It’s the fragments that are getting to me; the pieces that show all we’ve gone through over the past few weeks and months that make everything so hard. It’s opening the notepad on my phone to find it’s still on the directions to the emergency vet. It’s the beds and blankets she had scattered all over the house, many of which were so thoroughly destroyed by the peeing and other side effects that even if I wanted to keep them I couldn’t because there’s no way to ever get them really clean.
It’s looking for her after a shower, when we go into the kitchen, when the wind rattles the screen door. It’s the realization that when I spill popcorn on the floor I have to pick it up. It’s getting cold and not having her there to grab and snuggle with until I’m warm or she’s thoroughly annoyed.
It’s not having to watch where I walk all the time because I’m not going to find a spot where she peed while I was at work. It’s not getting kicked while I knit or whined at while I’m on the computer paying bills. It’s not knowing the weather because I haven’t been outside every two hours. It’s not getting kicked when I try to nap on the sofa.
And it’s physical, too. I had no idea how much of it was physical. It’s not quite heartburn but it’s not nausea. It’s that washed out feeling three seconds after throwing up, with a mouthful of saliva and a burning shaky feeling all over…
It’s finding a way to stay occupied for an hour or two and then suddenly whatever you were doing is done and everything comes back. It’s worrying that I’m talking about her too much and that I’m making it harder for everyone else to mourn. It’s worrying that I’m not talking about her enough and that I’m going to internalize it all and shut down emotionally again.
It’s a headache the size of Kentucky and wondering whether the headache blocks the sleep or the lack of sleep causes the headache. It’s wondering how badly I’ve destroyed my sleeping and eating patterns and how I’ll get through work on Monday if I don’t sleep tonight. It’s being amazed at how well we’re both handling it and wondering how well we’re both handling it.
It’s worrying about whether she’s being a good dog wherever she’s gone to (yes thank you I’ve read rainbow bridge) because I don’t stop by God’s house very often but that doesn’t mean I want Jess to pee on His carpets, terrorize His parakeets, and chase His other dogs. My mutt has a reputation.
It’s wanting her in my lap for just five more minutes and knowing that after that I’d ask for just five more minutes again until time itself stopped. It’s remembering what she felt like in my lap and knowing that no matter how hard I try I’m going to eventually forget what she felt like and what she sounded like and all I’ll have are memories of how much I love her and how much she loves me.
It’s two thirty in the mourning and I can’t sleep.