Walking with Grief

“Everything”

Thom Yorke's voice bellowed through the speakers as I turned the volume as high as it could go.

“Everything”

It started as a low groan in my lungs, a humming that rattled my rib cage and tickled its way up through my throat.

“Everything”

Before I knew it, the sound escaped my lips as I let out a guttural scream with everything I had inside me, speeding through my suburban streets without a thought of consequence or repercussion.

“Is in its right place.”

Less than 48 hours later, she was gone.

My mind has been begging me to write these pages, pleading to release these words from my body and let them exist somewhere else. Yet my heart hesitates, knowing I'll be walking deeply with my grief. These words, which have accompanied me through the loss, have become my new companion.

People who have never had a dog may not understand the profound impact they leave on us throughout their lifetime. They are the definition of loyalty, unwavering love, unlimited friendship, and complete selflessness. They are pure, unasking creatures who know nothing but instinctual behaviors and how to provide profound love. When you look into the eyes of a dog, even in pictures, you see the Soul of a creature who wants nothing but to make you happy and love you unconditionally.

The moment I saw Nola, it was her eyes that brought me in. Golden green with a hint of yellow at times, warm and beautiful, accepting and comforting. I can confidently say that I am one of those people that KNEW she was going to be ours as soon as I saw her. It was an all knowing feeling I’ve only experienced a few times in my life — the other, was when I knew something was seriously wrong with her.

Nola was (and still is) my Soul dog. A once and a lifetime connection with an animal that spreads beyond measure or words. It feels unworldly, but if you’ve felt it, you know it. She was the grounding force that kept me sturdy through so much in my life. She was the master teacher of so many lessons through a multitude of experiences.

I was 26 years old, had just quit my corporate job with no other plan in sight, and on my way to Brooklyn during rush hour to pick up the 6 month old pittie with my new boyfriend (now husband), whom I wasn’t even living with at the time. The night we brought her home was the same night a new timeline of my life started; I had no idea, no plans as to what the next morning would bring in multiple aspects of my life, but through it all, she had seen every side of me during our time together. My lowest lows, my most elevated self, the boring and mundane in between, and she loved me unconditionally through them all.

She did all the things a good girl does; met me at the door with a wiggling body, tucked me in at night and slept in my arms, greeted everyone she met with a wagging tail, made me laugh at all her little quirks, laid in my lap when I had tears streaming down my face, kept me company when I was alone, and elevated every room she was in. When I became pregnant with my daughter, she acted as my pregnancy pillow every night, laying next to me so I was able to prop my leg up across her and sleep more comfortably. Above all though — she kept me grounded, she was what made me feel safe.

Nola was the type of dog that changed minds, lives even. She was an ambassador for the breed, a loyal, loving, forgiving, gentle, fun, PitBull. Her rescue story is much of the same as many. She was an innocent puppy saved from the streets of North Carolina, brought to a shelter, and put on death row simply because of her breed. She had been attacked by a small dog there (I won’t name names, but it was a Chihuahua), which left a scar on her back and a scarlet letter that she was the culprit (which she wasn’t). Luckily, The Good Life Dog Rescue (FKA Bully Project NYC) swooped in and saved her in the eleventh hour, which eventually brought her to us.

When you lose a companion, grief becomes co-pilot. It’s always sitting with you, sometimes at face value, other times it swims at the brink of surface level waiting to pop its head up when the time is right. During a birthday, on your afternoon walk, in the middle of aisle 4 at the grocery store, when you are aching from exhaustion because you’ve been up with you human child all hours of the night, when you just miss their unique type of love. Grief becomes your new companion in place of the one you lost.

Strangely, there's a romance about it—it mirrors the flutters in your gut that a new relationship brings. The little voice in your head is always there, except it's the nefarious version, the evil twin of the honeymoon phase. Yet at the same time, it keeps you connected to the loss on a different frequency. There's a saying that speaks of ‘grief being love placed somewhere else.' It's as if all the love you've always had, and still do, shape-shifts into this new energy when the beloved is gone—a foreign yet familiar identity that feels both eerily similar and outrageously different.

