I thought I would continue to blog through the grief process. Mainly because it just feels like something I need to do for myself to help me as I try to navigate the loss of Aragorn; but also because my last post seemed to resonate with a lot of people. We're not always great as a species at talking about our BIG FEELINGS but perhaps we would all be better for it if we did.
Aragorn came home yesterday. Graham from Companions Pet Crematorium, who collected him on Sunday, returned him to us. His ashes were placed in a casket in the shape of a sleeping black cat. We have placed him on the radiator cover. His bed used to be in front of it. He did so love being warm.
I cried as soon as he was placed back in my arms. We thanked Graham for taking care of him for us and for returning him to us. He was kind and compassionate again, and I am so grateful for the service they provided. Neither of us wanted to actually go the crematorium itself, so the fact that they came out to collect Aragorn, and then came out again to return his ashes to us, it meant a lot to us.
That last week with Aragorn where we were in a kind of limbo of sadness and pre-mourning while he faded in front of us was so difficult, but this week after I think we have both felt like we're in a new holding pattern, but for what? For this carved out feeling to lift?
The house feels completely different. Greyer. Incomplete. So many spaces he used to fill, both physically and with his personality. So many habits that are now having to be abandoned but still feel instinctual, like expecting to see him in his bed or by his bowl, or wandering in to jump up for a cuddle.
He was always in this house. I've never known this house without him in it. I don't recognise how this house functions without his ever presence. It's like a book with blank pages. I can't read it.
Sometimes we're okay. We'll have a chuckle about his many funny quirks or a memory. Then suddenly, we're very far from okay and the tears will come again ahead of the aching sadness.
It's often out of nowhere. I'll be working. Responding to an e-mail or something and then I'm swallowed up by a hungry monster of a feeling and the box of tissues is prevailed upon again.
Yes, there is reassurance and comfort in the knowledge that we did the best we could for him. That we were able to have the honour of helping him on a painless journey, but it doesn't stop those sledgehammer moments when I feel the loss of him so acutely; that I miss him and want him back so badly.
I understand that he is gone, of course, but the wild part of me can't accept that he isn't here any more, except as ashes in an urn.
He was such a tactile boy. My lap feels bereft without his constant purry weight, deep sighs and the way he would stretch in his sleep, right down to his paws. He was such an integral part of my life for 19 years. I know that I am incredibly lucky to have had all that time. So many cuddles and naps and strokes. But I'm greedy. I want more.
I know that in time, it will feel less raw, that I will absorb all this grief until it becomes a normal part of me that I carry, that will be bearable. I know I will have to grow used to his absence, that it won't feel so immediate, BUT I DON'T WANT TO.
Neither of us really know what to do with ourselves. We feel aimless. Like we're waiting for something, but the logistical stuff has all been done. His ashes are home. His inky paw prints are here. We have a little bag of his fur and some wildflower seeds that Companions kindly included. Now, it's all memento mori. A frame for his paw prints. A locket for his fur. A black cat planter for the seeds.
I hate the disjointedness and wrongness of having to refer to my sweet boy in the past tense, when my love and loss are so very much present. I had to get Hardy a bigger bed because seeing the empty space where Aragorn's used to be just made me gasp with the cold hardness of it. Aragorn was also all Hardy knew for all 12 years of his life, so I wanted to give him the extra attention, so he now has a ridiculously big, fluffy doughnut bed.
I don't think, after only a couple of days, that we're ready to get on board with discovering a new normal.
We're all a bit lost right now. I'm not reading. I can't find any joy in anything. We're right in the middle of the hangover of dealing with the knowledge we were losing him, and everything that needed to be done after that.
Adam has been getting headaches. I've had a swollen throat, cough and been feeling generally fluey and run down (not Covid). I think the last couple of weeks of stress and worry and agonising have caught up to us. We're both drained. Eating is currently this mechanical thing. A necessity rather than taking any enjoyment.
I wouldn't want to go through this with anyone else. We've been strong together and we've been weak together. We've been keeping each other close, holding each other up. Sending each other stupid memes. Getting through the day.
Grief isn't a linear process. We're not going to cross the finish line and get a trophy. There's a space been carved out of us in the shape of Aragorn. I hope that one day we will be able to fill that void with good memories and feelings instead of it just being a gaping whole of nothing. It's all still so recent and raw. We're clearly not even nearly there yet. At the moment it's just loss and tears and sadness. I just miss my boy.
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