Mom says she doesn't think I'm ready for therapy dog training class just yet, but I think I'm on my way, because I've noticed that this is one time of the year Mom can feel a little down. And I think knowing when someone needs a little love from a fur ball is the first step to acing therapy dog school. But I'm still trying to figure out why Mom feels this way, because that might be step two for acceptance into therapy dog training. Mom explained once before that humans can be sad sometimes about people they've lost, which I guess I could understand feeling sad over, but I'm still working on figuring out the lost part. And since Mom and I share lots of talks now, I decided to just ask her about it.
When I told Mom I was wondering how humans get lost, not to mention how I was feeling a little confused, since Dad sometimes actually suggests that I get lost, Mom said, "No silly. What I meant was not actually lost humans, like missing humans, but that they died."
"And that is what again?"
"That's essentially when people go away and don't come back."
"Hmm," I said. "So, that's why you seem a little sad?"
"Yeah, I guess," Mom said. "It's called grief."
"I'm confused then. Cause you say, 'Good grief!' a lot. But if it makes you sad, it can't be but so good."
Mom shook her head. "Another case of same word, different meaning." Mom thought for a minute. "I guess," she continued, "grief is when a human's heart is heavy, because they miss a part of themselves. Like, people can grieve a lot of things. People who retire might grieve their job or how their life used to be. People who love having their kids at home might feel grief when their kids grow up and move away. And I think," she said smiling down at me, "even pets can feel the same kind of sadness when their lives change."
This sounded super depressing to me, but I wanted to know more. One thing I do know is that I can cheer Mom right up. I let her hug me when she wants, and when I know she needs it, I crawl right up on her lap and snuggle in. Us pets are good like that. And that's why I would be such a good therapy helper! So, understanding this grief thing was important to me, because I sense I might need to master it to graduate therapy dog school.
"What exactly are you griefing for now," I asked.
Mom's face said "Aw, bless your heart," like I was some kind of an idiot, but she chuckled and said, "If you feel grief - with an f - you're grieving - with a v," she explained.
"Mom," I said, rolling my adorable eyes, "I'm a frigging dog. You think I care about spelling or grammar?"
"Sorry, Gus. It's hard for me to stop correcting people's grammar and spelling."
"So then," I said, shaking my head and prodding her along. "what's up with the grief with the F right now, during this time of the year?"
She sighed. "This time of the year is a bit of a bummer, I guess, because it's my dad's birthday, and he's not here to celebrate with, and it's also the anniversary of my mom's death. So, it's hard not to think a lot about them right now."
Ah, my grandparents. I have never met them, but I know them well. Mom and Dad both talk about them a lot, and they are always telling Big Brother and me about them - little stories or tidbits about their lives and adventures. Mom said they were both part of The Greatest Generation - people who grew up during The Depression, came of age during WWII, and lived to see some of the most amazing feats of science and some of the greatest moments and figures in recent history. Grandpap was in the Army during WWII, came home and went to college on the GI Bill, and then met and married Grandma. She went to flight school during the war and graduated, but she never did realize her dream of becoming a crop duster. Instead, she ended up getting together with Grandpap for a marriage that lasted 64 years and netted them 11 kids and 29 grandkids. Mom always says that, because she's at the tail end of that 11-kid situation, Grandma and Grandpap were her buddies.
"They were kind of the eggs in the basket that was my life for a long time," she said.
"Eggs?"
"Yeah," Mom replied. "You know how people say they 'put all their eggs in one basket'?"
Of course, I've never heard this - I'm an 18-month old dog, for Pete's sake. But this was a deep conversation, and I didn't want to run it off course, so I nodded.
"Well, I put all my eggs in that basket for a really long time - from like middle school all the way up until I met Dad really. Not that I didn't have other people in my life, of course, but my parents were just part of my every day."
I guess that explains Mom's feelings about this time of the year, but I know Mom is sad about her parents more than just now.
