All About You FRIDAY – The Heart and Soul of Grief

Last weekend, I got the text that shifted my heart. It was 9:08 a.m.

“Oakley isn’t doing well. I think it’s time.”

I was an hour away from home tied up in a band practice that instantly felt trivial. I could leave and race home, but then again, I wasn’t sure what my place was in all of this. Co-parenting a dog with your partner’s ex leaves some gray areas.

“Oh no. Hug and kiss her for me please. Tell her I love her.“

That was me texting back in desperation while my bandmates discussed the finer parts of guitar solos I was no longer playing.

That’s right. Three weeks after our first epic performance, I was told our band just needed another guitar player and they were auditioning someone to play lead. “This has nothing to do with your performance,” I was told by the bass player, “We just need another guitar player.”

I tried not to take it personally. But it felt hugely personal. After all the hours I put in to learning those guitar solos, it felt like a slap in the face. I thought about quitting. Clearly, it was just a thought.

Because there I was, in between playing Fallin’ for You and Shattered, when I got the news about Oakley.

I was mad. At myself. At the timing of all of this. At not being able to be where I really wanted to be at a pivotal moment. I could feel Liz’s heartache over the phone. It’s what happens when you know someone so well. When you love someone so deeply.

It’s what I imagined Liz felt for Oakley on that day as she waited for her ex to let her know they were on their way to the veterinary clinic.

I barely remember playing tunes for two hours, though I tried hard to focus and maintain composure. And the second we played the last note, I high-tailed it out of there and headed home.

“They are putting an IV catheter in her now.” It was 11:35 a.m. and I was 25 miles from home.

I didn’t go right home. I drove to the veterinary clinic and parked my car next to hers. Her ex’s vehicle was to my left.

“I’m outside by your car. No need to come out. I just wanted you to know I was here sending my love.“

I wasn’t sure what to do. So, I sat in the car and prayed. Cried. Prayed some more. For Oakley’s peace and for the hearts of those who loved her so dearly surrounding her in that room. Seven minutes went by.

I left and headed home. A minute later, I got word that it was all over and she was heading home too.

I met her in the driveway and the tears flowed. My heart ached and I had no words. Because at times like these, in the depths of grief, there is nothing to say. Between two hearts that have loved, the understanding flows in silence.

I am not a grief expert. But I have learned from the losses in my life.

It never happens the way I plan. When my dad died, I got to the house just as they were wheeling his body out. I was exactly one minute from starting an 8-hour seminar with 20 people in the room when I got the call about my mom passing. (That was an interesting challenge in focus.) And I was the one who found my husband.

Too late. Too little time. Too much obligation.

Those are moments where I have internally screamed at the universe. It’s not fair. It’s NOT fair. Life. Isn’t. Fair.

But as time marches on and in the aftermath of those tragedies, I’ve learned some things:

Tears outside fade away. Tears inside stay and stay and stay. Cry when you feel like it without obligation to explain anything
You don’t sit in grief alone. Psalms 34:18 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” The weight feels lighter knowing you aren’t carrying it by yourself and more importantly the One that walks beside you knows exactly how you feel
The loss is real, the one you love is gone. But there are things that are still true and possible that remain: the love, the lessons, the legacy.
We should talk about those things. We shouldn’t try to put a smile on our faces and be brave and think about something else. Maybe you should if you are putting on an 8-hour seminar. But after that, create an environment that feels safe for anyone to talk about the one you loved. We move past the grief, not by forgetting, but by prioritizing remembering.
As a friend said to me after the loss of my husband, “I promise you, the music returns. Maybe just in a different key.” My life is proof of that.

Oakley’s ashes and collar now sit on our mantle next to her photo. I’ll always remember the first dog I ever loved. The one who absorbed my lunch time solo performances sung at the top of my lungs. The one who eagerly awaited me coming downstairs because she knew I would share my breakfast with her. I’ll always remember how she stole my seat on the couch. I’ll think of her every time I sit there.

I will hold both grief and gratitude until one overtakes the other.

It’s been a long week. Don’t forget to celebrate. Cheers to the ones we will always love.

Until next time…