I thought it would be easier.
I had pre-mourned every new sign of diminishment. I had established a hospice mindset, every effort being made for comfort, sparing her the cruelty of hopeless prolonging. I imagined that when the time arrived that even comfort seemed hopeless, the ending would be a sense of release, relief, and reflection; sorrow, and then a return to life.
Except that after almost 13 years of attentive devotion and sacrifice, most profoundly in the last 2 years as the weight of age became undeniable, I have no life of my own in the wake of Jessie’s leaving. It is as if, at the moment her spark faded this past Monday morning, I lost both a cherished companion and a purpose.
That, coupled with constantly running into the sharp spaces where Jessie is supposed to be, has thrown me into aching fits of sadness and longing. For those moments I completely understand the phrase, “drowning in sorrow.”
I am moving ahead, though, one foot consciously placed in front of the other. More moments of clarity than blinding pain. I believe I will eventually stand in clear, loving light, “glad that it happened”, as Dr. Suess admonished, rather than “sad that it is over.” Soon enough I hope to find a way to channel all I’ve learned from serving Jessie into a new reason for being. After all, Maxx, momma’s boy that he is, is still here, and can surely use an additional measure of unconditional love.
Still, in whatever time I, myself, have remaining in this life, I’m not sure I will be able to talk about Jessie (and I fully intend to talk about Jessie) without a tear here or there.