"That's just how grief is," Mom said. "It ebbs and flows. People will tell you that you just have to 'get past' grief or that time heals all wounds. But that's not true. Everyone's grief is different. People can grieve a baby that was never even born or a baby that only lived a few days in the same way a person grieves a spouse of 50 years. It's all about the heart's investment. I read once where someone said grief is the price you pay for loving someone fully, and I'd say that's just about right."
"That's making some sense," I said. "Your investment in your parents was pretty big, so you feel it pretty big." Then, since I was on a roll with the thinking thing, I said, "I don't really remember my dog mom, so I guess I don't have any grief with an F over losing her."
"Well, I think you do remember her," Mom said, "because I think you dream about her. Your lips get all puckered up and start moving a mile a minute, while you make a little slurpy sound and whine, and I think that's because you do remember her feeding you, and you miss her."
"So, even though I only knew her a few months, and I don't remember her when I'm awake, I can still grieve her - with a V - you're saying?"
"Now you're getting it - and good slip-in there with the grief vs. grieve thing!" Mom said proudly. "Kind of makes me sad when your little dream happens, though."
"Geez, Mom. Even grief I don't know I have makes you sad?" I asked, beginning to wonder about a bit about Mom at this point.
"Look," Mom said. "Everyone's investment in life and in the people in their life is different, so everyone experiences grief in their own way, and they deal with it in their own way. That must be your way, and I have my ways."
I know now that my way is having a dream that sounds a bit weird and is more than just a little embarrassing, but I was curious about Mom's ways. She said she tries to take little things that happen, which might at first make her sad, and turn them into things that make her feel good. Like what, you're wondering, same as me. So I asked.
"Well, like the other day I was cleaning out some stuff and found a note from my mom. And last week, when I was trying to call Dad from the car, I accidentally hit the voicemail button, and an old voicemail from Grandpap that I keep came blaring out of the car stereo." Then she looked at me kind of sheepishly and said, "Ok, I know it's weird to keep a voicemail from a dead person, but that's another one of my ways - hearing his voice makes me feel good."
"If you're willing to overlook the weird dream thing," I said, "I'm willing to overlook this voicemail business." Then I remembered something! Something that happened today. "Tell me about Big Brother's shirt," I demanded, "because that nearly made you cry."
"Good one," Mom replied. "You really are getting it. And you're right - it did make me tear up a bit. Today is Grandpap's birthday, and Big Brother came downstairs wearing one of Grandpap's old t-shirts - and he didn't even remember it was Grandpap's birthday!" She was really loving that part. "It's like the other things I told you about - they're like little gifts, even if when they first happen, I feel like I want to cry. " I nodded, feeling very proud that I was really picking up on what Mom was saying, especially because she was so into helping me understand. "That's the part about grief that's tough, though," Mom continued. "When you get to a place where you can put the burden down, you have to try hard not to pick it back up. Say hey to it, but keep on walking, and work to turn it around."
I thought for a few minutes about how much I love my humans and how much grief (with an F) I'd have if they didn't come home. So, I told Mom maybe it's not really worth it to love somebody a lot, to make quite such a big investment. She was adamant that it's just the opposite, that no matter how much you grieve, it's always worth the investment. She said that if we didn't love a lot, our heart would be empty. And, sure, when we lose someone we love or some time in our lives we really loved is in the past, it hurts a lot, and it leaves holes in our hearts.
"But you have to find joy in other places," Mom said. "You start making other investments, and it kind of fills the holes a bit."
I'm not much of a digger, but I do think I could fill some holes. Mom agreed. She said, "When someone you love is grieving their own loss, you have to give them some extra love to help fill the holes. You have to just stick with them when they need you, even if they don't know they need you, and you're real good at that."
"I am good at sticks," I said.
Mom looked disgusted and said, "Different kind of stick."
Ugh. All these big words and spelling tricks and hidden meanings. Deep conversations are hard! Mom could sense my frustration. "Gus," she said, leaning down to look me in the eye, "all you need to do to help fill up my heart when I need it is just be snugly, cuddly, you."
Snuggly and cuddly? I got this -
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