In the midst of a heavy downpour, a box of magazines was delivered to my front door last Wednesday. The soggy cardboard carton splattered with Rorschach-like raindrops seemed to replicate my own multi-layered tears.

Finally, it seemed the weather matched my downcast mood. The bright smiling sun that has been beaming down on me these past several days as I mourn my dog Stanley has felt mocking. Why is it exactly that the sun is always drawn smiling?

Does the sun never get depressed? Even during global warming?

Carefully I ripped open the box that contained copies of the 2023 summer issue of Lilith Magazine where an essay of mine appears. The deeply personal article “Finding Solace in an Unlikely Spot” a story about my battle with depression, grief, and loss seemed achingly prescient to my current sad state.

Ironically, in recent months, my depression had been kept at bay for so long that I felt oddly disconnected from the essay I had written. Though gratified to have it published, it almost felt disingenuous to me for it to run when I was so upbeat. That dark hole I could fall into seemed far in the past. There had been so many positives in my life recently, that perhaps I had moved away from that deep despair.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

Then a week ago, Stanley, my darling dog and beloved sidekick died. Deep grief enveloped me.  Waiting in the wings like an opportunistic wolf ready to pounce, depression swooped in.

Now this stack of periodicals resting on my beige tiled kitchen floor in a spot favored by a snoozing Stanley, was eerily lit by the glow of a shiva candle.

Glancing at the cover I was startled by the bold white text that seemed to jump out at me. The theme of the issue it announced “Season of Heat and Heartache,” could not have been more prophetic.

As I viewed the article, the haunting picture of a despondent me seated among the headstones of my family in our cemetery in Queens, New York was a gut punch.

A few hours later, I received a phone call that I could pick up my baby boy’s remains… Stanley was ready to come home from the emergency vet hospital where we left him, though not at all in the manner I would most want.

The unexpected call was jarring.

Absorbing it even harder.

Alone in my empty house, his absence was keenly felt. There was no buffer to absorb the pain as I sobbed. No Stanley to help ground me as disparate feelings and thoughts ricocheted through my brain, pinging around like a pinball machine.

I paced the house room by room in search of him as I have every day, seeking the physical comfort I craved that I could get from no one else. To feel understood. Stanley like all dogs, always listened with his heart, providing a level of primal understanding that never required words. At stressful times when I am unable to access my own words, that ability was lifesaving.

The human whisperer

Yet for one not dependent on words for comfort, Stanley was also surprisingly chatty.

He often spoke to me out loud, as he continues to do so even in his physical absence.

Stanley has his own distinctive voice, a sweet little child’s voice that miraculously and mysteriously came through me, the accent part Noow Yawk,  Lawn-Guyland, Brooklynese, and a hint o’ the south. His fractured grammar and unique mispronunciation of words only add to the charm. It was a voice that soothed me, entertained me, advised me, and ultimately comforted me.

We still converse daily as we always did and thankfully he did not stay silent at that difficult moment. He promised me he was still here “I’s here” he assured me over and over “I’se here.”

And in my heart, I know that to be true.

Home Body

“He lives in your heart” was the comment I heard most from friends offering comfort.

How could he not? Stanley was grandfathered into my heart for permanent residency the moment we met. He will never be served an eviction notice and will reside there until my own beating heart gives out.

But now bringing back home the tangible remains of my magnificent handsome boy seemed unbearable.

My big,  blonde, solid lug of comfort and security. It felt incomprehensible.

How could it be that the one breathing being that I could cling to for comfort without fear of betrayal or hurt, a beautifully strong body so imbued with trust when others in my life seem untrustworthy, how can that powerful physical presence now be reduced to ashes and a small wooden box?

How can that sweet, gentle, and compassionate face that I looked into every hour on the hour, the soulful chocolate eyes that held mine all these years…now be destroyed?

Like a child, I asked, because that is how I felt.  How can his physical being exist no longer?

Pain

I was wracked with pain, sorrow, and guilt tearful at what felt like a destructive abomination of nature.  In an instant, cremation,  brought up images of Auschwitz, of evil, the ultimate horror. Cremation goes against my Jewish beliefs that consider it taboo.

But there was more.

In the midst of my grief, this phone call about his remains carried the weight of finality.

Suddenly my hand was forced to move through the bargaining stage of grief  I had been stuck in. Like a rusty gear unable to move I remained in an endless, agonizing loop of replaying “what ifs”  about his last days? Of calls made or not, of second-guessing all my decisions made under tremendous duress.

Conversations and choices were dissected with the precision of a forensic medical examiner as if somehow a different outcome would be possible, that  I would magically bring him home and change the final narrative.

I could no longer retreat to denial. Now there was tangible evidence of his death. I wasn’t ready for acceptance so depression was my Kubler-Ross landing zone.

Feeling Blue

That evening when I was handed the large royal blue bag that contained Stanley’s remains,  the unexpected heaviness of the package pulled at my shoulder, as though a rambunctious Stanley was pulling on his leash.

Why am I surprised at the heft of Stanley’s ashes? No lightweight when it came to love, presence, or poundage, the solidity and weight of his remains felt meaningful and its permanency will, I know, be a comfort in time. Its own perpetual care.

In the essay, I wrote about finding a sense of peace surrounded by family at the cemetery plots that came endowed with perpetual care. Now that word took on a different meaning. Stanley’s life was one defined by perpetual care. Just as I devotedly took care of him, so his care of me was non-stop.

It still is

Stanley Eternally Hopeful

Friends have out pointed out that the Lilith essay is ultimately a triumph of my battle with depression and that maybe, just maybe, the tangible appearance of this article is a sign from Stanley to remind me that I will ultimately move through the depression I am in now.

For now, I lean into the pain the purest expression of my love.

Finding Solace in an Unlikely Spot

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.