#27 TATWTD - GRIEF, a fourth thought; the final thought for now, perhaps

I’m very nearly finished with waking long before sensible people stir from their beds, or lights appear in any window of our apartment building, but I did it again this morning, with Regret wishing to nudge me awake. Is there any aspect of grief more resistant to good sense or counsel than Regret?

Yesterday a friend, a nurse who thinks about such possibilities and their affect, asked, “Barb, do you think, last month, when Skoshi fell off the boat, he might have hit his head on the dock before he hit the water?”

It’s possible. It’s unclear to us even now how our seasoned boat-dog fell, or jumped, some six feet into a space of water no wider than a Monopoly board. Three people were within arm’s length of him and none of us saw it happen. But did we hear a “thunk” before we heard the splash? Did Skoshi hit his head on the dock’s edge? Was the ensuing development of aggression and confusion . . . was it due to a head injury?”

Did the question provide the answer? Likely. Did the question and the likely answer provide the opportunity for a whole new dimension of grief?  It did.

Ever hear these sorts of statements? Oh God, I should have paid more attention; I didn’t notice the growing confusion, I should never have let. . .; If I had only, I wish I had,  I promised I would, Why didn’t I . . .?

I have walked dying processes with a number of people over a number of years and nearly always a part of my assistance was to help survivors survive grief’s swift delivery of regrets. I am very aware that minds and emotions can be seriously crippled by this assault (related, surely, to a feeling of guilt). Regret had no place in our grief over the loss of Skoshi. We determined (when once we could breath, when we were able to use words) to focus on gratitude and release.

But, our friend had asked the right question. Her question made sense. We could see the brain change in Skoshi. We were perplexed by it. We were forced to lose him as a result of it, painfull grateful for him we knew ourselves to be. And then, oh, then, around 3a.m. this morning, my thoughts tipped. 

“Oh, Skoshi . . . did we . . .what if we had .  .  . should we have . . . why didn’t we . . . what if we . . .” and I got up.

Rarely does the experience grief occur without an invitation to regret. Surely, you who know grief, know this. For me? Best that I talk about it. 

For me? Best that I reject regret. Best that I remember to live in such a way that regret has little place, and I can swat away at it, meaning to effect its demise.

For me? Gratitude. That we knew Skoshi! That we benefitted from his life and he, from ours. That laughter and love and conversation and companionship and joy and . . . For us—release without regret. Imperfect humans delighting in an imperfect dog until that delight was no longer possible. Tomorrow morning, I hope to sleep until I get me up.