Box of Grief

About two weeks after my dog died, a small cardboard box arrived in the mail. There’s always an instant of pleasure and anticipation upon discovering an unexpected package in the mailbox, but the moment turned creepy when I saw the return address: It was from the local veterinary clinic where I had so recently taken Terra and returned home alone. Her ashes and collar are buried near our house now. End of story; adios, vet. I could not fathom what this could be, although some macabre possibilities irrationally occurred to me. I shuddered, took a deep breath, and opened the box.

A pastel-colored brochure with the title “Understanding Your Feelings of Loss” rested on top of a mound of bubble wrap. It was all about the grief I would no doubt be experiencing, the various stages I could expect to endure, how natural it was, even a word about how to dismiss the insensitivity of those cruel and uncaring others who may not understand. Grief is complicated, it said. I might feel anger and guilt on the way to acceptance. Day-to-day tasks can seem impossible to perform. I may even wonder if I can go on.

The brochure’s tone was tactful, kindly, and restrained; I imagined the soothing voice of a psychiatrist or a pastor, possibly even Garrison Keillor. And I can now state with conviction that it is perfectly normal to grieve the loss of my pet, and that my feelings, whatever they are, are valid. As a matter of fact, they transcend mere validity; they may well offer evidence of my advanced state of enlightenment, an idea supported with a quote by Anatole France: “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” 

So, I should go for it, embrace my bereavement, and grieve with confidence.

On the other hand, if I find that I am unable to get over it, a list of counselors, websites, and Pet Loss Support Telephone Hotlines was also enclosed. (I had been conspicuously emotional lately; I wondered for a moment if one of my neighbors had reported me.)

Finally, tucked into the bottom of the box in a Ziploc baggie was a plaster plaque painted lilac and yellow, stamped with a flesh-colored paw print, and adorned with a pink ribbon. The name Terra was engraved at the bottom. A sticker on the bag said, inexplicably, “Remove before baking.” It was all very sweet and well-intentioned, if a bit baffling.

My first reaction was that old leak at the eye, for I am still a little shaky when it comes to Terra, though it is reassuring to have been officially informed that a deep and lingering sense of hurt is normal. My second reaction was to laugh at the silliness of it — especially that little ornament, with which I have no clue what to do.

But isn’t life grand? (And in this part of the world, often surprisingly gentle?) Lose a dog and get a first aid kit for the heart, a handy roster of resources and reassurances — a little bereavement box all your own to facilitate closure. Advice and comfort have now been dispatched, along with a keepsake personalized with your loved one’s name, and just look at you — you’re on your way. There is something so crisp and affirmative about it. And I’m not cynical enough to trash a gesture well meant.

But as it turns out, I already had a little box of grief. I sort through it in the night, masochistically revisiting my losses, replaying mistakes that can never be undone, running my hands over the heartbreak it holds. Over the years, its contents have been rubbed as smooth as polished stones, and even though I am afraid, each stone is a talisman reminding me what the spirit can survive.

There is no balm but the distraction of daylight, no formula but the conversion of sadness to compassion, no choice but to set the box aside.