On grief and separation

We forget how grief feels. We have to.

Similarly to how mothers forget the pain of laboring and childbirth — they have to create all those endorphins after the birth to help them forget the pain. Otherwise they’d never choose to have more children.

If we remembered how painful grief is, we would never choose to love.

And some people take that route. Become hermits who refuse to love people or animals. And part of me completely sees why.

In fact, I think most (all?) of what we do as humans — work, stories, movies, TV, books, screens, social media, sports, beauty routines — is to distract ourselves from the fact that we and everyone we love are going to die.

I tell myself: Don’t distract. Be in it. Be in this grief.

Yesterday, I couldn’t have distracted if I’d tried. It was the day the vet came to our home to euthanize our cat Jacob. There was no distracting from the otherworldly darkness I’d descended into the night before as Jacob spent his last night in his body sleeping by my feet on the couch.

Yesterday and the day before felt like the hardest days of my life. “I’ve never felt this pain. I can’t take it. It’s unbearable. I’m being torn apart.”

I know I also said those things in 2016 when my father died. I know I also said them in 2019 when my 15-year-old cat died.

And I’m saying it again now. It seems unbearable.

Today is slightly easier than yesterday. The pain does lessen.

And I remind myself that feeling less acute pain doesn’t mean I’m forgetting Jacob.

Yesterday I felt that my soul was being ripped in two. One piece wanted to go be wherever he is now, and one piece wanted to stay here. Agony. Anguish. Torment.

The dark thoughts crept in. What if Jacob is now nowhere? What if he just ended? What if he’s in the dark place my mind was in the night before? It was like a gray, vast wilderness with frightening images — like a Neil Gaiman novel or Tim Burton movie. I kept wanting to come back to the comfort of my body — I could see it below me — lying on the couch next to Adam and the cats. I didn’t want to be in this unknown, but I couldn’t get back to my body.

THE HARDEST DAY

I woke up with such fear. I didn’t want to be anything but light for Jacob. I wanted to be a wise observer as I held the space for him to cross over when the vet came at 9:30. Instead I was filled with darkness and fear.

I sat in meditation. I listened to one from Ram Dass on being loving awareness. I listened to one from Alan Watts. I put on Beautiful Chorus and other lovely songs and mantras. These things helped a little.

We gave Jacob his last bits of earthly pleasure: cheese, Churu, tuna.

The vet arrived. I tried not to picture an executioner arriving. She was very sweet and loving and talked about body care. We chose to cremate and get the ashes back in an urn. Then they gave him the shot.

Adam held him in a blanket. He hugged onto Adam’s arm — he looked exactly the way he looked the day we adopted him. He looked up at me and flailed a bit. Fighting. But a moment later he was relaxing in the blanket. Fading. A few moments later, the vet said his heart was just a flutter. Then she stopped it completely.

The rest of the day, I felt that I was in some non-reality. Between worlds. How is this real? How can he not be here? How could we have done that to him? Who were we to decide when he died? Shouldn’t that have been his choice?

Jacob was such a light, and I know his light has not left this world. But, oh, the darkness I was in. I’ve never had children, but I had images of being in labor. A mother labors in agony for love. I felt that’s what I was doing. But on the other side I would not have Jacob to hold in my arms. Dark images from the horror movie “Hereditary” kept coming in, and I wish now I’d never watched it (twice), despite loving it at the time.

I had to fight off the darkness. I kept repeating words inspired by lessons from Tara Brach: This belongs. This is grief and this belongs.

But, oh, God. How can we do this each time a loved one dies? How can we feel this separation?

I kept spiraling into thoughts of Lambert dying and then Adam dying — my mom, my sisters, my brother, my friends. How? Just … how? I cannot go through that, I said again and again.

Stay present. Stay present, I tried to remember.

Yesterday, the line “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” sounded like the stupidest thing I’d ever heard.

But. Of course it’s true. The grief is insane, but one friend who was helping me through said the grief is “just a blip.” It’s just a blip in the vastness of our loving relationships. All those moments we experienced together — of course this pain is worth it, but it doesn’t always feel like it.

MOMENTS OF RELIEF FROM GRIEF

Here and there throughout the day, I felt moments of relief from the anguish.

Some words, inspired by Pema Chodron teachings, that helped me: We choose what thoughts we believe.

I was having the most painful thoughts. I reached out to several friends, asking them to pray for me and send me light.

