CHELSEA HUDGEN-FINLEY
June 1988 ~ June 2005
Chelsea died on Wednesday, June 8, 2005 at 3:15 pm.
Losing Chelsea is a grief only seconded by the loss of my parents. Having to lose him while I was away at a conference is only seconded by knowing what my spouse had to go through without me here to help him.
You know how it is. We all have things we promise to do for our spouses. There are things only he does, that I rely upon him to do, and that give me some sense of comfort and stability knowing that those things will be taken care of. Likewise, there are things I do. This was to be one of them. I had prepared for it. I was ready.
But I wasn't there. Providence had something different for us to learn.
How like Chelsea to wait until I wasn't with him to enter new life. I was away at Credo 82 (an invitation-only enrichment program for Episcopal clergy) and so Allen was left on his own. We had kidded many times that this would happen when I was out of town, but it was only that-- kidding.
I knew the end was coming very soon when Allen called and held the cell phone so I could hear Chelsea's breathing. It was the distinctive breath of a body that was giving way so its soul could be loosed. Allen sobbed, needing to know that his instincts about what to do were the right ones. I sobbed, knowing what my family was having to go through without me. I felt so very guilty that I was letting them down. That's not true, I know, but the emotion is an honest one.
When I returned home, Allen noticed that I was not going upstairs. He was right. Chelsea had been confined to one bedroom upstairs for most of the past year. A baby gate guarded the doorway so he couldn't wander out and fall down the stairs. The baby gate was still up and Allen had thoughtfully done very little to the room. He knew that I needed to encounter that room as the only way I could enter into the experience of Chelsea's death.
I lay on the bed clutching a stuffed bunny that my staff had sent me while in Florida. (They know me so well.) The blue blanket where he died was still on the floor crumpled just so, I could still make out where his body had been. I could also tell where Allen had laid on the floor next to him for endless hours. The room stank both of dog urine and pet death. I was glad for that. I was also glad for the presence of his dog bed, toys and food bowls all still in their place.
I was still on the bed when Allen joined me. We stayed next to one another, cried quietly and not so quietly, telling our Chelsea stories. That little creature carried so much for us. There is much witness to be born to the life we shared with him.
After a while we brought in McGee, our surviving Wheaten. We carried him to the bed to be with us, and he did dutiful service. He still won't walk on the floor of this room, nor will he come through the doorway unless invited. He knows the old man of the house is gone and is not yet ready to violate the space or make it his own. McGee is grieving, too.
After giving ourselves some time, we got up and went out to dinner. Returning home, I began the process of cleaning the room. Slowly. Deliberately. With great intention I picked up one piece at a time, gaving thanks for the ways it had served this creature which had the fullness of my love, and cleaning or putting it away.
Allen and I slept together in the room that night-- a first in over a year since the dogs didn't get along too well-- and because Chelsea was the real problem. We began to reclaim the room and returned to a way of life that had been ours with Chelsea, so even that felt like a rightful tribute.
McGee joined us for the night, but only on the bed. As soon as he jumps down he leaves the room. I understand the aversion, and it's his own way of loving Chelsea and grieving his death at the same time.
Not a bad model.
pax [+]
June 1988 ~ June 2005
Chelsea died on Wednesday, June 8, 2005 at 3:15 pm.
Losing Chelsea is a grief only seconded by the loss of my parents. Having to lose him while I was away at a conference is only seconded by knowing what my spouse had to go through without me here to help him.
You know how it is. We all have things we promise to do for our spouses. There are things only he does, that I rely upon him to do, and that give me some sense of comfort and stability knowing that those things will be taken care of. Likewise, there are things I do. This was to be one of them. I had prepared for it. I was ready.
But I wasn't there. Providence had something different for us to learn.
How like Chelsea to wait until I wasn't with him to enter new life. I was away at Credo 82 (an invitation-only enrichment program for Episcopal clergy) and so Allen was left on his own. We had kidded many times that this would happen when I was out of town, but it was only that-- kidding.
I knew the end was coming very soon when Allen called and held the cell phone so I could hear Chelsea's breathing. It was the distinctive breath of a body that was giving way so its soul could be loosed. Allen sobbed, needing to know that his instincts about what to do were the right ones. I sobbed, knowing what my family was having to go through without me. I felt so very guilty that I was letting them down. That's not true, I know, but the emotion is an honest one.
When I returned home, Allen noticed that I was not going upstairs. He was right. Chelsea had been confined to one bedroom upstairs for most of the past year. A baby gate guarded the doorway so he couldn't wander out and fall down the stairs. The baby gate was still up and Allen had thoughtfully done very little to the room. He knew that I needed to encounter that room as the only way I could enter into the experience of Chelsea's death.
I lay on the bed clutching a stuffed bunny that my staff had sent me while in Florida. (They know me so well.) The blue blanket where he died was still on the floor crumpled just so, I could still make out where his body had been. I could also tell where Allen had laid on the floor next to him for endless hours. The room stank both of dog urine and pet death. I was glad for that. I was also glad for the presence of his dog bed, toys and food bowls all still in their place.
I was still on the bed when Allen joined me. We stayed next to one another, cried quietly and not so quietly, telling our Chelsea stories. That little creature carried so much for us. There is much witness to be born to the life we shared with him.
After a while we brought in McGee, our surviving Wheaten. We carried him to the bed to be with us, and he did dutiful service. He still won't walk on the floor of this room, nor will he come through the doorway unless invited. He knows the old man of the house is gone and is not yet ready to violate the space or make it his own. McGee is grieving, too.
After giving ourselves some time, we got up and went out to dinner. Returning home, I began the process of cleaning the room. Slowly. Deliberately. With great intention I picked up one piece at a time, gaving thanks for the ways it had served this creature which had the fullness of my love, and cleaning or putting it away.
Allen and I slept together in the room that night-- a first in over a year since the dogs didn't get along too well-- and because Chelsea was the real problem. We began to reclaim the room and returned to a way of life that had been ours with Chelsea, so even that felt like a rightful tribute.
McGee joined us for the night, but only on the bed. As soon as he jumps down he leaves the room. I understand the aversion, and it's his own way of loving Chelsea and grieving his death at the same time.
Not a bad model.
pax [+]
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