Certain times stick out in my mind where I feel like I could have done better as her companion, I could have been better for her, could have spent more time and maybe not rushed a walk after a long day or didn’t yell at her as much when she peed in the house. It’s hard to remind myself that these moments were minuscule compared to the amount of times I told her how much I loved her, how I confessed to her over and over again that she was my best friend and the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Admittedly there are still some things I don’t say to my own child because they were reserved for her, my first baby, my first unconditional love.

At times the guilt of it all has eaten me up inside. Although none of it is true, I feel that by becoming a human mother, I let her down, that she was pushed to the side, that because all my attention wasn’t on her I didn’t love her the same, that maybe if I paid closer attention, I would have seen something was wrong earlier, when in truth, the symptoms of her illness were never there until the very end.

A few months after she passed I had a session with a animal communicator, Julie Hirt. I needed something to remind me to keep going, that although she wasn’t by my side physically, she was still with me. The session with Julie brought a sense of peace and comfort that helped me shift and settle into a new type of grief, one that allowed me to move forward. She reminded me that Nola would continue to be the one that kept me grounded, much like she did when she was Earth side. She explained to me that my girl wants to remind me to be confident, to stand tall and proud of everything that I am doing in the world. She told me that Nola does not want me to feel any amount of guilt about becoming a human mom and that her spiritual transition was happening well before the physical one took place. Nola was the one who helped teach me how to be a mom and when she felt that her lesson was through, it was time for her to move on.

During my session with Julie, she told me Nola will always be sitting on my right shoulder. When this picture was taken by my friend Casey, she had no idea.

As time moves forward and life without her becomes more spanned out, the grief shifts, but never goes away. Instead, it changes shape again, living in the tiny pockets of the day in and day out. I find, it creeps out during long car rides or on nights when insomnia tend to take over my brain. There are moments when I’ll still grab her collar and hug it close to me in hopes of getting a whiff of her scent and to comfort my heart. Once and while, it will feel like my grief has gotten to the point where I’m starting to feel silly for expressing it, like I should be able to talk about her without getting choked up or starting to cry. On the other hand, It’s gotten to the point where the guilt of it all is starting to dissipate, starting to fade away into thin air, but often I think I’m the only one that still feels it though, the grief and guilt of it all, the expansive of love and appreciation I still feel for her.

There is a notion of sadness inside me that thinks that I may never have a connection with another dog like the one I had with her. A few months back we almost brought a puppy into our lives. She was a beautiful fawn, light-eyed pittie that sat low to the ground and trotted with spunk and happiness. My mind tried to convince me that the situation was perfect, from the numerology of the dates, to the way Franke acted with her. I didn’t sleep for days, I couldn’t concentrate on anything in front of me, but worst of all, the guilt of it trickled back in and ripped through my body, tenfold.

I know that when the time in right, Nola will be the one orchestrating another dog coming into our lives. She does not want me to be shut out, she does not want me to close up my heart to another animal in need, yet I am the one who needs to give myself permission to follow through.

She comes to me in my dreams. A lot of the times, she will show herself as a teeny, tiny version of herself with the same energy she embodied when she was by my side. I think this is her way of telling me that she is back to the beginning, starting over, starting fresh. The sickness is no longer taking over her soft, beautiful body like it did at the end. Her lungs are now clear, her head is held high, and she is okay.

I believe Frankie feels her around him and misses her the most out of anyone. He lost his teacher, his anchor, the most dependable love he’s ever known. There is faith in me that she hasn’t truly left our sides and that she is still in everything we do, at least I know that’s my truth. I see her personality traits in her human sister. The sassy softness, the independence, the way my daughter so instinctually loves me.

Nothing will take away the memories and companionship that Nola gave to me over her 9 years. There will not be a day that goes by that I don’t think of her, that I don’t wish she was still by our sides. Now, my grief and compassion walk hand in paw with her as my navigating star, guiding one another from the other side to this one. They work with one other to remind me to continue to advocate for the breed, to never stop standing tall, and speaking up for the ones who need it the most.

Although she may not be physically by my side, I know that Nola is and always will, live inside my heart as one of the greatest loves I’ve ever known. And for that I will forever be grateful up until I meet her again across the Rainbow Bridge.

Resources for Animal Loss

Animal Soul Contracts by Tammy Billups

Animals In the Afterlife by Kim Sheridan

Pets Point of View by Ute Luppertz

Julie Hirt: Animal Communicator

Animal Communication Podcast