKE UP LAZYBONES, TIME FOR WALKIES! *jangles the leash*"

And then they were like "Can someone take her up to bed or something?"

Trying to walk your dead dog is an example of being in "Denial" which is the first stage of grief. Let's explore some of the other stages together, shall we?

Yes, let's. Come on you guys, it's grievin' time!

ANGER

During this phase, you may lash out and lay blame for the death on someone else. For instance, in my case, I became furious with the doctor who provided his radiation treatments, which eventually caused the radiation toxicity that took his life.

Radiation toxicity is something that just happens sometimes. Not usually as quickly as it happened with Farley, but it happens. That's life.

I could have just paid someone a ton of money to bash Farley's skull in with a bat and it would have been less painful for everyone, haha, but it is what it is. Right? Haha. HAHA!

I'm alright though.

That vet did his best, I'm sure.

In my younger years, I may have resorted to petty revenge tactics, but that's just not me anymore.

I've worked through it, and I realize now that the vet was not to blame.

There's no use feeling angry about it. Anger is not a productive emotion. It's best to make peace with the whole situation. That's the mature thing to do.

Think to yourself: What is the healthiest way to deal with your anger? For me, yoga and meditation have calmed me, helped me to see things rationally and clearly.

To accept it and move on gracefully and maturely.

I like to light a lavender-scented candle at night and take some time for me. Me time. It's been so healing, really. I have to tell you, I feel like this whole experience has really changed me, has forced me to grow up and accept the inevitabilities of life.

*unfolds self from yoga pose* Namaste. Let's move on to the next stage, shall we?

BARGAINING

You may try to bargain with fate or the powers that be, asking "Why did this have to happen?" or "Why did it have to be my dad, my grandma, etc.?"

In the case of a pet's death, when an animal that you're very attached to dies, it's difficult not to look at your other dogs, perhaps one of your less-than-well-behaved dogs, perhaps the dog that revenge shits on your floor when you go out to a movie, and wonder, "Why couldn't it have been you instead?"

This is not the time to try to bargain with death; you can't offer up one dog in an attempt to get the other one back. That's insane.

Now is the time to be extra attentive to your animals. Spend some quality time with them, some quiet time giving them affection.

Oh, Zooey. I'm sorry. You lost a friend too.

Try not to let your pain translate into anger toward your other animals.

Pretty girl. Pretty pup. Good pup.

They need your love now more than ever.

Good girl. Shhh. Just relax. Mama's gonna bring Farley back.

LONELINESS

Farley had been my constant companion for 13 years, so when he died, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. It's perfectly normal to look for something to fill the empty void left when a loved one passes.

Many people find it helpful to volunteer for a local charity or nonprofit when they're coping with loss, it really puts things in perspective.

For example, I found it therapeutic to visit the local pound, to spend some time with the homeless animals, going from cage to cage and insulting each dog individually, as a declaration of my undying loyalty to my dead dog.

Seriously? You look like Einstein's asshole. Everyone hates you. Go die.

Your hot carrion breath has just given me AIDS of the soul.

Oh, grow the fuck up. I don't even have time for your bullshit.

People always ask me, "How do you go to the pound and not come home with a dog?"

And the answer is that I have a heart of steel. I'm not about to be reeled in by some doe-eyed mongrel.

Some mutt with...

...with deep, soulful eyes.

Some dog...

Some dog wif...

(yawn)...

Suh dug wid eyss...

Glurgh.

You are getting very sleepy now, human.

Listen closely now. You will bring me home and feed me treats.

I will destroy your home and bark at your friends.

I will eat my own poop and kiss you on the mouth.

You will love me.

Now give the lady sixty dollars and put me into your car.

Yes, that's excellent. Now open your---

*wakes up in drivers seat*

Oh man, that was close. I almost didn't get out of there without adopting a--GAH!!

What the...? How the...??

Crap.

MOVING FORWARD: HOPE AND ACCEPTANCE

She's sweet and friendly, she plays and cuddles and she's fast as lightning. She eats mud and chases bugs and growls at the icemaker.

Farley would have loved this dog.

Sweet Foxy Shazam!

I'm the sanest person you know, motherfucker.

