My mom called me over, screaming – but she always does. Usually, there's something I've messed up.
Maybe I left a light on. Maybe the toilet seat was still up. Maybe she wanted me to move my bags upstairs because guests were coming. Maybe I didn’t finish my food. Maybe I forgot to take out the trash. Maybe I didn’t wipe my shoes before entering and dirty marks blemished the floor. Maybe I left the water running from the sink. Maybe the fridge door was still open and was beeping for the last 10 minutes.
Our dog, Oliver, laid flat across the foyer. She was giving compressions to his frail chest, her hands moving with desperate urgency as she whispered pleas for him to hold on. But Death was indifferent. Oliver's eyes were shut, lashes clumped together in a sticky blend of tears and mucus. His legs lay limp and contorted.
I packed up my AP Statistics notes and set my alarm for 6:15 AM – so it goes.
***
My statistics final was on April 19th. Oliver died the night before at around 8 PM.
The test was located in Gym A, where the rock climbing wall is. 12:20 PM sharp. Rows of desks, arranged in precise lines, filled the space, equipped with a hard plastic chair that felt too low. The tests were already distributed, each one with a Post-it note with our names written on it.
Two hours went by. Papers were collected. We left.
In some ways, this swift transition from one stressful event to another felt like a bittersweet mercy. At least I could distract myself, channeling my grief into something productive, but that doesn't mean everything was forgotten.
As cliché as it sounds, Oliver truly was the best dog an owner could ask for, even if he didn't "prefer" me. Not that he didn’t love me, he just loved my mother more.
He was the family’s only big dog. Golden doodle. 50 pounds, donning a cream-colored coat.
In the summer afternoons, when he ran through our backyard, his fur rippled like the hazy mirage around him. He was a curious dog – his nose always leading him somewhere. He'd often return from his outdoor explorations with dirt-riddled paws and twigs and leaves tangled in his fur, tongue out panting and nearly stretched to the floor. In the evenings, during our family dinners, he'd lie underneath the table, awaiting our feet to soothe his belly-rubbing urges.
Those memories felt distant when I was struggling to remember the procedure of a two-tailed hypothesis test or when I was discussing some of the questions with friends outside the Athletic Entrance. However, stepping back into my house immediately drew me back into the reality of the previous night’s sorrow.
There are some things you truly cannot escape, and that's the funny thing about grief: it comes in hundred-foot waves.
There's ship wreckage all around you, the rain hitting the ocean sounds like bullets, and you're drowning. You’re gasping for air, but at the same time, a piece of the rudder just slammed into your ribs and knocked it right out of you. All you can do is try and float.
Perhaps you grasp onto another piece of that broken rudder. Maybe it’s a person who happens to be floating with you – in the “same boat as you". Maybe it’s a memory.
Eventually, the waves get shorter and the breaks between their attacks grow longer. When they come, they still wipe you out, but at least there's breathing space – at least you can see them coming. It could be a birthday, a holiday, or an anniversary.
Yet, in the end, the feelings never stop. You can prepare yourself – most likely, you’ll survive again. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to the rudder – you'll come out, but you’ll never be completely dry.
Maybe it's not possible to "get used" to loss, but at the same time, I don't want to. Maybe I don’t want it to “not matter”. To “move on”.
I'll carry him with me, in every breath of summer air that seems to dance in the heat, in every quiet moment beneath the dinner table, in every wave that rises and falls, never quite gone but always gently returning.
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