Rose always seemed to have a map of the farm in her head, something I never quite had. If I lost a glove or cellphone or keyring, I would just let Rose out and she would go right to it, especially if it wasn’t there the day before. She was always watching over the farm. First from her perch up the hill, and through the windows of the farmhouse, or from her favorite perch in the front yard by the big maple tree. On her last day, she sat up in the Pole Barn for a last look. One of the things she was always updating was me – where I was, what I was doing.
I’m going to be posting photos from the Last Day this week and beyond, also chronicling the process of love, loss, grief and celebration. I celebrate Rose’s life more than I grieve it. Much more.
A couple of things I have learned about grieving this past weekend. More to come:
– It is critical to have an easy relationship with a vet, to have a vet you can talk to, who will listen and understand what you need and want and what the animal needs and wants. I was fortunate to have such a vet in Suzanne Fariello of the Cambridge Valley Veterinary Hospital. Talking to Suzanne openly and honestly transformed the experience from a possible wrenching nightmare into a very beautiful ritual of love, farewell and responsibility. We have only beautiful memories of Rose’s last minutes, and Dr. Fariello is responsible for that. Make sure you have a vet you trust and can talk to, and who listens.
– Rituals of remembrance are important. I am so glad I spent a final day with Rose, walking with her, talking to her, photographing her. My notion in the book is so, I think. They don’t have to disappear. You can experience them again and again, and that is very helpful, very healing. I’ll put up some video of Rose’s last day later in the week.
More late. I am overwhelmed by your messages, now into the thousands. Thank you.
I took this photo of Rosie with the other dogs before we drove her to the vet. As always, one had the sense with Rosie that she could always read me, as this was one of the few times she ever looked at the camera for me. There is hardly any photograph of her looking at the camera, she would never submit to it. Drove me nuts.
I was very consciousness as we moved to put Rosie down of the unity of grief, of the selflessness of grief. Everyone on this world has experienced a loss of some kind – of a dream, a lover, a mother or father, a dog or a cat, a job or a hope. Grief is as universal as life, and there is a narcissism to grief that I made a conscious note to avoid. I do not see Rose as my loss, our loss. It is more than that. I saw grief in the eyes of the vet who euthanized Rose, in the vet tech who inserted the catheter, in the aide who prepared the room. I see it in the e-mails of people offering condolences who lost dogs and cats, horses and birds, daughters, sons, husbands, wives, houses and jobs.
At every turn, I reminded myself that grief is not proprietary, it is not mine alone, it is one of the universal feelings, truths and realities that we all share in this world, and in this sense, we are really one. Rose was my dog, but yours too, and your mothers and fathers and dreams and expectations as well. In this way, we all understand one another, we see the ways in which we are one, we can all empathize in ways we too rarely too, and so this is the beauty of grief, it’s power, and it’s profound connection to love. In our sometimes disconnected world, this is a powerful connection.
I love life on a farm. It moves to its own rituals of life and death. It doesn’t wait for us to feel good, be happy. It calls you to life, every day in many ways. The animals are always there in the morning. The chickens squawking for their meal, the donkeys waiting patiently for their hay and grain in the winter. The farm has a spirit of its own, and it is always calling out to you, move ahead, pay attention, join in the dance of life. It makes you smile, too, all the time.
If there was ever an anthem for Bedlam Farm, it was the daily call, “Rosie, let’s go to work,” as the two of us set out to encounter the farm each morning. I looked around for her when we set out to do the chores today, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t there.
I decided yesterday to accept the new reality and take a photo of the Dogs Of Bedlam Farm after Rose, and without realizing it at first, I saw that the dogs had left a space for her. There was something different about them, or at least there was in my mind. I do not sense grief in them, but a keen awareness of Rose’s absence. This did touch my heart when I saw it on the computer. Lenore has become my shadow, she watches me constantly. I see they sense grief
Grieving is very healthy, very necessary when you have lost something you love, and grief is the toll you pay for love, the bill that comes due. I welcome it. I would not wish a life without love or grief, for that would be a barren life.
I am overwhelmed and deeply humbled by the messages pouring in, through e-mail, Facebook and really, through the air and spirit of the farm. I am going through them, reading them, appreciating them. Rose touched a lot of people. I am not too busy or too overwhelmed to see or read the messages, and I pledge that I will read every one. Please know that. If people took the trouble to write them, I want to see them. There are many, but not too many, by any means. I am not that famous or that busy. And they really help, every single one.
I am doing well. Rose is the first dog I have lost in a shared life. I have never put a dog down with someone close to me in the room. Maria was with me every step of the way, sweet and gentle and loving soul that she is, and that makes all the difference. Before she died, Rose turned to Maria and licked her hand. A powerful thing to see, and a joyous thing to see.
My life is about moving forward and I will surely grieve for Rose, but I will move forward too. There is a lot of life around here, and a lot of love, and I will be on that train. Grief is not the absence of life. It is an affirmation of it. I am very happy to report that my own book “Going Home” was tremendously helpful to me – from choosing the right vet, to recording images and memories, to taking time to say goodbye, to seeking perspective. I was concerned this wouldn’t be so, but the book gave me a framework, a grounding. I will be writing about that.
One message stood out this morning and I want to share it. I have come to realize that there are many people out there who have followed my life, the farm, the blog, the books for years, and they are sweet ghosts and spirits in that it is easy to forget you never hear from the vast majority of people who follow your work. Once in awhile, they emerge and it is often very touching. Anne wrote me this morning. She has read all of my books, followed the blog for years, with all of its recorded ups and downs.
Anne had worked for many years, and lost her work, and was alone in her 60’s, and had given up on life. Anne said she read about Rose, and about Rose and me, “and I read how you found where you need to be, and who to be with. I was inspired…” She applied for a job, and and got it, and now, she says, “like Rose, I have a lot of work to do,” a lot of life to live. A bright new star is in the heavens now, she wrote me.
Well, you can hardly to better for an epitaph than that. Rose, I see, is still working. She has only left the material world, but she is a bright star in the heavens now. She inspires me too. She always has. Jon, I hear her saying, let’s go to work. Like her, I am a warrior for life, and if grieving is important, so is living a meaningful life. Thanks Anne, and thanks everybody else.
