I can look at his picture now

It’s almost common in times of grief to hear someone say, “I know how you feel”. However, when the aggrieved person is positive the other one doesn’t know … can’t even possibly have a bleepin’ clue! … it pisses him-her off. A lot.

One of the more common instances of terrible hurt is losing someone close. For most of us it’s an event we come upon somewhere in our 40s, the loss of a parent. Yet, if the sympathy comes from someone much younger than we are, it’s clearly a platitude. Because of that, even though the one who said it wants the other to feel better, the powerful surge of emotion it generates is then turned to anger.

It’s a common feeling to believe our anger is directed at someone else. If correct, that hot surge of feeling won’t land on me, it’ll come from me. Nice thought. Doesn’t work, however.

There are a number of truly dismal sadnesses where we all want sympathy and will sop up as much as we can get. The loss of a life mate. A partner. A close friend. Even a child, although I say that from an editorial perspective, as it wouldn’t bother me. I divorced my kids in 2010. The loss of a sibling. For many, a nearly equal grief comes about after losing a job, especially if it’s been a career of some length. Even a house, a tragedy befalling more and more people these days. It’s even fair to say losing a grandparent is a “training program” for what we’ll suffer later in life.

Here’s one most of you haven’t seen. There’s an even uglier than usual facet to it, since no one does it for any of the other major hurts we suffer. Imagine losing the most important being of your entire life and seeing people stifle a laugh when you discuss it. How would you feel if you told someone, “My ____ just died” and saw that person work to avoid laughing at what befell you?

Thankfully, no one ever carried it out fully or I’d be in prison now for murder, but I have seen them put their hands over their mouths to avoid chuckling. Many have asked me, “Are you serious?” when I mentioned the degree of my hurt. Told them it was the most painful moment in my life.

You see, on January 17^th, 2004, my dog died. Movuggah of Nutstown was his name, a male Irish wolfhound who lived six years, seven months and twenty-eight days. The only other love I’ve known to compete with what he and I shared was with my Mom, and it’s a photo finish, so I can’t say whom I loved most. People say, tritely, “you’ll get over it”. Bullshit! You never “get over” a tragedy of that nature. However, with time comes healing. You “get past it”, but the hurt will never be erased, simply numbed.

Now, finally, eight plus years after his passing, I can at least look at his picture without crying. Well, without crying too much, anyway. I love you, Big Boy.

Movuggah of Nutstown

April 20, 1996 – January 17^th, 2004

I’m just sayin’.

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