I don't tell people that I'm afraid of losing my mind, because if I admit it, I'm pretty sure someone will use it against me, like that one time 20 years ago on Days of Our Lives when someone painted Marlena's office with hallucinogenic crazypaint and then piped scary voices in through the air duct and she went all bananas until John figured it all out and saved her, and yes, my life is very similar to Marlena's, why do you ask? *caresses cheek with a single red rose, silk nightgown falls to the floor*

Which is why sometimes when I get a comment on this blog that's all, "OMG someone forgot their medication today! LOL!" or "Oh Becky, you so crazy!" I overreact and get all scary and defensive in my comments back:

Lately I feel like everything around me is dipped in Marlena's crazypaint. It's not just one thing; there's been a rash of crazy lately.

It's the guy who sat down next to me at my smog check and told me about his plans to cut off his penis so that he might transform himself into the sexiest woman in the world, into the "all that and a bag of chips sexy" kind of woman he sees in the Victoria's Secret catalog. He will be so sexy once he is penisless, he explained, that he will literally give himself a boner just by looking in the mirror. "Wow," I replied, fighting my instincts to point out the fatal flaw in his plan. "That IS sexy."

It's Old Man Farley, who has survived both a brain tumor and meningitis this year, but who has recently taken a turn for the crazy. He walks around and around in circles, stares at me from behind doors as if to say, "I left a pile of poop in the living room yesterday and now IT IS REMOVED! WHAT SAY YOU, VILLAIN!" and who gets so disoriented that sometimes he

just...

can't quite...

make it...

onto the bed.

He sure is a sleepy sonofagun!

Yesterday morning I went to wake him, and during the night his head had slipped down between the pillows of his bagel-shaped dog bed, hiding his entire head from view. Everything has seemed so crazy lately that this just seemed par for the course, so in my half-asleep state I just accepted it, sighed, shrugged, and said, "Well that's just great, now he's headless," and started making plans for caring for a headless dog.

I'll have to lead him everywhere, first of all, which is going to be a huge inconvenience, but whattya gonna do? I love the old guy. Secondly, how will his collar stay on if he's only got a neck and nothing else? I need a harness if I'm really going to make this work...

I didn't even photoshop this. His head is really under there somewhere.

It's the hopeful transsexual, and it's Old Man Farley, but it's also my neighbor with dementia, who escaped from her Russian home care worker recently to accuse me of stealing her car. It's understandable, though, why she thought her car had gone missing, because, in much the same way you might look frantically for your sunglasses when they're sitting on top of your head, you can't very well see a car when you're sitting in its back seat.

From the comfort of her luxury car, she pointed to my own car parked in my driveway, leaned up to her cracked window, and asked me why, when we have always been such amicable neighbors, had I stolen her new black Lexus and parked it in my own driveway, somehow magically transforming it into a '99 white Volvo station wagon in the process. I am a thief and a wizard.

Her: I don't mean to accuse you of stealing my car, but I see that car parked in your driveway and, you have to admit, it does look suspicious. Just put yourself in my shoes.

Me: Hmm. I see your point, Helen. But the interesting thing is, the car in my driveway is a white '99 Volvo. Your car, this beauty right here (admiring pat pat on the door), is a new black Lexus.

Her: I know that, but that doesn't change the facts, does it, Becky. *looks pointedly at my Volvo, then back at me* Does it.

I used my keen redirecting skills to compliment her hair and her weight and her cat's manners until her Russian home care worker realized she was missing and came out to retrieve her.

The next day, though, as I was pulling out of our cul-de-sac, I spotted her in her bathrobe trying to break into our other neighbor's house through his side door. "NOT IN THE MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT TODAY, CRAZYPANTS!! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT THOUGH!" I called out softly, as I smiled, waved, and drove on past.

I should be better equipped to handle her, though, because my dad had dementia for years. For how long? Five years? Twenty? The transition from eccentric into demented is so seamless, it's hard to tell sometimes. There's no Cosmo quiz for this kind of thing.

Dementia or Eccentric? The Sassy Girls' Guide to Understanding Your Dad

1) When your refrigerator gets low on food, your dad:

a) goes to the market and buys more food.

b) steals your student credit card and orders $200 worth of Omaha steaks from an 800 number.

c) brings home a package of Pudding Pops, points the shakyfinger at you, points the shakyfinger at the Pops, and drags his index finger across his neck.

d) hides all the bananas, times are tough and you gotta do what you gotta do.

2) In his free time, your dad

a) golfs.

b) cleans assault rifles in the den.

c) steals your student credit card and orders the sold-only-on-tv music compilation set of "Freedom Rock", because your birthday's coming up.

d) calls you at your friend's house to tell you he found a pen. Because he remembers you were looking for a pen that one time last summer.

