Picking Up the Pieces - Haunted, Part 3
Haunted, part 3
Six Weeks: Aftermath
When my little dog, Panda, was just eight weeks old and new to my life, I made a promise to her that she would never have to worry about being left behind, or given away, go hungry, live in pain, or be mistreated or frightened. I meant every word of it, especially after getting to know her for a few weeks, months, and then years. It didn’t take long to love her little face looking back at me from the top of the stairs every time I returned home from work or shopping. It was easy to slip into several routines that although they morphed over time, became special to both of us.
Having the space Panda occupied so abruptly vacated is devastating – as anyone who loses a loved one knows. Panda always went outside first in the morning as we both seemed to welcome the new day. Now, I don’t always get up until noon, I don’t really care about a new day. Every day seems repetitive, even redundant.
I’ve tried to stick to some normalcy by making breakfast the way I always enjoyed and that has seemed to help – until I walk into the living room with my food, ready to watch a morning show while I eat. Panda was, by then, ready for her first morning nap and would scrape and push and shove her little blanket around until it was just where she wanted it to be and then she would harumph down onto it after a few slowly turned circles. Her ever-so-soft snoring was more like a purr. My breakfast now is a bit like chewing on clay. By the time I’m finished, my stomach feels like I’ve eaten rocks.
One of Panda’s favorite morning things to do was go back to bed and go “back ni-night”. Depending on whether I got any sleep the night before, we often did go back to bed and when asked if she wanted to go back ni-night, Panda would jump off of the couch and bounce excitedly down the hallway to the bedroom. Then, she would climb her stairs to the top of the bed and wait impatiently by the side of the bed where her puppy treats were kept in a small container. She always got a tiny bit of a treat at bedtime.
Now, I can’t seem to get to bed before two or three o’clock in the morning. At some time after the sun sets, though, I go in and turn on a night light for Panda because that is where her little decorative urn is. My bedroom was her favorite place. I don’t want her to be left alone in the dark.
Sometime in the last two years, Panda decided she liked ice chips. Whenever I scooped ice from the ice bin, I always found a small ice chip that Panda stood in the ready to lick off my hand.
Now, I find ice chips, grab them and begin to turn towards Panda before I realize she is not there. I’ve called out to her before I realized she would not be coming to take the ice from me. Every time I softly tell her that I still miss her so much. Too much, probably.
When I come home, I open the door from the garage to the stairs and peek around the door frame, looking for Panda, expecting her to be at the top of the stairs. Now, softly I call out to Panda like I always did, “Be Be, I’m home!” I know before I say anything that she won’t be at the top of the landing hopping around like a puppy at my homecoming but, I can’t help myself; I pause at the bottom of the stairs and stare at where Panda should be. The tears come, still hurt, still fall.
I folded up Panda’s small playpen two days ago and took her little blankets down to be washed. Nearly all of her harnesses and leashes are stacked up carefully on top of her winter sweaters. All of them on top of her pet carrier. All of that in my bedroom (except the box with the playpen). One of her beds is still in my bedroom, two others are stacked in the office, still others are stacked down stairs where we used to watch TV while I did laundry or sewed with my sewing machine.
Puppy toys remain tossed into an oval grass basket that isn’t too deep so that Panda could dig out her favorite toy of the day. Sometimes, I would find her sitting in the basket with all of her toys because I knew she liked them all. I’m not sure I can put them up in the plastic bag that I put by them. The bag stands upright on top of them in the corner as a sentry, reminding me I have yet to complete an impossible mission. Well, maybe tomorrow.
Panda would sometimes go in and take a nap on my bed by herself, but awaken and forget I was not in there with her. She would believe I had left her and, in a panic, jump off of the bed and come running out of the bedroom. As soon as she saw me sitting on the couch waiting for her, Panda would dip her head and begin trotting happily towards me.
