Dollbaby

She’s my best friend and I can’t imagine life without her. ~ 2010/01/25

It’s taken me these two weeks to be able to make this post. Two weeks ago today at 6:50 pm, I lost Dollbaby. The things I can publicly report is that her death was not caused by her diabetes, but rather by a person. Also that she suffered greatly and I only returned from my trip to WebWise to sign the paperwork that would release her from the collapsing prison her body had became. Signing my name has been torturous for I see my hand pressing that pen to those death papers. God or perhaps Dollbaby herself, survived just long enough for me to kiss, caress, sing her songs to her, and then whisper fervently, “I love you, I love you, I love you” as the euthanasia freed her.

The rage of grief and the longing that I’ll never be able to satisfy in this life are the everyday chains that have seized my heart which I feel that has not beat once since the vet said that this is the end, there is nothing more that we can do for her. It’s also not that I forget that she’s not here, but out of instinct, I’ll turn to look for her. Without ceasing I listen for her and at night, I lie down and wait for the shift of her footsteps as she makes her way to the pillow. Things which are intangible that can never come again.

The last morning we spent together, I woke early to finish up everything I needed to do for my trip. However, I woke with one arm behind my head and Dollbaby’s soft round back pressed against the left side of my head. Surprised to find her there, I put off the day for half an hour to love on her. It was a good morning and in-between cuddles, I managed to reach my cellphone and snap several photos of this unexpected morning cuddle. Later, she followed me down the hall while I did stuff in the kitchen and for days after her death, I kept envisioning her standing there looking up at me. When I left that Tuesday morning, she had been healthy, a good weight, full of energy and good cheer.

My boyfriend has been a solid rock during my grief. He was there when Dollbaby had to go and he drove us back to the mountains for Dollbaby’s burial (I wouldn’t let anyone else carry her for this was my burden). I could not have dealt with this without him. He helped dig the grave, wrap the shroud of my Seattle blue-green blanket around her box, and then helped seal the grave.

She’s buried under a dogwood tree and I’ve made Dad promise that he’ll pluck a blossom and press it for me each year. That tree that was there for who knows how many years, was just waiting because now it’s Dollbaby’s tree which she’ll nourish and she’ll return again and again it its blossoms each spring. She’s my own Persephone that I had to release to the underworld but she’ll always be back again.

Her sisters are not dealing with her death well. While I was there to say goodbye, I think of them being alone here in the house with her. They saw what happened, the terribleness of it, and the way I cry and wail. Celeste barely eats and is losing weight. She was born on my bed when Dollbaby was five years old. Celeste’s birthday was the week Dollbaby died and I asked Dollbaby how I was going to tell Celeste that she wouldn’t be there.

We’re surviving day by day. Some days are harder than others. It was only a few days ago that I genuinely laughed aloud and then the shadow was there in my mind.

Then last week I was greeted with another terrible thing bringing my count to three this semester. My grandpa died on Tuesday, February 15th, Dollbaby on Sunday, March 13th, and my car was totaled on Monday, March 21st. Therefore, I have to remember to take it easy on myself. My concentration has been blown to smitherens, my drive handicapped, and my heart ground so small that I’m unsure I can find the pieces again. But out of all this sorrow, I’ve now found solace in looking at death in a new way: I hope it is one minute treading through this life, these steps, and then suddenly there is Dollbaby again. She gives me a long, slow, measuring look that says that she’s been waiting and what took me so long.