I survived last week, a week of firsts.
It started off with me not being able to keep it together – I ran a hard four miles at the gym, while crying, I spent two out of three yoga classes sobbing in savasana and I could barely say our nighttime prayer to my children each night. But it’s getting better. Mornings aren’t as hectic, even with two crazy girls, we don’t rush home after work and evenings are more quiet. Those are the changes that have thrown me off. I still have visions of Pez during his last hours – a time I denied would ever come. With the help of some therapeutic yoga sessions I see him in a different light – a goofball dog. He’d bark at a lone leaf that fluttered in the wind at least 100 yards away; he’d pass gas while looking in another direction as if to shift the blame to someone else; he howled when we howled; he would flinch at the sight and sound of tin foil or at the swell of a garbage bag; he ran circles in the house after coming in from a good poop.
I always understood that this healing process would take time. I’m coming to terms with today’s reality and it’s helping to make me whole again.