Friday 24 January 2014

Grief pt. 2

Last night, Dave and I enjoyed a long awaited movie night. We watched 'I Am Legend', a film which I had been wanting to see with Dave for ages and which I had watched for the first time when I was a teenager. My memory of the movie was fuzzy, outside of brief themes and outlines, and the feeling that it was sad and dramatic and amazing.  

There is a scene in 'I Am Legend' when Sam, the lone protagonist's only living companion, a wonderfully loyal German Shepherd, is attacked by the infected while fighting them off her master. Holding her to him in her last moments, the protagonist sees that she, badly wounded and weak, has become infected and is 'turning'. When the transformation becomes complete, a stoic but heartbroken Will Smith is forced to choke Sam to death with an embrace. Sam dies, and without his only friend, he is more alone than ever.

In hindsight, before last night, I did remember that there was a really sad scene in which the protagonist's dog dies. I remembered but I didnt think I might not be able to handle it. But I couldn't, really. I sobbed and sobbed and images and memories of Ralph alive and Ralph in a body bag on that horrible night flooded through me. And for the first time in months, I felt the agony of losing Ralph afresh.  

I wonder when grief ends. A few days ago, my friend found a photo her daughter had taken of Ralph in 2012 and posted it on Facebook. Dave was sad that day. He missed Ralph a lot. I did too, but I felt alright. I didn't feel the stabbing pain. I was able to smile and hold Mika and I remember wondering whether this meant that I was over it all. That even though I thought of Ralph often, wondering what he would do in a certain situation, how he would get on with Mika, I no longer felt the ache of loss. That I wasn't grieving anymore. I wondered if it meant that I was okay now with his death, which left me feeling mildly guilty about moving on too, if I am completely honest.

When does grief end? Last night, I looked at Mika and I held her, and I missed Ralph, his smell and his coat and his wilful, no nonsense nature. I felt the tragedy of it all and how much we had poured our lives into his. I just missed him, and wished I had never taken him out that day.  

I love Mika so much. She is so different from Ralph in every way. I couldn't have asked for a sweeter, more loyal companion. And most of the time, life is full of Mika adventures and the hole Ralph left in my heart is veiled and dull. But maybe some grief never ends. Ralph's death was horrible, unfair, random, tragic, and we loved him. It is right that we should still feel it all sometimes.

Maybe grief will always be this complex, this mysterious. Changing and masking itself in new forms, hiding till it gets forgotten, then reappearing with a vengeance.

And maybe it will be a while before I can watch scenes where dogs die.

Thursday 9 January 2014

An open letter to dog owners of the world

Dear dog owners of the world,

As a fellow dog owner and lover, I expect a semblance of shared experience to exist between us. A feeling of mutual understanding, an unspoken knowledge of the ups and downs, the funnies and not-so-funnies, of having a dog in your life. The rolled eyes and laughter of understanding when a dog jumps up and gets too excited, for example. The knowing nod and smile when a dog strains against your lead to get to a dog on the other side of the field, dragging you along in a clumsy half-run.

I have never disliked going to the vet with my dog. Never have I felt inconvenienced or ashamed. I have enjoyed the experience of getting professional help, meeting friendly receptionists and staff, seeing people smiling at my dog and bonding in silent ways or over pleasant small talk with other dog lovers. Until today.

Fellow dog owners, no one likes to be judged. Especially when you feel like you haven't been given a chance. Maybe you and your canine friend have always been perfect, poised and contained. Maybe you have never needed to train your dog or rein them in, and you have always sat there, graceful, composed and statuesque, with no problems and creases to iron out between you. Maybe. But I doubt it. I doubt very much that you are unlike every other committed dog owner I know, who loves the idiosyncrasies about their dog, adores their strengths and acknowledges their weaknesses, and has to bow to the powers of time and patience and perseverance to get the whole dog-human relationship right. Unless there is a superior canine ownership club that I have not yet heard exists.

This is Mika, dog loving friends.



You may have noticed that Mika is a Staffie. In fact, at the vet today, this seemed like the only thing you could notice. You looked past her excited frenzy from going to the vet, full of smells and other dogs and animals, and the faint trace of treats and food. You looked past her gentle and calm demeanour when she was sitting between my legs, her natural state when settled, looking up at me with those adoring eyes, ready for a rest and a stroke but unable to contain her excitement at this new adventure. You looked past her eagerness to scramble off the lead and towards other dogs to have a smell and say a friendly hello. All you saw was her stout, muscular Staffie body, her occasional protective growl when dogs walked past me, which I tried every time to root out, holding her firmly and safely. All you saw was her strain to get off the lead, and the hyped up headlines full of drummed up hysteria screaming out: "Staffies kill people", "Staffies eat kids", and lots of other tragic tales that are really about abusive, neglectful, irresponsible upbringing and lack of training.

You looked at Mika and you judged her.




