Sometimes it's OK to Not be OK

Photo Credit: Eva Lin Photography

My girl. My Ryleygirl. My fur ball, my child, my little one, my baby girl. She found me in the dead of winter, wandering around in search of food, icicles hanging from her fur, and has been a staple in my life ever since then - literally keeping me together through all kinds of things. She gave me purpose when I quit my job, at a time when my marriage was falling apart without me having conscious knowledge of it. I woke every morning feeling lonely and called her onto the bed, when my then-husband was away on business trips for long periods of time, and we'd snuggle and I'd sing to her, and I would thank God out loud for her in those moments. She carried me through my divorce, and the period of intense sadness and depression after I found myself alone, without an income, and single for the first time in years. I'd call her onto my sister's bed in my parent's basement where I stayed, as I struggled to keep the sobbing from beginning every morning as I wandered what would become of our lives. She'd snuggle me and sniff my tears because she's never licked anyone's face since the day I got her, and she'd lay there with me, fur soaked in tears and I thanked God for her outloud for her in those moments. She became my companion and roommate as I moved us into a new place, my very first time living alone, without parents or human roomies or significant others, nervous to take on the bills all by myself. I'd call her onto my bed each morning as I woke up at 4:30am for work, sadness coming from her eyes as she knew I was leaving for another 12+ hours for work, me telling her I'd be back before she knew it, knowing it would be a long day for us both, and I thanked God for her in those moments. She faithfully tagged along, without question or fear, promising to protect me, as I purchased my very first home a year ago, making the best out of what very little yard I have for her to utilize (her first time without grass all around). And to this day, I call her onto my bed each morning in this home after my boyfriend leaves for work, and she slowly wakes from her crate, taking a couple tries to get her hips and legs to propel her onto my big bed, and I once again sing to her, and snuggle her, and talk to her about our day of not having to rush out the door for a day job anymore, and I thank God outloud for her in these moments. She is my rock, my companion, my constant, my all and my heart bursts when I look at her face each day wondering how I could ever live without her - a thought that has weighed heavy on me for days now.


Ryley had pretty routine surgery to remove some growths last week, and the vet was confident we were looking at benign cysts, but said it was my choice to send them to pathology to be tested for malignancy; a decision I was wary of because of his confidence and the cost. However, I went with my gut and chose to spend the extra $300 to have them sent away and tested but worried very little for the out come in the days between surgery and the test results. When people asked me how Ryley was and if I was worried, I stated the same canned answer over and over - that I was a little concerned, but that whatever the results, I'd handle them and she'd be ok. The truth was - I'd hardly thought about the tests results, often forgetting I was expecting a call until someone asked me if I'd received it yet. The vet was so sure that they were benign and I was so busy taking care of my girl after surgery that my mind hadn't really even tried to set up its usual "what-if" scenarios. As I played phone tag with the vet's office on Friday I had a raging headache and a nauseous feeling in my stomach, realizing I hadn't had the time to prepare myself for the worst, and when we finally connected I felt suddenly sicker than ever as I heard him tell me that this was not the news he'd thought he'd be delivering.

In the days leading to this call I worked - I conducted life, I bartended and made small talk as I always do when the bar's regulars asked me how life was. I recounted Ryley's surgery and was greeted with something unexpected - everyone's horror stories of losing their dogs. I was sure I'd be met with a story or two of how someone's dog passed away from cancer, as is life, but expected more success stories - more "don't worry, she'll be just fine!" Instead, the opposite was true: I was met with all loss-stories and only one victory story of a dog making it through chemo treatments to live a healthy life (thank you Katie!). Maybe everyone wanted to prepare me for the worst, or quite possibly it was what we all often do when someone tells us a story we can relate to in some way - we tell our story, because it is freeing to get it off our chest, with little regard for the person listening because we are so caught up in our own narrative. Such is human nature and it is not usually ill-intended, but damn it can be overwhelming. Thursday, the day before the test results were given to me, I had heard my final story of dog-loss, and a headache began brewing so quickly that my awesome boyfriend had to make a special trip to work to bring me Advil. Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was unrelated, maybe it was all the loss stories built up and finally hitting me, but I was anxious now for the results, and they were not what the vet had thought he was going to have to tell me.