Often, the electric heat registers make popping sounds, soft pouts, or thumps when they come on as they warm up. If I am sitting on the couch the sound reminds me of the same sound made by Panda jumping off of the bed just before she comes out of the bedroom. Every time I hear the sound, I look up expectantly, ready to see my little love come trotting into the hallway. All I see is the tears that fill my vision, instead.
Occasionally, I pick up Panda’s favorite blanket to breathe deeply into it, searching for her scent. I will keep it and her favorite sweater, along with some dried roses from flowers I received after she passed. I don’t know how long her toys in their basket will sit conspicuously in my living room. I will keep her first little water bowl that eventually became her favorite in the last year of her life. I haven’t touched the large shallow bin of medicines that shouts to me sometimes when I walk into my office, where I sit writing this post. The large rectangular lid sits askew, the containers lay sideways, some bagged from her last time in the hospital that I never opened. I can’t look at them, not yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Although my vinal patio doors are on the opposite side of where Panda was let out to potty, she often went to them and pushed one into the other and made them click to get my attention, letting me know she wanted to go outside.
The patio doors are in the dining room and the dining room has a ceiling fan. The ceiling fan whips air against the verticals, makes them clatter against each other. If I’m sitting down, I start to get up; if I’m in the kitchen, I turn to walk to the living room before realizing Panda doesn’t need to go out. I always just stand there watching the verticals clatter against each other and then I look at the floor, wondering if there is such a thing as miracles. I don’t believe in miracles any more.
I do believe in broken hearts, because I’ve got one.
Panda used to be everywhere. Now, she is nowhere.
I am haunted by the absence of Panda.
I promised Panda that I would live at least one day longer than she would live, but I didn’t think past that day. I’ve lost both my parents, grandparents, and close friends, and other pets, but I’ve not had this feeling of complete loss and of being lost.
Now, I think I understand why when, parents who have lost a child leave the lost child’s bedroom exactly as it was the day they left. I know why I cannot move everything, or even many things. It’s because I’m afraid of removing all traces of Panda. My memories are still quite attached to all of her things, the things that helped make her and me who we were together. She was part of me. Panda was the fun, innocent lovely part of me and now she’s gone.
I can’t get rid of all those things until I’ve managed to rebuild my heart around the part that was Panda.
Having the space Panda occupied so abruptly vacated is devastating – as anyone who loses a loved one knows. Panda always went outside first in the morning as we both seemed to welcome the new day. Now, I don’t always get up until noon, I don’t really care about a new day. Every day seems repetitive, even redundant.
I’ve tried to stick to some normalcy by making breakfast the way I always enjoyed and that has seemed to help – until I walk into the living room with my food, ready to watch a morning show while I eat. Panda was, by then, ready for her first morning nap and would scrape and push and shove her little blanket around until it was just where she wanted it to be and then she would harumph down onto it after a few slowly turned circles. Her ever-so-soft snoring was more like a purr. My breakfast now is a bit like chewing on clay. By the time I’m finished, my stomach feels like I’ve eaten rocks.
One of Panda’s favorite morning things to do was go back to bed and go “back ni-night”. Depending on whether I got any sleep the night before, we often did go back to bed and when asked if she wanted to go back ni-night, Panda would jump off of the couch and bounce excitedly down the hallway to the bedroom. Then, she would climb her stairs to the top of the bed and wait impatiently by the side of the bed where her puppy treats were kept in a small container. She always got a tiny bit of a treat at bedtime.
Now, I can’t seem to get to bed before two or three o’clock in the morning. At some time after the sun sets, though, I go in and turn on a night light for Panda because that is where her little decorative urn is. My bedroom was her favorite place. I don’t want her to be left alone in the dark.
Sometime in the last two years, Panda decided she liked ice chips. Whenever I scooped ice from the ice bin, I always found a small ice chip that Panda stood in the ready to lick off my hand.
