grief
Last night Mark came to bed and Pepe wasn’t there between us. He brought Poupoune into the bed as a substitute, but she isn’t as soft and snore-y as Pepe was. Mark broke down in inconsolable sobs. “I miss Pepe!” “Pepe didn’t want to die!” “He was so happy on his walk.” “He was so helpless. I looked after him!” … and finally, “He needed me.” I cried too, because I was sad for Mark.
Today we talked about why he is so much more affected than I am. One reason is Mark’s greater experience of loss, having lost both parents as well as his country and old friends. Intellectually he thinks the decision was probably appropriate, but he feels it to be painfully wrong.
Another reason is my own experience of suffering. I spent years trying to get my depression taken seriously so that I could get effective treatment for it, only to be repeatedly told that as long as I could function a little bit that I wasn’t depressed enough—probably not depressed at all. I got treatment after having lived in a dysfunctional relationship for years because I didn’t have the financial or psychic resources to leave; having become unable to do any kind of work; having lost contact with my friends; and having been reduced to walking the sidewalks with tears streaming down my face. As long as I wanted treatment I was denied it. When I no longer wanted it, when I had given up all hope and wanted only to die, it was suggested that I was possibly depressed and would I consider accepting treatment for depression?
I am still angry today at having been forced to suffer as much as I did, forced to endure completely unnecessary losses, in order to qualify for intervention.
Mark may be projecting his own sense of abandonment, but I am also re-enacting my own story, this time re-written to include the recognition of suffering and need given promptly and lovingly, without begging.
August 7th, 2009 at 12:25
Depression does make you appreciate suffering in others, so very true… but you’re still allowed to feel the loss, y’know, without plunging back… (I can relate to your story: the head of psychiatry at McGill almost laughed at me and gave me an appointment six weeks from the day I saw him, crying helplessly. When I left I wanted to jump from a bridge. A great man, that one. I wonder how many suicides he’s caused.)
Mark’s pain is the flip side of the love that grew between him and Pepe, and what a blessing it is, really, that you brought them together. Pure love is worth the pain, isn’t it? (I agree with you: it’s also worth doing what needs to be done.)
Recently, when an older friend met my dog, she spontaneously wondered whether I thought about the fact that he won’t be around forever (he’s six already) and how I could love him so knowing I was headed for pain. My mom, about the same age as my friend, recently lost her beloved male cat, and she said she would live out her female cat’s life, but not get other pets because it hurt too much. At the same time I lost my precious Milady. Yet since then we’ve adopted another female cat and Tango-the-dog. I find it fascinating how everyone’s reaction to pain and loss is so very different (yet never wrong as long as they find their own way of coping). To me, life is both pain and pleasure. I accept that. I grieve forever whenever a loss occurs. I could cry now thinking of pets who died years ago. I do sometimes. But let that stop me from loving again? Never. I can’t. And I can’t see things bleakly when love is filling me. They’ll all die someday and so will I, but I focus on the warm fuzzy feelings and the extraordinary bond. (And y’know… it was my cats who ensured I survived my worst bout of severe depression. That’s how much I owe them. It’s quite a debt, and I’m willingly repaying it.)
March 22nd, 2010 at 11:28
vieux bandit: Yes, your observations are spot-on. Another level of projected loss showed up with Mark’s ambivalence about taking on a new dog. He was afraid it meant that we were replacing Pououne, and that Poupoune was going to die, and that we thought she was replaceable, and all sorts of horrible things. I don’t think I was able to convince him that we were replacing Pepe, who was already dead, and that Plume and Pepe are so different as not to be comparable, so nobody was being replaced really. Every time I take Plume for a walk without Poupoune, Mark thinks I am making a declaration that Poupoune might as well be dead already. (No, I am making a declaration that when Poupoune hides from me when I get ready for the morning walk she is telling me that her arthritis hurts and that I should respect that.) Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell when I need to just ignore his drama and when I need to take his feeling seriously. In this case it wasn’t too hard: I really needed a dog, so Mark would just have to deal.