A Very Long Musing on Grief

Beautiful days like today are the hardest ones. Athena and I walked rain or shine, more consistent than even the post office. We’d, by we, I mean I, would don whatever appropriate clothing the weather called for and hit the streets. For almost a decade, our aggressive walking schedule has been the hallmark of my life. And on days when the golden rays of the sun stood high in the heavens and the crisp, fresh air gently swept by our faces, I would make sure that we enjoyed every last drop of delicious weather. Living in the Pacific Northwest gave me a newfound appreciation for sunny days, and nothing gave me more joy than when Athena would turn her face up to the sky and seemingly sniff the air and kiss the sky. Some of my most cherished memories are those quiet times with her. 

It has been an incredibly difficult winter. On December 3, 2019, Athena left her physical form, and I began my complete unraveling. That’s what I’m calling grief these days. For me, it’s more accurate than merely saying that “I’m sad.” A few days ago, I met up with a dear friend who I see a few times a year. She had not known of Athena’s passing and telling her the news reminded me of how although time might lessen the immediate sting of grief, it surely doesn’t remove the heartbreak I feel every time I have to share the news.  Her response — “Oh my god, that’s terrible, Athena was more than your everything” was the impetus for this long-coming, overly rewritten musing. I think that’s the best way to describe Athena; she was the center of my world, the true north in my journey through life, and the only place that ever felt like home. No matter where I have been in the last decade, Athena was the one constant that made me feel safe, who made me feel bold and boundless. I think that most people who saw us interact would agree that Athena was my soulmates. Her existence was a gift that taught me much more than I ever expected, and her passing has continued to push my evolution. 

My slow unraveling began with Athena’s death but continues to drag me to depths of sadness that I didn’t realize I had within me. I think many people are familiar with grief in one way or another, whether it’s the grief over the passing of a beloved person (human or non-human) in your life, or its the loss of a relationship (platonic or romantic) or even the loss of your health. Grief hits us in a place within ourselves that many of us forget to honor - our soul. Moreover, in living with grief, I have come to realize that few of us know how to make space for not only our own pain but for those of others. I hope that by articulating some of my journey, I can begin to illuminate the complexity of mourning.

To reclaim my space and my sanity, I began to do a few things that have helped me in my healing, and I hope it might help someone else in theirs. 

One of the very first things that I experienced was what I call “the forgetting.” It’s the waking up in the middle of the night with unshakable panic. Most of the time, it’ll be because I remember that I haven’t fed Athena for the day, or I’ll imagine that I accidentally locked her in the backyard and then the dress will set in, and it’ll hit me all over that she’s gone. It’s the constant tug between my past life and current reality that usually triggers a food new emotions. But instead of spiraling, I’ve learned to take deep breaths and to say out loud, for the universe to hear — “I love you Athena, and I miss you.” The act of acknowledging that her spirit is here with me always brings me back from the edge. 

Now, the emotion that has surprised me the most about grief has been anger. I’ve had a meditation practice for quite a while now and credit that for my pretty even temperament. Nonetheless, there are times where I am overcome with sheer rage. The red hot fury that boils inside of me when I think of the circumstances of Athena’s death can rarely be contained. Of the driver that just hit her and never stopped going, of her dog walker who should not have had her off-leash next to a bustling street in the middle of the night, or of the memories we will never make. The last part is the one that hurts the most. Because when I go to be angry at the humans involved when I go to assign rightfully due blame, I struggle to hold on to that righteous rage. I just can’t stay in that place of darkness.  Their forgiveness was the first thing I felt when I heard the news of her passing. It cheapens Athena’s legacy of stoic but unwavering love. Athena was no one’s softie, but she was kind, and she was forgiving. And I have found that by rooting myself in the love that we shared, I have no more space inside of myself for anything else. I recognize that this anger is fueled by my deep sense of abrupt loss, of all of the love that no longer has anywhere to go, of all of the future adventures that will never be experienced. That newfound reality is what sucks, where all of my anger stems from.

I had so many more milestones to complete with her. I always thought Athena would be my critter maid of honor, the doggie doula to my future children, and that when we’d seen enough life together, she would pass away in my arms. And that she would go with us staring intensely into each other’s eyes, seeing our souls reflected in the galaxy of love that flowed between us. It is the denial of that kind of peaceful release into the expanse of eternity that fans a flame that blooms inside of my heart like a thousand suns. I’ve been having more and more of these moments - where I go to be angry or speak in spite, and I’ll get this wave of calm come over me, and I’ll just melt. I know that’s Athena, giving me her light so that I can continue to walk in mine and learn the art of acceptance and surrender. I never want my last words to be something I’ll regret, even if it warranted. But I know that anger is futile, and when it starts to take root, I simply think of Athena’s life, her strong-will, and her loyalty, and I am reminded that very few will ever know friendship and love like ours. She was one of a kind, and so was our bond. 