Dog owners, I don't know if I need to labour the point that Mika is not a man-eating killing machine. I don't know if you would believe me. I don't know if there is any point telling you that we rescued her from being put down by clearly irresponsible and neglectful owners, from a known rough neighbourhood, who had not speyed or vaccinated or wormed or fleaed Mika. That she is the sweetest, more affectionate, loyal and loving dog, and she has exceeded all our expectations of her. Everything I tell you could be swept away by the arbitrary labels that come with breed. For Mika could have acted the way she had and been a cross breed, as was true with Ralph - who was universally loved and doted on at the vets, despite acting so similar to Mika. If she was a golden retriever or a poodle or a Yorkshire terrier no one would have bat an eyelid. I have seen quite a few yappy and aggressive Yorkshire terriers around this area.

Instead, I was told by two separate people that I had a "handful", and by one incredibly rude and presumptuous lady that she was "terrified". This lady scoffed at me when I told her Mika was fine at home, and when she had entered the vet and looked at Mika the first thing she said, completely unsolicited, was "I'm glad I didn't bring my cat."

At first it was quite fascinating to me, canine fans. Many a time I had sit there with Ralph and I can say with certainty that it was a completely different experience. People did not drag their dogs away from him, for example, or hide them in thinly veiled fear. They saw that he wasn't scary or dangerous - or maybe they just saw that from his colouring and body shape. Not so with Mika.

Fellow dog owners, I am assuming that under the layers of preconceived ideas from the media and hearsay, you remember what it is like to have a dog who needs work. I don't believe that no dog needs work, really. Every dog is learning to be a better companion, and every dog owner is learning to be a better leader. I want to level with you. We have had Mika since Saturday, and we are getting to know her better every day. I believe I have picked up on a few things that we need to work on already, and we will. We will love her and train her and guide her in the best ways we can. And we will see her as she is, with all her flaws and her amazing strengths. For example, Mika likes to sleep in our bed, and she is wonderful at sharing the bed and burrowing under the duvet to give us space. A flaw and a strength!

Friends, I know that Mika's growling is bad and needs to stop, and I know that she can be overexcited, and these are things we have training strategies for. What I don't have a strategy for is that you will judge her before you know her. You will judge her unfairly. That upsets and angers me. I am sick of the fact that Staffies are feared without being given a chance. Because it's bad owners that create 'bad' dogs. Any dog of any breed could become aggressive given enough neglect, abuse and irresponsible ownership. I thought that much was obvious. Maybe it isn't.

In America, pit bulls are arguably the equivalent of Staffies in terms of being the marginalised breed. A dog rescue worker in the documentary 'Shelter Me' states that 90% of the time when pit bulls in America are seen just walking on the streets, they are reported as 'being aggressive'. An awful statistic.

So I end this letter with a request. Please give Staffies a chance. Give every dog a chance. Wipe the slate clean and forget everything that you've heard about how this breed is aggressive and how that breed are known to kill. How this breed should be kept away from kids and that breed should be locked away. Every dog has a different temperament. Every dog can be trained and loved and helped to be the best that it can be. They are dogs, not wolves. Dogs can be domesticated and can live alongside us. That's the way it works. Dog loving friends, as a dog owner, you should really be more knowledgeable about dogs. It's a basic requirement, isn't it?

Yours sincerely,

Mel, lover of all dogs and of Staffies in particular.

Thursday 2 January 2014

2013

I recently received a Christmas card from our dear, dear friends (love you, Listers) with the words: "Your honesty and vulnerability shows great courage." Having a husband who is within blogger fame naturally makes you think about your own blog, what it is, what category it might fall into, and other demographic-related issues - but my friends' words made me think about my blog in a new light. I think my blog is a channel for me to be honest and vulnerable. Nothing more, nothing less. And with that confession in mind, I wanted to write about some of my musings and reflections on 2013, some things I learned and others I struggled to learn. 

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2014!?

Every year I am amazing at the passing of a new year. Time passes so fast, the years and dates roll by, and what once seemed a lifetime away seems to come in the blink of an eye. When I was a kid I used to think of the 00s and dates like 2014 as though there were sci-fi universes full of flying cars and mind-control technology. Yet here we are, at the start of another year, after the rollercoaster of 2013 - coming into a new adventure, so similar from the last year but so pregnant with possibilities. Life goes on - life in all its chaos and pain and beauty and power. We are here to live another day, to grasp the hours with all our might and make the most of it all. A strange mystery and minor miracle, being alive.

This too shall pass

I am 25 years old and this year I think I really came to terms with the fact that I will likely live with depression for the rest of my life. It has been a gradual realisation, calmer and more accepting. Not cynical, not angry, but looking at the world with tempered eyes. It is part of me, like some people struggle with back ache or bone problems. It will come in bouts, peaks and troughs, sometimes brief and sometimes dragging through what seems like endless shadows. Sometimes I will bounce back, every bit the fighter as I always wish I was, and it will quickly feel like none of it happened. But sometimes I will be in the depths, and all that I will see and feel are the waves and the choking. I will feel like life was always like this, and I will wish that life was not life. 