3) At Christmastime, your dad

a) goes shopping at a store and purchases a sweater, which he wraps in paper and gives to you.

b) steals your student credit card and orders a giant $85 ring made of blue zircon, because "I don't know shit about jewels, kid, but look at it, it's a monster, isn't it? Try it on!!"

c) gives you a canister of tear gas and mounts it on the wall next to your bed with Velcro, because "I'm pretty sure the old guy next door is [makes crazy cross-eyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile] over you, kid. Watch out."

A couple of months ago, I showed up at my mom's house to find my half-brother trying to blow open one of dad's old safes. After a few hours, he succeeded, only to find...

...that the only things the safe contained...

...were two tubes of Chapstick.

"That's bullshit!" he cried. Then he proceeded to hammer the padlock off one of my dad's old trunks. This attempt was slightly more profitable.

And buried in the corner of the trunk full of quarters and dimes was a single black sock.

Ah, hello, old coinsock. I remember you.

Me: I just need five dollars for a movie.

Dad: (counts out dimes and quarters)

Me: Paper dollars? Please?

Dad: Paper's over with, kid. When it all goes to shit we'll be warming our hands over money fires. It's all about metals. Everything else is bullshit.

Me: Why don't I spend the paper dollars now then? Use them up while they're still worth something?

Dad: Because here's why. (dumps coins into a long black dress sock) You're a young girl, out at a movie with her friends, right? And there's all sorts of dirty old creeps out there, following you and your friends around and doin' all sorts of... (crazy crosseyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile*)... you read me?

Me: A bunch of old guys following us around and... what does that gesture even mean... stabbing themselves in the penis? That's crazy! We're just gonna go see Goonies down the street. Okay?

Dad: You'll go see your Goolies when I finish with you. Are you listening? So you get into trouble with one of these guys, and you take this sock full of change and you hold it by the end and spin it around your head, fast. It's popcorn money, yes. It's also a deadly weapon.

Me: (Sigh.) Thanks, dad.

Dad: Bring me change!

*Side note: My dad, in a flattering display of fatherly protectiveness, had it in his head that every old guy in the world was jerking it to the thought of me, like I was some kind of hot tamale on the pedophile circuit. If you knew me back then, we'd be laughing right now, because as you would already know, I was not what one would call a great beauty. Unfortunately for me, since you didn't know me then, I have no choice but to show you my 6th grade class photo.

I know. Boner city, right?

Anyhow.

Hopeful Transsexual, and Old Man Farley, and Dementia Helen bringing back those memories of my dad... All of it has me a little on edge. I like order and logic and I prefer everyone to say and do things that make sense. When things stop making sense, I'm hyperaware and begin to interpret the most subtle of clues to mean that I'm losing my mind.

Sometimes this causes me to jump to bizarre and illogical conclusions. Like, at breakfast:

Waitress: Want another pancake?

Me: Uh, I'm sorry, did you just say...Guatemala handshake? Did I mishear you or something? Because that doesn't even make sense! Oh. Oh, I see. I see what's going on here. I'm hearing things? I'm insane, is that it? It's finally happened? Fine! I'm fine with it! Ha! AHAHAHA! Look at you all, just looking at me, like a bunch of looker people, pointing your eyes at me! I'm craaaazzzyy, right? Well, boogadee-boo! You know what? I got your Guatemala handshake right here, fuckers!! *flips everyone the double bird*

Or at my mom's house...

Me: Hi mom.

Mom: (reading something online)

Me: Hi mom. Hi mom. Hi. Hi. Mom? Hi mom! Hi! Mom? I said hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.

Mom: (closes the laptop, starts to get up)

Me: Mom? Mom! Can you hear me? Hi! HI!! HI!! HI MOM! MOM! HELLO! HELLO MOM! MOM CAN YOU HEAR ME! CAN YOU HEAR ME! MOM! OH MY GOD I'M A GHOST! I'M A FUCKING GHOST! *slapping myself in the face* NO! GOD, NO! SOMEBODY PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!! I'M RIGHT HERE! LOOK! I'M STILL WITH YOU! *sweeps mug of coffee off table* I'LL NEVER GO INTO THE LIGHT! *tries repeatedly to spirit-pass through the wall* HOLY SHIT, I'M A SOLID GHOST? WAIT...WAS I EVER REALLY ALIVE!!?

Mom: Oh for cryin' out loud, will you calm down? I was just finishing this article.

Me: Oh. Okay. Heh. Sorry about your coffee mug. Why don't I... I'll brew another pot, yes? *whistling*

I know I'm asking for it with this post. Of course someone's going to comment and jokingly tell me I'm crazy, and I'll laugh hahaha and it'll be alright because you kinda know me and I kinda know you, and I know that you know I'm not really crazy, right? Haha. Right?

