Blood Sugar(41)

Benita from the bird sanctuary was there with her equally panda-like husband. I wanted to invite Alisha, but I knew that wasn’t okay since she was my therapist. Dr. Don attended and generously gave us all ten of the dinner plates on our registry. Jason’s closest friends and colleagues made the trip, as did Amy, Erika, Sharon, and Hannah. Although I sat them at separate tables, since over the years squabbles and perceived slights had put them all at odds, by the end of the night the four girls found their way to sit together, leaving past issues behind. The happiness and love felt at our wedding was contagious, and so strong that it seemed it would never wane. But it did. It all slipped away. The Grim Reaper in our midst.





CHAPTER 29


    DEATH



Three months after the wedding, Jason and I were on our usual morning walk with Kangaroo when all of a sudden she collapsed. Her soft, wiggly little body crumpled, and she fell face-first onto the sidewalk. Jason sprinted back to our place to get the car; I threw myself on the ground and held her limp head in my lap and called Dr. Hamilton’s office to say we would be racing over.

We rushed her into the animal hospital, but her magical spirit had already left her stout brown package of a body. Dr. Hamilton couldn’t be sure without an autopsy but felt fairly certain she had had a heart attack. These things do happen, especially with boxers, and perhaps there is comfort in knowing she went quickly and painlessly, and she had a wonderful life with us, and that’s all there was to say, really.

We left the vet without her. I silently sobbed in the car, not able to get enough air into or out of my lungs to make a sound. A deep grief swallowed me up. Kangaroo had been my shadow for the past year. She was such a sweet, well-behaved dog, bringing everyone who saw her so much joy, that I brought her to my office most days. I stacked my few clients who were allergic to dogs on the same day, so on all other days I could parade her in and let her shine her light. She was nicknamed Buddha Dog because of her centered, loving presence. She had a way of looking at you like she understood the pain and suffering of the world and that it would all be okay.

I had never before felt such grief. Like frozen tar stuck to my insides that wouldn’t move or flow or pass through me. I spoke to Alisha at length about my thick grief and how lucky I was that this was the first time in my life I was feeling such an intense loss. When my grandparents had died, I was sad, sure, but they had never followed me around all day, every day. They didn’t depend on me for exercise and food and affection and look up at me with big brown eyes and wag their happy stub every time I entered a room. They were not a part of the daily minutiae of my life, trotting by my side. So when they died, it wasn’t as impactful to me as when Kangaroo died. Her death made me so conscious and grateful that I had never had to suffer that deep grief before.

I knew, despite the sadness, that I was lucky, as Dr. Hamilton had said, that she went like she did. Suddenly and painlessly. Rather than from a long, drawn-out disease that left us with the horrendous decision of when to “put her to sleep.” Another death euphemism created by people in denial. Instead of putting our beloved pets to death, we tell ourselves it’s an eternal sleep, crossing the rainbow. While I organized every last plushy dog toy into a giant pile, I thought about the people I had killed. Putting them to sleep was an easy decision. One I made within seconds. And so I concentrated on the idea that I was lucky that sweet little Kangaroo went quickly in her own time. And it wasn’t on me to decide the moment and the place.

Alisha compassionately said, “Ruby, you keep focusing on how and why you are lucky. And that’s wonderful, to be grateful for the things you have. But right now, you need to focus on the grief. If you don’t, it will remain stuck. That tar, as you call it, will keep hardening and be much more difficult to ever clear from your system. So let’s talk about it. Let’s get that tar boiling and bubbling up and moving around. How are you feeling inside? How do you feel right now?”

I sobbed out, “I feel like I have way too much time every single day. And it’s filled with nothing but a bottomless void of sorrow.”

I grabbed a tissue from the table, wiped my eyes, and explained. Every morning I used to spend several minutes watching Kangaroo stretch and wiggle her butt, excited for the brand-new day. I would cuddle with her and let her lick my face and then watch her lick Jason’s face. Then watch her attempt to lick Mr. Cat, who would begrudgingly allow it. I would then let Kangaroo out, take her on her walk, feed her, and watch her butt wiggle some more when she heard the jingle of me grabbing my car keys. Half of all my conversations with Jason revolved around Kangaroo. “Such a good girl today!” “Do you want to give her carrots or should I?” “Look at that cuteness!” I would glance in my rear-view mirror to make sure she was still in the back seat of my car, happily sniffing the humid air as we drove over the causeway. Then there was an evening walk, dinner, one more yard break, and nighttime snuggling. But not before she would make several circles around on her blanket, to get it just so, and then sink into it with a sigh. Then I would watch her paws twitch in the night, and I could only assume she was dreaming about running through fields of flowers. All that time I devoted to her every day was still there, but she was not.

I had to tell my clients that Kangaroo had died since they were used to her always being at my office. I was dreading it. I almost wished I had never brought her in so I wouldn’t now be tasked with reliving her death over and over, telling everyone, passing along heartache to others, to the very people I was supposed to be lifting up and helping. But behind the tar, I knew that the joy Kangaroo had brought me and everyone else she came into contact with overrode the current sadness.