This post was written by Justin
A few weeks ago, we said goodbye to Tessa. Many mornings since, I’ve tried to write about how I’ve felt about Tessa’s passing. I’ve thought that writing about it — like other obstacles/challenges/traumas in my life — would help me process emotions. For me, writing is often a small step towards healing. At the very least, it waters the soil from which healing can sprout.
But each time I have sat down to begin this writing process, I’ve struggled to figure out what to say. There is a limit to the number of different ways I can write, “This sucks. I’m sad.”
As you may know/remember from a previous post, Tessa was diagnosed with inoperable bone cancer in the spring that severely limited her mobility. We took her for treatment in a small farm town about five hours away, and Tessa’s mobility improved. However, we knew we only had a few months left. Over the summer, she began to cough more often. In early September, the coughing grew in frequency and severity and her energy decreased. We took her to our vet in Berlin, and the X-rays showed significant cancer in the lungs and other organs. And our vet communicated that we were very close to the end of the line.
On September 30, we sat next to Tessa and said goodbye. Even though we knew it was the right choice at the right time, it was a difficult decision to make and it’s something we’ve continued to struggle with.
When I try to think about it now, my brain begins to process too many things at once. It feels like having YouTube videos playing on multiple tabs while music is also on.
But as I try to process, I have half-written notes on a variety of subjects:
~~~
It is amazing to reflect on the incredible difference between the dog we adopted and the dog Tessa became. She was apprehensive of everything and everyone and suffered from terrible separation anxiety. In the first few months, she would hide from strangers and cower if we weren’t there to make her feel safe.
While the first few months were challenging, eventually she became the calm and serene dog who often approached strangers. We’ve made several friends while living overseas because of Tessa. Someone said something to her at a café or bar, and she just walked up to say hello and get pets. She grew in confidence and often gave us courage as well.
~~~
I’ve been challenged with two contradictory thoughts. 1) I’m grateful that we were able to make this decision for her so that she was no longer in pain or unhappy. 2) I’m devastated that we had to make this decision and choose which day she died. She was struggling so much to be comfortable, move, and be herself, but, selfishly, maybe we could have had one more day or one more weekend.
~~~
We are so glad that Paige’s parents made it to Berlin in September and were able to see her. Sue and Ralph were incredibly supportive in the early months of Tessa’s adoption. Especially as we adopted a dog with anxiety and then left town to attend a wedding six weeks later, leaving them to dog sit. Tessa adored them and was very excited to see them. It was wonderful for her (and for us).
~~~
After she died, I have fallen into self-destructive but familiar patterns to try to avoid feeling negative emotions. By eating sugar-laden food, I’m trying to find some balance of turning the emotional part of my brain off while maintaining an energy level that allows me to continue working. This leads to my feeling physically terrible and hating myself.
The real kick in the shins is that for the last six years, Tessa would often help me escape this pattern. She got me outside when I needed fresh air or offered a mental break by sitting with her and disrupting critical self-thought. For the last few years, she played an integral role in helping Paige and me with our mental health. We know it will be vital to build new habits and patterns, but this transition is hard.
~~~
I’ve been surprised at what sparks different emotions. I’ll see a dog on the street and be fine, joyful even. I reflect positively on the brightness and happiness that Tessa brought to our life.
A few days after her passing, I went for a run and noticed a café I hadn’t yet seen in our neighborhood. I began evaluating if it’s a good place to work from on my afternoon walks with Tessa. Do they have a water bowl out? Are there tables off the sidewalk where there is room for her to lay and be out of the way for people walking by? Does it look like it will be busy in the afternoon? Then I realized I was crying. I loudly and exasperatedly cursed and continued my run in tears.
The joy and sadness seem to come at any moment, and often without warning or prejudice.
~~~
To complicate things, I’ve struggled with the fact that I’ve struggled with this. Tessa was central to organizing our daily life, and I carry anxiety for the uncertainty ahead. Paige and I have embarked on a lot of change in the last month, and we feel unsteady navigating this on our own and without Tessa’s steadfastness and her routine to keep us grounded.
This quote from a beautiful and devastating essay from John Dickerson captures our sentiment. He writes about him and his wife continuing to walk even after their dog, George, passed away.
“We do continue our walks, but our path is straighter now. We audit our accounts, but the routine feels insecure and teetering. The puzzles we solve are about who should get the bag of dog treats, whether to keep George’s bed, the phantom sounds of George’s footsteps.
Our walks will shorten one day and come to their own end. This is just the kind of thought that George would have known to distract me from. He would have been the solution to the melancholy of his absence. And, if I work at it, I realize he still is. To set my face for too long seems like a betrayal of all that joy and unconditional love.”
~~~
During the last weekend with Tessa, we went for a long hike through a dog-friendly forest just outside of Berlin. It’s a part of the forest where everyone has their dog off-leash, and dogs and humans intersect along trails, beaches, and lakes. We winded our way through with Tessa in her cart. She sniffed the forest air and some dogs that came by to greet her. We took her out at points so that she could greet other dogs if she wanted to. Eventually, we stopped at a Swiss-chateau-style beer garden for a late lunch/snack.
I had done an abbreviated version of this walk with Tessa in the spring. At the time, I thought, ‘I want to explore more of this forest with Paige and Tessa!’ I planned the hike knowing that it would be the last opportunity for the three of us to do it. And I wanted my memory to be of that final adventure and not a reflection that I never got back to doing something I wanted to do.
It was a lovely day and final hike with Tessa. I think about it often, and that I’m glad we were able to do it. It was a snapshot of the joy, adventure, and unconditional love she brought into our life.
~~~
And as I try to write now and work to build new healthy routines, I’m able to add a bit more when I reflect.
This sucks. I’m sad. But that’s OK. And we’ll be OK.