Right?

Dolphinhead Seizuredog's road to death, fuckheads.

The following was written in the winter of 09-10, but I posted it back here in the 2008 archives because it's just depressing. Spoiler alert: the dog kicks it.

November 11:

I'm posting this shit because I'm a crazy dog lady and I'm just compelled, I can't stop myself. I'm all broken up over this motherfucking dog, so to counteract/redirect all the pain I'm going to drop fuck bombs all over this motherfucking joint. Because I have sensitive feelings about my sick dog, but I'm not gonna be all pussy in public about it. I'm brave on the outside. This wall of curses will make me even stronger and more invulnerable I bet. I might cry and shit, but only under the covers late at night, so you'll never catch me, bitches. Fuck you, don't look at me, I have allergies in my eye.

Here's some stupid fucking pictures of my fucking cute as shit dog, Dolphinhead Seizuredog:

Dolphinhead's best friend Juanita has been by her side while she's been sick. Yeah, they hold hands in the car, stupid asshole dogs. Juanita's the fucking little one on the right.

This is from the time when Dolphinhead first started her anti-seizure meds and fell into a planter and then went to sleep. Juanita decided to keep her company in the planter. Juanita is a sensitive pussy.

Dolphinhead sleeps on a towel for when she pees in her sleep. Juanita is worried about her. I'm anthropomorphizing her because I'm an asshole. Fuck me.

Dolphinhead returns from the ER after a hard night, and falls asleep in my vagina. If I had a nickel...

November 13:

Dolphinhead thinks she's hot shit because she can clean ears. She's such a show off. There's nothing worse than a braggy dog. These dogs are nothing but a burden.

Yeah, we kiss sometimes, so what? She probably just wants my food. Dick move, pup. I can see right through your ruse.

November 22:

Dolphinhead Seizuredog continues to hang in there, like the proverbial kitty from the tree branch. She eats like a hobbit and continues to clean the other dogs' ears, so she's happy it seems. The thing that is giving me the creeps, though, is that because the tumor is on her skull above her eye, her eyeball recedes into her head every time she yawns, leaving a gaping hole for just a second. Argh matey!!

I've been walking her around the block off-leash, because I DARE YOU, CARS!! MAKE MY FUCKING DAY!! SHE'S A DOG ON THE EDGE WITH NOTHIN TO LOSE would be the opening line in the preview of the movie of her life.

As promised, or...I think I promised, or maybe I mentioned it, or maybe I was talking to myself...

This is Dolphinhead Seizuredog (aka Franny) the day I found her at the pound 11 years ago. They said she'd been dropped off because her owners didn't want her anymore, but I soon discovered she would cower when I picked up anything resembling a broomhandle or a stick, so there's more to that story I guess.

I loved her instantly.

Here she is with her cellmate, Zooey the Poopmaster Magnifico, aka Gaflooven Flooven from an earlier post. I took them home the same day.
I just realized I've forgotten to swear today. Right. Stupid cuntbag pups. Fin.

December 9:

Dolphinhead hasn't had a seizure in over a month, but her bloodwork shows that her liver and kidneys are failing, which is either due to the strength of her meds or the cancer spreading. There's really nothing we can do about it.

Currently she's lying next to my chair, and I swear to God the stank of stale beefy pee from her ass fluff area is overwhelming. I can't help leaning over and whispering, "I...I can smell yer cunt" a la Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs. But then I feel bad for that, and I reassure her that I can't really smell her cunt. It must be somebody else's beefy cunt area that I'm smelling.

Is she planning to die on my birthday? I see her life like the big spin on Price is Right, and the wheel's slowing down and the section with my birthday is approaching and the wheel goes "plinkplinkplink...plink.....plink.......pul-ink....." and it's gonna stop right there on December 23. A few years ago my cat died on my birthday. Like, AT my birthday dinner, in a box on the side table. (What? You don't keep your cat in a box? It was a big box, lots of room to shift around, and I never kept the lid on or anything.)

No, just kidding, he was napping in there after a trip to the vet.

Death sucks. You can quote me on that.

January 2, 2010

We had her put to sleep today, in her favorite shady spot in the back yard. It was peaceful. She gave me a bunch of sloppy kisses right before she closed her eyes, which was nice because she hasn't done that for a while.

Not sure when this is going to stop feeling so bad. Everything hurts.