Now, I find ice chips, grab them and begin to turn towards Panda before I realize she is not there. I’ve called out to her before I realized she would not be coming to take the ice from me. Every time I softly tell her that I still miss her so much. Too much, probably.
When I come home, I open the door from the garage to the stairs and peek around the door frame, looking for Panda, expecting her to be at the top of the stairs. Now, softly I call out to Panda like I always did, “Be Be, I’m home!” I know before I say anything that she won’t be at the top of the landing hopping around like a puppy at my homecoming but, I can’t help myself; I pause at the bottom of the stairs and stare at where Panda should be. The tears come, still hurt, still fall.
I folded up Panda’s small playpen two days ago and took her little blankets down to be washed. Nearly all of her harnesses and leashes are stacked up carefully on top of her winter sweaters. All of them on top of her pet carrier. All of that in my bedroom (except the box with the playpen). One of her beds is still in my bedroom, two others are stacked in the office, still others are stacked down stairs where we used to watch TV while I did laundry or sewed with my sewing machine.
Puppy toys remain tossed into an oval grass basket that isn’t too deep so that Panda could dig out her favorite toy of the day. Sometimes, I would find her sitting in the basket with all of her toys because I knew she liked them all. I’m not sure I can put them up in the plastic bag that I put by them. The bag stands upright on top of them in the corner as a sentry, reminding me I have yet to complete an impossible mission. Well, maybe tomorrow.
Panda would sometimes go in and take a nap on my bed by herself, but awaken and forget I was not in there with her. She would believe I had left her and, in a panic, jump off of the bed and come running out of the bedroom. As soon as she saw me sitting on the couch waiting for her, Panda would dip her head and begin trotting happily towards me.
Often, the electric heat registers make popping sounds, soft pouts, or thumps when they come on as they warm up. If I am sitting on the couch the sound reminds me of the same sound made by Panda jumping off of the bed just before she comes out of the bedroom. Every time I hear the sound, I look up expectantly, ready to see my little love come trotting into the hallway. All I see is the tears that fill my vision, instead.
Occasionally, I pick up Panda’s favorite blanket to breathe deeply into it, searching for her scent. I will keep it and her favorite sweater, along with some dried roses from flowers I received after she passed. I don’t know how long her toys in their basket will sit conspicuously in my living room. I will keep her first little water bowl that eventually became her favorite in the last year of her life. I haven’t touched the large shallow bin of medicines that shouts to me sometimes when I walk into my office, where I sit writing this post. The large rectangular lid sits askew, the containers lay sideways, some bagged from her last time in the hospital that I never opened. I can’t look at them, not yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Although my vinal patio doors are on the opposite side of where Panda was let out to potty, she often went to them and pushed one into the other and made them click to get my attention, letting me know she wanted to go outside.
The patio doors are in the dining room and the dining room has a ceiling fan. The ceiling fan whips air against the verticals, makes them clatter against each other. If I’m sitting down, I start to get up; if I’m in the kitchen, I turn to walk to the living room before realizing Panda doesn’t need to go out. I always just stand there watching the verticals clatter against each other and then I look at the floor, wondering if there is such a thing as miracles. I don’t believe in miracles any more.
I do believe in broken hearts, because I’ve got one.
Panda used to be everywhere. Now, she is nowhere.I am haunted by the absence of Panda.
I promised Panda that I would live at least one day longer than she would live, but I didn’t think past that day. I’ve lost both my parents, grandparents, and close friends, and other pets, but I’ve not had this feeling of complete loss and of being lost.
Now, I think I understand why when, parents who have lost a child leave the lost child’s bedroom exactly as it was the day they left. I know why I cannot move everything, or even many things. It’s because I’m afraid of removing all traces of Panda. My memories are still quite attached to all of her things, the things that helped make her and me who we were together. She was part of me. Panda was the fun, innocent lovely part of me and now she’s gone.
I can’t get rid of all those things until I’ve managed to rebuild my heart around the part that was Panda.
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