And I have found that by rooting myself in the love that we shared, I have no more space inside of myself for anything else.

The other piece of grief that hit me the hardest has been the fear. I’m not a fearful person. I experience it, just like anyone else, but I usually lean into it and confront the things that scare me most. After Athena died, I found myself truly afraid. I would have nightmares about her being hit by the car that took her life, and sometimes it would be me instead of her that was hit. Other times, I’d start hyperventilating when I would see a neighborhood cat roaming around or dog off-leash - fearful that they’d be hit by a car, even if there was no one in sight. Then there was the slight panic I’d feel when I would walk at night - terror at the possibility of not being seen by a driver or of walking alone past nightfall. Finally, it was the heartache I felt every time I passed the area that Athena died. I drive by there a few times a week because it’s a major thoroughfare in Portland, and every time, my heart would just get tight in my chest, my throat would close up, and my breath would just catch. And in all of these scenarios, the tears would just pool up in my eyes and flow. I knew that living in such unwavering panic was surely no way to live, so I confronted my emotions. How? Well, as only an Aries would - with extreme measures.

The first thing I did was fly through the San Diego airport - which was where I was on a layover when Athena’s sitter called me in hysterics to tell me she had just died. I stood in that space and felt every bit of my heartache — of my unraveling, and I simply prayed. I asked Athena for the strength to untether her death from my life. And I said that same prayer a few weeks later when I walked to the very spot in the street she died, and I left a few of her favorite treats for her and cried. In those moments, I learned that grief must be embraced and not avoided. I must also mention our circumstances can compound that grief. As a person who lives alone, works from home, and has spent most of her life preferring the company of books, animals, and plants, the silence was both comfortable and damning. I have spent a large portion of my grieving time alone, and that has been hard, but healing. Ironically, it has been during these contemplative times that I have longed for Athena’s company the most. She’s the one I want to turn to and tell about my sadness; she’s the hand (paw) I want to hold when I’m lonely, and she’s the face I desperately want to look into when I cry. In the cacophony of the quiet, I have been able to unwrap myself from the trauma of her loss. Some folks aren’t able to withstand silence, or who may not have any in their home (roommates, workplaces, families, etc.). For these people, I encourage you to make space for the stillness -- whether that’s just 10 mins a day to think of the source of your grief, or it’s a prayer you say whenever the ache becomes too much.

I think some of us occupy our time with activity and responsibility to avoid the heavy work of mourning, but it must be done. I know this because I have had the misfortune of crying in almost every public place I’ve been in for the last few months. Shortly after Athena’s death, I went on a bucket list trip to South America -- the highlight being a boat trip in the Galapagos Islands. I have quietly cried in cabs, on planes, and on that boat. I have shed tears while poolside in paradise and have felt my absolute lowest while ringing in the New Year at a delightful Panamanian rooftop restaurant. There was not a corner of this earth where I could avoid my sorrow. Once your heart has a tear, you must mend it with time, attention, and love -- all of which require solitude and serenity.  

Along the path of grief, I began to create rituals that have continued to bring me peace. One of them included making a candle in one of Athena’s old food bowls. I light it every day and look at one of my favorite photos of us just stand still. I simply let myself be and do what feels right at that moment. I usually do this every time I re-enter my home — it’s a poor substitute for the Athena hug that awaited me when I would come home from being away, but it gives me something to look forward to when I arrive. I’ve remade that candle almost half a dozen times already. And I intend to keep a light burning for her until my last day on this earth -- or until the grief subsides, whichever comes first. 

There was not a corner of this earth where I could avoid my sorrow.

The greatest lesson that grief is teaching me is how to love ferociously and without restraint. That’s how I love a very select group of people in my life - and Athena is the one who helped me open up caverns inside of my heart that I did not know could hold endless light. In the last two years, I’ve mostly worked from home, and when I’ve not been traveling for work, every moment possible was spent with Athena. This time helped me fine-tune the small gestures of love that strengthened our deep bond. Such as the way Athena would nose my knee during a walk. Whenever she did this, I’d find a place to stop and give her a big hug and tell her I loved her. Or the way that every morning started and every evening ended with a hug and a kiss on the forehead. My favorite was the way I tried to thank her every day for choosing a lifetime with me and no one else. Sometimes this meant that we split vegan burger patties once a week, or I fried her an egg in coconut oil just because I could, or worked in the backyard, so Athena could chase squirrels and lay in her little burrow at the side yard. She taught me how to speak in multiple love languages and how to be present at all times. 

