It's taken a long time to work up the courage to sit down and write this. And now as I sit on a train I suddenly feel compelled to. I lost my darling Rocky on 21st June. Three months ago yesterday (by the time I've been brave enough to publish this more time has passed). It was the longest day of the year - both for daylight and my grief.
I may have to explain what happened in a later post as that seems to be an even harder few weeks to describe and I don't have the words yet. Agony doesn't even seem to be strong enough. A lot of the time I still don't know if I ever got the 'sign' from him that was completely clear he wanted to go, maybe I refused to see it even though I thought I was looking for it, but we made the decision to let him go on the advice of our wonderful vets who knew and loved him. It wasn't planned and I still can't shake the guilt although I know he would never want me to feel this, and I know it's blocking me processing my grief.
I want to honour Rocky, to revisit my memories with a big smile and a giggle, knowing he's at peace. But I'm also terrified with every day that passes that he's slipping away from me, even though he's already gone. I'm ashamed to say I hoped a sense of relief that he was no longer uncomfortable would balance my grief when it came, but it didn't happen. There were times when I almost felt "prepared" to lose him, but when it happened I wasn't at all. It hit me like every brick that's on this planet. It was over in a flash and it's like I wasn't even conscious standing there with the vet, turning up to check on a new side effect of his tumour that had showed up to making the call that enough was enough.