This year I have dipped and risen up many times. It hasn't always been related to circumstances, and it hasn't always felt the same. 2013 was the year when I learned that the depression that is part of me will come and go. It will change in its expressions through time, as I change, and it will pass, it always does. It is part of me. But the dark periods will always end, no matter how prolonged or deep and desperate. Life will bounce back and burst full of joy and beauty, full of normality and peace. There will be rainbows as well as rain. 

This is what I struggle to remember - that my life is more than my depression. That my light and my dark come hand in hand. 

Love and grief 

Our baby dog Ralph was run over a train in November. He died, it was traumatic, and we loved him. This year I learned about grief in a way that I hadn't experienced before. Grief was its own monster, raw and powerful, a master of stealth attack. Sometimes it still grabs me, and the ache in my gut pulses, like it never left. I learned how it feels to lose something you love more than you thought possible, to see their absence in everything, a gaping hole of your regret that you took him to that place at that time, that you didn't do this or say that or give him this. Your nights wondering what might have been. To feel your heart rip in every move, and the tears which burn as they surge out of you but never stop.

I have said this before but I think that you grieve in proportion to the amount that you love. For a while I was scared. There were times when Dave would come home late or he wouldn't answer his phone, and I would be pacing around the house in a frenzied panic and in tears, praying that he hadn't had his life taken by a tragic, unexpected accident. There were moments when I thought that I could never love someone as much as I loved Ralph again if I was ever going to survive this life. But even in those moments, I knew that I would never stop loving. We loved Ralph so much. He was so special to us, and I regret nothing about the love and care we tried to give to him. I wish we had loved him more and given him more. We were blessed to have had him.

I think Dave and I have come to terms with Ralph's death now. If not completely, then almost fully. I think of him often. I miss him. To my hope of heaven I add another hope. One day I will see him again, happy and healthy, made whole. It will be as though none of this ever happened. 

Slow burner

2013 saw me start a new job and move towards what I consider my calling to be. With that has come challenges, a new working environment with new colleagues, a demanding role, and a gradual settling into new team dynamics. It also saw our move to Chalfont St Peter and our deepening of friendships built at church and at small group. I have spent so many hours doubting the point of relationships. Burdens and baggage make trust in people difficult for me. At the start and even middle of this year I thought I would never make 'real' friends. That it was the end for me, and I had had my share of close friendships from the past. Now, I was too broken and busy, too encumbered by social conventions and facades, to invest in a real way in new people. Especially with my history and my health problems. No way. 

I am humbled and a bit ashamed, really. Because we have made friends. Great friends with whom we share the everyday ups and downs of life. I have been honest with them about my story and my struggles, and they are still my friends. They are not 'weird' around me, they have shown me that they love and appreciate me, and they still want to share life with me. 

Looking back, I realise again that I am a slow burner. Only now, 6 months into work, do I feel that I have got to know a few people a bit better and settled into a comfortable dynamic with them. It takes time for me to make friends and to build relationships. What I need is patience and a willingness not to give up. A realisation that the type of friend I want and need is someone who is in it for the long game. It might take longer, but it is worth it.

Make love not war

I have never really been part of a church for longer than 2 years at a time. From the time that I became a Christian at 17, I have moved churches every 1 to 2 years. I have never really felt like I really belonged to a church. I think this has been to my detriment. Many of you will know that I have a anti-institutional bent when it comes to my faith in churches. I have been angry, disillusioned and extremely antagonistic at times to church structures, politics and rules. It has been something which has rocked me to my core, given that Dave is called to be part of the church as a leader. Most of the time these are churches that I would not naturally align myself with, and do not feel a part of as a result.

I am still on this journey. I have so many questions - not just about church and theology but about God and his nature. I am by no means anywhere near resolving most of them. 

But I realised that recently I have mellowed. I no longer feel militantly angry at church and everything that 'they' do. I no longer feel I need to declare war. I have realised that I have met some godly, kind and amazing people who work for and belong to Gold Hill, our current church. I feel humbled by them, loved and affirmed by them, and supported by them in a way that I would never take for granted. I love them.

I feel humbled by my husband and the commitment he has to the church and the people in it. The kindness and grace and godliness he shows by not 'slagging off Christ's bride'. 

Nowadays, I can see the good in an imperfect and broken system, led by imperfect people seeking to follow God's will. I feel like I can align myself with these people, these lovers of Jesus, trying to make the best of a bad situation. I admire them for being better than I could ever be, these brothers and sisters of mine.

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So there. These are some of my thoughts on the second day of this new year. To all of you reading, I wish you every blessing and all my love for 2014. May this year be better than your last, and everything you want it to be! 


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