The very last day Athena and I had together was so glorious and mundane - which was the nature of our lives. I was running behind for my work trip and was wavering on being able to take Athena for a walk. She’d patiently followed me around the house while I did my chores, and I decided to abandon the last few to-dos and go to the park instead. It was drizzling a bit, so I thought raincoats were in order for everyone.  That day, Athena was looking extra cute, so I snapped a few photos during the walk. As soon as we got to the park, she ran so jubilantly that I decided to forgo the jacket altogether, and we chased each other and laughed until it was time to go home. When we got back into the house, my Uber was less than a few mins away, so I dried her paws, put away her coat, and gave her the biggest hug we’d had in a while, and I said: “thank you for being mine, I love you, good girl.” Who could know how bittersweet that final memory would be for me? How powerful?  

Every day, we make a decision on how we show up, how we live, and how we love. This decision is cemented by the way in which we brandish the weapon that is our words. Some folks wield their tongues with reckless abandon and selfish intent. However, for me, Athena’s sudden and unexpected death reminded me that we should usher in love with our words. We must mind our mouths more carefully and share our hearts more freely. Always, and I mean, always make time for love. I have absolutely no regrets about the meetings I took while walking Athena outside, the events I turned down to stay home and hang with her, or the way I always treated her like a fully autonomous and independent person. I hold on to that belief every time I am overcome with guilt at entrusting someone else with her care, guilt over traveling so often for work, and guilt for not having been able to keep her alive. The grief has made space for an irrational kind of guilt that continually requires me to have a “love practice” that is as intense as my “gratitude practice.” I’m saying, “I love you” as much as I do “thank you,” and I know that the consistency of both will bolster my healing. 

Every day, we make a decision on how we show up, how we live, and how we love. This decision is cemented by the way in which we brandish the weapon that is our words.

As my father said, when bouquet, after bouquet was delivered to my door and friends, sent their condolences, “Athena was more loved than most people I know.” My family came to town two days after her death. They arrived at my request to celebrate Athena’s 10th birthday and to celebrate her life. I have the sweetest family that I love dearly, and my eldest nephew volunteered to sleep with me. The next morning he’d gotten up early to eat Nana’s Ghanaian pancakes and had come upstairs to ask me if I wanted to come down and eat/play. Little did he know that as soon as he’d left the room, the waterworks began. When he saw me lying in bed trying to brush away my tears, he just hugged me and said: “I love you.” Isaac is only nine, and at that moment, he knew that there were no words to make everything ok, only acts of love. And that has been the greatest gift. In grief, I have discovered a world of people who understand my woe, who comprehend what it means to live life without your anchors, to feel so numb and empty that it seems like you’ll just float away into the atmosphere. Pain can be a bridge if we let it, and death is a reality we all share. 

On the scales of life, it seems grief is a stone that carries significant weight. It doesn’t matter if that grief is for a creature or a human, for someone you knew forever, or only a few moments. It burdens the scales equally. It is only love that can bring back the balance. 

As I prepare to turn 33, I am reminded that this will be my first birthday in ten years without Athena by my side. And the irony of it is comprised of my favorite and most magical number (3) is not lost on me. I keep thinking of how she won’t be here to see me become the very best version of myself, the person I saw reflected in her eyes. So in this season of my life, I’m chasing something greater not only for myself but also for her. I just want to make my little goddess proud, to see that wise and stoic face light up and smile. 

Some days are worse than others, and it feels like the space inside of my heart will become a black hole that consumes everything around it. Like when I drop food on the floor, and there’s no one to eat it (or in Athena’s case, inspect to see if it’s worth eating), or when I go to take the garbage to the front of the house, and there’s no face peeking at me from the side of the yard to make sure I do it just right, or how there’s no furry body sprawling in the bed, refusing to give me space to sleep comfortably. Oh, how I miss her being my shadow, my secret keeper, and my forever home. But it’s then that I grasp for the light, when I fight for my joy. I spend most of those moments thinking about Athena. I’ll hold her second most loved stuffed elephant - EliFanti (she was cremated with her favorite EllieFanti, a gift for her 1st birthday), and I’ll speak to her and let the tears flow. And when I feel like I’ve emptied my soul, I’ll pick myself up, light her candle or touch the cast of her paw print, lace up my sneakers and hit the road. I’m waiting for the day where my life won’t be measured by the seconds that have passed since her death, which, as of today, is 3 months and 2 days, or 7,948,800 seconds. To spend the time productively, I’m walking again - doing our obligatory 90-minute minimum and as soon as I get to the corner of our street, I lift my head to the sky, I take a deep breath, smile and kiss the air — for Athena.