Now that seems quite a dramatic build-up I'm sure, but the results were this: one tumor was benign, the other was malignant, but not at the highest level of concern, where we would begin treatment immediately. The malignant tumor was a level 2 (level 3 is when treatment is strongly advised), and the vet said he was hopeful that he'd removed it all (good news!). Now my job was to keep a close eye on her for more tumors that presented as this one did, and any that were growing rapidly, along with behavior changes. As the vet delivered the news to me he was both hopeful and trepidatious, not wanting to express too much of either emotion, yet reminding me that my girl is 9 - an age that puts her towards the later end of life for a golden retriever. Since that day I have been overwhelmingly  sad. I have cried multiple times a day, tears filling my eyes as I type right now. I have been acting a bit off, my mood has been laced with sadness in all my interactions, and my mind has stayed glued on my girl.

Surely I understand life and death and that eventually our time will come to an end. Surely I never meant it when I joked that Ryley must live forever. And yes, I have had a golden retriever before that lived to 13, and yes I know that is long for their age, but no. No, I have never given true thought to my dog's mortality. No, I have not actually thought of not having her around to accompany me everywhere, and greeting me as I come home at 3:00am each night after bartending. And I feel silly and stupid and embarrassed to be in this funk, entrenched in this sadness of loss before it's even happened, scared to come unraveled after years of piecing myself back together after my first real loss - my divorce. I feel foolish to cry as my girl sleeps soundly at my feet, body still coursing with life yet to be lived, tears dropping onto my keyboard, but the truth remains - I am terrified of how I will handle her absence when the time does come. I am fearful that I will not be strong enough to carry the weight of her loss and worried I won't be able to hide it after the usual day or two that we allow people to mourn the loss of a pet. What if it takes me longer? What if I never find another fur baby like her? What if it's all too much? And I know, I know that it does me no good to waste the days I have on being sad with anticipation. And I know, I know that it affects her and me and my interactions with those I love to walk around with this clock of fear draped around my shoulders. And I know, I know that this is a minuscule problem in regards to people who are losing their own health, or the health of a parent. And yes I know, I know that I have "3 years left with her" as literally everyone keeps telling me - but three years seems so short. Just today a memory popped up on my Facebook page of a picture of my girl, tennis ball in her mouth, from two years ago. TWO YEARS. That picture felt like two weeks ago and it only served to remind me how quickly time passes, and that three years will go by in the blink of an eye. So no - well intending friend, customer, vet, family member, and kind human - no, the thought of "three more years" with my fur baby does not feel like the time you think it does. It feels like 3 weeks and I am scared - even though I know that is foolish.

And I wanted this to be a post of uplifting - of choosing love over fear, and taking good away from bad, of trusting in the universe, and of being utterly grateful for each day - but it is not. It is a post of honesty, of fear, of knowing that sometimes it is better to give voice to your concern and to unpack your baggage, than to hide it. It is a post to tell myself and others that it is ok to acknowledge when a situation isn't what you wanted, and to know that sometimes we just need someone to say "yes, that does suck, and I am sorry you are going through this" without a need to make it better with a positive spin (even if what that person is worried about may be far away or silly to you). It is a post of unloading in hopes that another will help me carry it without telling me it will be ok, because sometimes it is not ok - and that has to be ok. This is a post to tell you (and me) that sometimes we have to acknowledge our fear, and cry our tears, in order to grow and move on from what is weighing on our hearts. It's ok to be sad. It is ok to worry. It is ok to love another little soul so hard that you can't imagine your life without her. It will be ok because you are not the person you were 3 years ago, and you won't be the person you are now, when the time comes.

Have faith.


To the two humans in my life that have sat with me and told me that it's ok to be sad, Jason and my Mom, thank you. You helped me move into the initial stages of acceptance that my time with my girl is limited but still very much present.