Zack's Final Lesson

I see a lot of loss in my line of work and I felt like I had a good concept of how it manifests and is appreciated by families.  But enduring the loss of Zack I have explored it all to a different extent and in a way than I hadn't appreciated before.  I hadn’t thought much in depth about the different kinds of losses and the poignancy of day-to-day loss and the slow petering out of a life after death.

Full disclosure: I would not have predicted myself to grieve deeply over Zack’s passing.  I was quite open about the fact that we had adopted him when the kids were both at too young of an age.  I was balancing my own return to work with my new job of being a mother of 2; Toby was just 3 and Mia only 5 months old when Rob decided that our family needed a dog.  To the kids he was their 3^rd sibling.  To Rob, his parental leave and lakeside companion.  To me, Zack was always a dependent that I never had enough time or energy for.  He challenged my beliefs on a dog's role in the family and I often looked at him with a sense of guilt.  I wish now I could have realized what a good life he had with us as opposed to always resenting what I wasn’t providing him with.

And so my first observation about sudden grief is the pedestal.  We all immortalize the dead and speak only of their good qualities and so are true about dogs – even the goofy, loud barking ones you never feel like walking.  I am struggling to remember what was so annoying about this now.  Gone are the daily frustrations that he gave me, replaced instead by the quiet emptiness of the spot where his smelly mat should be lying with his water bowls, waiting to be tripped over.

It’s hard to pace your grief when you lose one of your day-to-day fixtures.  The reminders are everywhere – previously banal, commonplace things now carry a weight of loss and sadness that is unavoidable.  Some seem impossible.  How is it that he was just eating breakfast out of this bowl?  Others just serve as unexpected reminders.  Oh right, I don’t need to hang his leash back up…  

I felt this way the day he died.  As I struggled to figure out which order to do things in and how quickly to do it all in order to make this process easier for the kids I fear I might have rushed some steps. That first night I washed and put away his dog bowls and beds.  The next day while the kids were at school we packaged up his food, treats and dog brushes to distribute among our dog owner friends and I spent an hour in the mudroom trying to rearrange the mats in their to make it look like there shouldn’t be a dog bed at the end of it.

I didn’t feel overly emotional about the big things –it was the little unexpected things that crept up.  When I nonchalantly vacuumed the main floor on Sunday afternoon I realized that this would be the last time I’d be vacuuming up his hair.  (Turns out it wasn’t – I’m clearly not a very good vacuumed…).  When I washed the back door window I gasped as I realized I had just wiped off his nose print from where he used to sit.  And today, as a balmy day in February brought with it a giant thaw, I watched as his footprints disappeared from our once snow covered backyard.

It’s amazingly sad to watch someone peter out of your life.

I know what will come next.  One day I will be able to leave for work without purposely shutting the mudroom door so the dog doesn’t get out.  I will return home from work and not hesitate before putting the groceries on the floor and I will not cringe and wait for the loud barking to start when I see someone with a dog walk by on the back trails.

These steps and remembrances are unavoidable.  Like everything in life, you realize that grief, too, is a process.  Though I see it every day, I don’t actually know anymore how people cope when it’s their daily life companion that they lose.

Before any more of Zack peters out I want to end with one final voice over.  I would always vocalize Zack’s inner voice for the kids when he would rush out after animals in the back yard or do something particularly goofy and Zack-like.  His final voice over tells of his final run down to the fence where we found him lying in quiet stillness just 10 minutes later…

It reads in a deep, slow, earnest voice,

“What a lovely morning, sitting here with the family – WOAH - WOOOAHHH!!!

There’s something walking by out back!!! WOAH…wait there’s a TRAIL in our BACKYARD?!? WHOOOOGOES THERE!!! WHOOOOO GOES THERE!!!!

LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT!!!!”

(The door to the backyard opens)

“OMG IT’S A PERSON! AND A DOG!  MY FAVOURITE COMBINATION!!! AND THEY ARE WALKING TOWARDS ME!!! HELLLOOOO!!!! HELLLO!!!! HELLOOOOOO!!!!

OOOF.

Woah.  There’s a fence.

OMG IT’S A DOG! IT’S A DOG! IT’S A...oh she smells so good…OMG It’s TILLY!!!

TILLY!  TILLLY!! TILLY!!! I haven’t seen you in SOOOO LONG! 

OMG you smell SOO Good I almost forgot what you smelled like!

Hey!  Where are you going? TILLY!!! TILLY why are you walking away?! 

Don’t leave me!!  OH NO TILLLLY!!

Now I’m standing her all alone in a …oh wait…there’s my house… and my people…

My People!  Toby! Mia!  What am I doing out here when you’re all in there?  Oh my goodness you must be missing me….don’t worry…I’m coming….”

We do miss you, Zack.  Every day.  Though the little details and habits of having you around will continue to fade with time, the missing and loving of you will forever stay with our family.  You were our first dog and our kids 2^nd sibling.   Our lakeside companion and our day-to-day constant.  And ironically for me, in the end you were a great lesson on grief and love and focusing less on the details, but noticing instead what’s lying right in front of you the whole time….

Perhaps the greatest treat of his life - Mia's ice cream cone remnants.
He never did figure out that he was actually able to eat it...

Our very last picture of Zack  - taken after laughing at how he insisted on digging his nose into the snow

Toby Hits Double Digits!

And we have reached DOUBLE DIGITS!!!!!

