Learning to live with loss

Apr 8th, 2014 by OMGchronicles

Loss. There’s been so much of it lately it’s become my most despised four-letter word. The death of my mother in 2010 and my father last year, resulting in the loss of contact with my only sibling (this is probably a healthy loss, however, but a loss nonetheless), the loss of an eight-year relationship late last year and now the sudden loss of my beloved dog, Harley.

In my late 50s, I am sliding into the age of loss — there will be more of it ahead and I’d better get used to it.

My parents were in their 80s when they passed away; their death should not have been a surprise and it wasn’t. I just wasn’t ready, although I was in a good and loving place with both of them when they died. Same with Harley, who at 14 was geriatric; my first dog, Teddy, died at 15, just a year older than she, and I had to put my dog Forest (yes, I was a hippie) to sleep when he was only about 6 years old. But the discovery of Harley’s tumors and the gut-wrenching decision to put her to sleep that same day, just this past Sunday, was so sudden and unexpected that it caught me off guard.

Ah, but when does loss arrive when we expect it, when it’s convenient for us, when we’ve said all we’ve wanted to say to a loved one — how we’ve messed up, how we’re sorry for any pain we caused him or her, that we forgive any pain he/she caused us, how much we loved and treasured him/her. And perhaps a request not to mourn, but to celebrate all that was wonderful and giving and kind and loving and good between the two of you. I have to think that happens, but rarely. A loved one goes away, and we are left with trying to sort out our complicated feelings and regrets, sometimes still holding anger and resentments. But it’s too late — we’ve lost the chance to have our say, to make amends, to come to resolution, to ask “Why?” Now what?

That’s why I repeatedly tell my kids how much I love them, how proud I am of them, how sorry I am for my failings as a mom. Just in case.

Living with the reality of loss and death — and our absolute fear of that — can keep us from getting close to others. I remember reading Irving D. Yalom’s wonderful book Love’s Executioner and Other Tales of Psychotherapy in which he outlines the fundamental fears that drive most of us to seek therapy (and that cause us the most angst). One is the fear of the finality of death and the recognition that, yes, we are born alone and will die alone. That fear often leads us to keep others at a distance so we can “avoid” the pain of loss, instead creating barriers that keep us from actually creating meaningful and authentic relationships with our loved ones, which in turn amps up our anxiety about dying alone. Talk about a vicious circle!

But you can’t quite do that with a pet or with your children. I think relationships that put you in the role of caregiver demand that you do what you have to do, even if you fear that they could be gone any second. My dog would not live without me feeding her, walking her, caring for her. How could I keep her at a distance emotionally? Same with my kids, especially when they were young and so needy. (Granted, there are terrible parents and pet guardians in the world.) It’s not that way with the people we fall in love with, however — they can and do live without us, despite our beliefs that they can’t (or that our absence will leave some permanent hole or scar in them). They often find new love and while it may not be the same love, it can sometimes be better.

That is why marital vows feel somewhat like an illusion and create an aura of permanence when there is none. People break promises — and a marital vow is just a promise after all, an intention — all the time. We would like to think that we can guarantee that things will stay the same forever, that just because we call someone “my husband” or “my wife” means we don’t have to care-take the relationship, or that if we do X, Y and Z we can somehow divorce-proof or affair-proof a marriage, but we can’t — not unless we can control a partner’s actions and none of us can do that. Loss is part of the equation of love. As soon as we learn to be comfortable with that, embrace it even, the more authentic the relationships we’ll have.

“I war against magic,” Yalom says. “I believe that, though illusion often cheers and comforts, it ultimately and invariably weakens and constricts the spirit.”

So much for romantic fairy tales about marriage and love.

A recent study confirms that illusion is dangerous to love — wives who are overly optimistic about their marriage have the steepest declines in marital satisfaction, have lower self-esteem and are more stressed and physically aggressive toward their hubby.

The illusion that we can love fully and deeply without the possibility of loss, of things changing, weakens and constricts us, and makes us approach our romantic relationships with fear. Everyone loses.

I didn’t worry about losing my dog — I just loved her and cared for her because I both had to and wanted to. Her loss is devastating, but at least I can say that she was loved — and I felt her love, too. That alone is precious.