I realized that the reason we need one another — despite the inevitable pain at the end — is to remind one another of the light.

That’s honestly why I teach yoga. I don’t care about someone being able to do a handstand or have strong abs. I teach yoga to remind us all of the light. That we are not these bodies (although these bodies are important and you can’t bypass the experiences of living in them). That we belong. That we are not separated.

I booked a session with my somatic coach, telling them I was in a very dark place and could really use a meditation to bring me into the light. That helped a lot … over Zoom, they guided me through some practices and a visualization that really helped me come back to the light.

First, they helped me breathe, and I realized I had not been breathing deeply all day. My chest had been clenching up all day as I wept and writhed. Breathing deeply began to open and relax those clenched areas. Extending the exhales brought further peace, just as it says in the Yoga Sutras.

My coach (reach out if you’d like their info; they’re amazing) helped guide me into a hypnotic state for my visualization. I was in a meadow. It was so light … shimmering golds and purples, similar to my favorite day with Jacob, only much brighter. Everything was like fluid light.

I walked through the meadow to a “grandmother tree.” I saw it as a willow tree with large roots jutting above the earth. I sat among the roots and reclined against the trunk. Jacob was there — still catlike, but a little larger than before, and a being of pure light. He was running as fast as he used to in our backyard after we first adopted him. He would stop by to say hi and continue running around. Shredder was there. My dad was there. Jesus was there. My grandparents were there. Mother Teresa was there for some reason. All was a loving, gentle energy. We were all held by God/Source, which WAS the meadow and everything in it.

After the session, I felt much lighter. I took a bath and remembered that we choose what thoughts to believe. I have to believe in some sort of heaven where we are all united. I just have to, or I can’t put one foot in front of the other. And I won’t be able to love.

The little thoughts that had been in my head all day, whispering, “There’s nothing beyond these bodies. You’re completely separated from him forever. You’re fooling yourself. All the beauty you’ve seen on your spiritual journey is just a trick of your mind.” Or worse — we’re all headed for a dark netherworld.

Those are just thoughts. You choose which thoughts to believe. So why not believe the thoughts of light? Why do I assume the dark, sad, tormenting thoughts must be the true thoughts and that I’m fooling myself to believe otherwise?

WORDS OF SUPPORT

My friends’ encouragement really helped. I felt ungrounded and lost, and my friends’ text messages tethered me. Please reach out if your friend is grieving.

Also, here are two writings that I keep remembering and rereading:

“Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. — Rilke

“Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.

Let it cut more deep.

let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender,

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.”

— Hafiz

TIME FOR REST

As I got ready for bed, I sort of dreaded it. Although the pain was beyond intense, part of me didn’t want it to end. Because it was an expression of my love for Jacob. I didn’t want to forget it. I didn’t want to forget Jacob. I didn’t want his last day on earth to end. I didn’t want to blow out the candle we’d had lit for him all day.

My somatic guide had said I was in a liminal state — the state between living and dying. I truly felt that all day. And I wanted to take advantage of that connection with Jacob. Maybe he’s still here before moving on somewhere else. Maybe his soul is right here on the couch, where it left his body. Or maybe he has already moved on.

Or maybe we don’t actually have to “move on.” Maybe it’s all parallel — and the heaven I saw him in during my meditation is inside of me and you right now. It’s in me, and I’m in it, so Jacob and my dad and Shredder and every other animal and person I’ve loved is completely absorbed in me right now, and I’m completely absorbed in them, and we’re all in God, and God is in all of us.

And there is no separation. Separation is an illusion created by our identification with our bodies and minds and egos. When we are freed from our bodies, we can be fully and completely absorbed — loving awareness that is in no way separate from the Divine, from our Source, and every ounce of love we’ve ever given and received. Fully one.

That’s the thought I choose to believe.

Because isn’t that what we’ve been aiming for all along? Complete belonging. Absolute love. No separation.

As I climbed into bed, I verbally invited Jacob to come join. He hasn’t been able to sleep in our bed for a few months now because he’s been incontinent. (The last time I allowed him in, I woke up covered in poop.) So he’s been sleeping on blankets on the couch with Lambert.

It was comforting and joyful to invite his spirit back into the bed. To cuddle up next to me. I felt the coziness he has always brought me. The comfort of his love. I found rest. And I believe Jacob has too.