The 6th Stage of Grief

Everyone has heard of and likely experienced the Five Stages of Grief at some point or another: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. It has only been two days (how is that possible since it already feels like it's been way too long since they last time I held him?!), but I have definitely spent time in the first four of those:

He can't be gone.

Why can't special animals like him live longer?!

If I could have just had one more day with him... One more hour... I'd give anything.

I can't do this; it hurts too much. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I don't want to get out of bed today.

The fifth stage pops in now and then, but I certainly haven't yet come to terms with this loss. And I don't want to accept it. Accepting means acknowledging that he is gone. And I don't want him to leave me. About a year or more ago, I ordered a small "Roo" stuffed animal from the Disney site. Remember him? He is Kanga's kiddo from the Winnie the Pooh stories. It was one of the nicknames I often called Mac: my Roo. Mac used to love soft squeaky toys, but as he aged, he lost teeth, and he lost interest in "recreational chewing." I put the stuffed little Roo in the dog bed on the floor next to me with Mac at night time, and he would often rest his face and head on it, using it as a pillow and a comfort toy, or he would hold it with his paws or just have it next to his head. Now I hold it, and I press my nose to it so that I can have Mac with me, if only by smell and Roo association.

I also have the dingy yellow towel that I wrapped him in when I walked into the vet's office. It is the one that was limp and empty when I walked out without him. I don't want to wash it; I don't want to let it go. I have my South Carolina stadium blanket that I covered him with when I would lay him on the couch next to me; he was under it just before we left. I wrap myself in it, and I don't want to ever wash his scent off of it either. And then there is his collar... I found it several years ago at the Scottish Highland Games in Winter Springs. Mac's "real name" is MacGregor, which is a large part of my family heritage as my grandmother's lineage is linked to the Clan Gregor (ex. Rob Roy MacGregor). The collar is the red and green tartan of the Scottish clan. It's well-worn and torn in a few places, but I can't seem to stop holding it in my hands. I don't want ANYONE to touch these things. I keep them close to me but away from other hands and paws. They are HIS. They still smell of him. And he is mine. To let anyone else handle them, to wash the items he last used... it would mean that he was really gone. I haven't washed the shirt or the pants I wore when I last held him either. And it was hard to take a shower and wash the arms that held him so tightly, but I guess I have to draw the line at being completely disgusting and not bathing, right?

So Acceptance is out of the question for now, but in this case, and I would assume with many other cases under which similar circumstances have occurred, I have learned that there is an even tougher 6th stage in this cycle: Doubt. Did I do the right thing? Should I have "saved" him? Was he really ready or did I jump the gun? Maybe something could have been done. Does he blame me? Does he think I gave up on him? Does he have any idea how hard for me to let him go? Can he possibly know how much I love him? I can torture myself with these scenarios for hours.

There have been some reassurances along the way. My brother lives with me, and he had been around Mac daily for the last few years (since 2010 when I came back to Orlando). He told me, "I have no doubt that you did the right thing. I saw him; he was ready." My mother offered, "Veterinarians are bound by law to only euthanize an animal if it is the best and most humane option for that pet. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't think that Mac would eventually rebound." She also said that when she saw him at her house last Sunday, she knew he was not doing well; she was actually amazed that he lived as long as he did after his seizure last week because she thought it would only be a matter of hours then.These sentiments help, but they don't prevent me from going there in my mind many times since I had to make that very painful decision.

My brother brought him home yesterday. I had pulled out a baby picture of Mac a few weeks ago - my absolute favorite. He is laying on the twin bed in my senior year college apartment, and his tongue is sticking out of his mostly closed mouth because it was too big for his puppy mouth at the time. It was the cutest oddity about him at that time. He was so "new" that I hadn't even given him his first haircut. Ned chose that photo to put in the cherry box I had selected from the crematorium website the day prior. It was perfect.

He will always be that puppy. He can run. He can jump. He can race up and down the stairs. He can scratch behind his adorable, floppy ears with his back paws. He can leap up onto the bed and settle up against the warm body under the covers. He can leap down and loudly drink water out of his bowl at 2 in the morning, and then land on the one who is trying to sleep there when he returns to the bed. He can make a valiant attempt at escaping from the tub in mid-bath. He can even lift his leg to pee without falling on his side! All things that he was not able to do for the last several months of his life.

That is how I will choose to remember him, and what I hope will help me eventually reach the Acceptance stage. Until then, I will pinball between the other well known four and my invented sixth. And I will keep smelling my Roo's Roo, that ratty yellow towel, and the last blanket I put over him on the couch, all while holding the Clan Gregor tartan collar in my hands.