It is hard to know where to start, Toby, to explain to the world what a wonderful, thoughtful, sweet and funny boy you are.  Many times a week I find myself explaining to someone that you are “a 40 year old stuck in a 9 year old’s body…” As we both pass our milestone birthdays together this year, I feel like I might have to adjust my saying…perhaps a 60 year old trapped in a 10 year old sounds more fitting? …

I feel like I could take you anywhere, anytime to share any handful of worldly experience with and you would be a great companion.  Last weekend Grandma Lynda had her birthday and we decided that you were old enough to come out for an adult dinner with us.  You did have a short last minute panic that you had made the wrong decision and were missing out on the opportunity to stay home with a babysitter and the Emoji movie but it turns out you were just hungry.   As soon as you had INHALED your ceaser salad, you brought out your favourite dinner game ‘The Conversation Piece: and regaled us with interesting questions to keep our minds and the conversation going, proving that you are indeed, the PERFECT dinner companion.

I hope it is not an insult to be called an “Old soul” by your Old mother.  I mean it in the very best of ways: you are wise beyond your years.  You think before acting and have such great control of your emotions.  You are kind and thoughtful.  And you come up with the most insightful perspectives on the world.

When Zack died a few weeks ago it hit you hard.  There was no sheltering your innocence from this huge loss as it happened so suddenly and right in front of your eyes.  Even then, in the midst of great sadness, you taught me a thing or two about grief. (Which, I hate to say it, is kind of supposed to be my area of expertise…)  You grieved openly and loudly and you knew exactly what you wanted.  Though it was painful for me to watch helplessly as you cried and cried and cried in my arms, you allowed yourself the unabashed experiencing of your feelings.  And when you were done crying you knew that you just needed to see Holden.

I was a WEE bit worried that poor Holden might not know how to handle such an openly grieving Toby but you two dove right into a game of mini sticks and chatted earnestly about loss and Zack and even had a debate about the average life expectancy of dogs and whether or not he SHOULD have lived until 12 just because he average age of a dog his size is 12.  (You have always been a man of numbers and accuracy…)

Later, you eloquently pointed out to me that Zack’s death had left a hole in your stomach that was filled with butterflies.  And when you were playing hockey or hanging out with your friends the butterflies subsided but you still knew, and always would know, that this pit was there.  You didn’t think it would ever close up.  I know one day it will, Toby.  But I also know that you meant what you said – you will forever hold a deep, deep love for Zack that is as infinite as that hole you so clearly feel.

My favourite picture of you and Zack

One of the things I am most proud of happened a few weeks ago when you put a dent in our neighbour’s car.

That’s a strange sentence- I get it – and it’s not the fact that you didn’t realize that you shouldn’t shoot a puck right at the side door of his Audi  (still shaking my head on that one…) but what you did afterwards that impressed us.  The dent happened before school, and even though I drove you to school that day you didn’t say anything to me about it.  Clearly, your poor little brain worried about this all day, but you came up with the Right thing to Do and immediately after getting off the bus, you went next door , bravely knocked on the door, confessed to having made the dent, apologized, and then offered to pay for the damage.

I don’t know HOW, with your allowance of $10 a month (that I only sometimes remember to give you) you intended to pay for this repair, but it was the fact that you had thought it through and determined what the RIGHT thing to do was and then executed it despite your nerves that was so noble.

Your eternal quest, Toby, is to do right thing in every situation.  It is admirable and wonderful and perhaps one of the greatest traits you can ask for in a kid.

I want to end with a quick selfish note.  This year marks the year that you started playing hockey WITH me.  As you know, we come from a lineage of hockey greatness.  Well, not ME perse but your Grandpa Boyd was an incredible hockey player, NHL scout and the coach of the first women’s hockey team at UofT.  I didn’t start playing hockey until I was in grade 10 and I was terrible.  But I persevered and kept playing and now I play with a few different groups of ladies and I absolutely LOVE It.  You, as well, have played hockey for a few years now, but until this year it never really clicked for you.  This year, for some reason, it did.  You are one of 2 centers on your team and many times you are the best player on the ice.  I can’t tell you how proud it makes me.  You have gotten so good at hockey, in fact, that a few weeks ago when the Thornbury Sunday morning ladies were short a few players I brought you with me.  Normally we don’t let kids under 10 play but I assured them that you were mature for your age and could keep up.  (I believe I might have even dropped the “old soul” line…!)

I don’t think I have ever been happier, playing hockey with you that Sunday morning.  You kicked ass.  You rose to the occasion, challenged people, skated your heart out and played with passion and respect and a keen knowledge of the game.  In the dressing room afterwards the ladies commented on how mature you seemed. They have asked me every week since if I’d please please please bring you.

Though my dad  came dutifully to many of my games, even as an adult, he never knew that any of his children or grandchildren had inherited his trait.  I feel that the immense pride I have taken in your hockey abilities is in part on behalf of Papa.  Even though he is now beyond able to come and see you play, I tell him every time I see him about how good you are and how passionate you are about the game and about what a beautiful skater you are.  Just like him.  I couldn’t be prouder.  And even though I know Papa will never see me skate to my full abilities, I know that you and I have many, many more ice times to come.

As we got off the ice last Sunday you were red faced and out of breath, but you took the time to bang the back of my stick with yours and said with your usual earnest conviction “You’re really good, Mom.  Good game!”

I will never hear those words from my own dad, but it doesn’t matter any more, now that I’ve heard them from you, my Old Soul.  Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mom xoxo

Harry Potter : You read yourself the entire series in a matter of months.

At the Arena, Cheering your Old Mom on...

You and Everst at Cross Country-  you made the finals for Chess AND Cross Country with this friend :)

Mature, And a Little Weird, too...

Loved being on the bench with you and your crazy team this year.  Go Hawks!

You also learned to snowboard this year