Missing Elvis

On that hot August day in 2009, when my mother died unexpectedly from a pulmonary embolism, I remember coming home from the hospital and logging on my computer. My company was having a major event the following day and, as the public relations person, it was my responsibility to email media alerts.

And so I did.

You might wonder how could I do this? How in the world could I have even thought about work when, hours earlier, I had just suffered the most significant, painful and traumatic loss of my entire life? At first I wondered too. At the time, I remember feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching myself sitting at the computer and typing away like everything was normal.

But with hindsight comes wisdom. Only later did I realize that on the day my mother died, I was--in the truest sense of the word--in shock. I recall shifting into autopilot and feeling numb, with an odd buzzing in my brain that felt like a steady low-level jolt of electricity. Looking back, I don't remember much else about that horrid day or the blurry weeks that followed.

This surreal experience was repeated on Wednesday when I said farewell to my beautiful boy, Elvis. I came home from the vet, logged on the computer, and dived into work. When my manager received my email advising what had happened, she immediately phoned and told me to take time off, as much as needed.

"No, I'm okay," I insisted. And I was. I worked from home all day and went into the office the next. I was fine. Really. Fine. Co-workers and friends observed that I was handling the loss unusually well and, to be honest, it even struck me as odd. How could I feel so deadened, so unemotional over losing my beloved Elvis?

But here's the thing about shock: you don't recognize it when you're in it. Instead, you really do believe you're coping well and doing fine.

Working and returning to some semblance of normalcy made it easy to ignore what had taken place that morning. Instead, Elvis was downstairs lying on his La-Z-Dog recliner, gnawing on his stuffed alligator, and that little scene in the vet's office hadn't really happened, right? Everything was hunky-dory, zippity-do-dah, same as always. Right? Fine, just fine.

But with the silent tranquility of Saturday morning came a blinding clarity. And with it, a wave of grief that slammed me with the force of a tsunami. Gone was the numbness. Gone was the weird buzzing in my brain. Gone was the ability to work or socialize or eat or breathe or do anything besides crumble in a ball and cry. And I realized I was not fine. Far from it. All I could think about was Elvis and the shocking awareness that he was gone. My faithful companion for 9 1/2 years. My boy, the dog I called my canine soul mate. Gone.

The shock--that comforting cloak of self-preservation and denial--had lifted only to unleash an ache of unbearable depth. A penetrating, palatable ache that mirrored the sentiments of a Facebook post by a friend who reached out when she heard about Elvis.

"Only from such great love can come such great sorrow."

Indeed. Because with each day that passes, I am overwhelmed with love for Elvis and grieve for the dog who is no longer here. And I cry all the harder, missing my lovely, loving boy.