Five Poignant Lessons from the Classroom of Grief and Loss

An Existential Psychotherapist’s journey through a year of bereavement and the lessons that can be applied to therapy and life.

My beloved dog Steve passed away nearly a year ago at 12:31pm on Wednesday 21^st September 2022. He was a wonderful companion and friend; a Beaglier (a Beagle and Cavalier cross) of the highest calibre. When we got him (we rescued him as a palliative care dog), he’d been diagnosed with a grade four heart murmur. In the last few months prior to his death, his murmur had regressed to heart failure. It was estimated that he’d have six to twelve months left. We had him for eight more weeks.

Steve took his last breath in my partner’s arms as I was on my way to work. His heart gave out; he let out a yelp. Then he was gone. He was no longer in pain. His death was sudden, and we still feel it immensely.

How I Remember Him

His behaviour was exceptional—something neither Siobhan (my partner) nor I can take credit for. He never complained, never made it harder for us to look after him. He even made sure to ask permission before jumping on the bed. He offered his paw to shake hands prior to eating his meals and came to the gate swiftly when it was time to leave the dog park.

His feet were skewed away from his midline, a case of arthritis slowing his pace, particularly when walking up stairs. They were wise feet; wisdom, in his feet. They seemed worn in, used well, like they’d seen many places, walked up many hills, down slopes and traversed unexplored hilly plains. But they weren’t worn in. They were just old. There weren’t any battle scars. There were no thinning hairs on his knuckles like onion sprouts dancing under a spring sun. They were clean, they were old. Steve’s feet reflected his character: elderly, proud.

His eyes were milky. They, too, seemed wise. He was full of love and gratitude. Every time he looked at me, I felt more at ease. That’s what unconditional love does. If I felt insecure, I’d see him glancing at me from across the room as if to say, “Quit trying to be perfect.”

Abandoned for much of his life, we liked to think of his time with us as his “golden years”—a retirement fit for a king. Mr. Milky eyes with his wise old feet. I’ll never hear them tap away on the floorboards again. I’ll never see him staring up at me as I scratch his chin. I’ll never see him chase his tail or wipe his mouth on the carpet after a hearty breakfast. What I’m only realising now, after nearly a year of mourning, is that his final gift came enclosed in a package of grief. Unwrapping it, lessons about life, death, and the dying process emerge. Opening the box entirely is far too painful—even now; but I am able to study the curriculum, day by day, if I keep my heart open and allow myself to feel what Steve has left behind.

I haven’t yet passed the exams, nor have I submitted any assignments. I hope to convey what I’m learning to you, right now, in real time, for when grief inevitability knocks on your door and demands a home meal. We will all experience grief in our lifetime. This is my experience.

What Grieving Has Taught Me

Number one: Wisdom is distinct from knowledge.

Wisdom is experiential, something you can’t get by reading books alone. Becoming wiser is hard. For the knowledge to truly set in, one must experience a death and rebirth. When the knowledge becomes embedded in the brain and body—that’s when the way one acts changes. That’s when an individual becomes wiser.

The biggest lessons in life are the most painful, just as exercising with the heaviest weights in the gym, all things considered, lead to the greatest strength gains. The difference here is—and I am quick to mention this to clients—I didn’t choose to learn this lesson like a budding athlete might decide to engage in resistance training. Still, if the school of life states that I must pass this subject, then acceptance and adaptation is the only buffer against suffering.

Grief has given me a new perspective on life. Perhaps it’s a bleaker one, which is to say, a more honest or real one. I am learning that grieving is something I can’t control. I can’t “do the work”; then, ironically, get back to work. Sometimes still—and especially in the beginning when the grief was immense—I wake up and cry, feeling hollow because I see nothing but bed between my legs where a once proud old dog lay, snoring. Then, after the tears have subsided, I find the energy needed for the day as I accept and move on from that experience, having integrated whatever came up then. Shortly after, I feel the waves of grief wash over me again as a white dog-hair protruding from an old rug grabs my attention. A journal entry I wrote a few days after he passed paints a picture:

I see no reason to control or try to understand what is happening. It is better to let the cards fall where they may. It is near impossible to view what is happening as a lesson for growth because the pain is so raw, and no pattern has yet emerged for analysis. But I know this experience will help me grow, lest my absolute love for a sentient being who couldn’t speak (but said more with actions than I ever could).

Number two: The passing of time can be cruel and unapologetic.

Time waits for no one. It offers no pause. It demands that we adapt to a quieter home within moments. But the mind needs time to adjust. How can it be that his knitted jumper and his favourite red jacket won’t ever be used again?

“Dear time: What must I do with his collar?”

There he is, there he is, there he is; there he was, there he was, there he was.

The moment of death lasts less than a second. The grieving will be with me forever, but I recognise that that’s the price we pay for loving deeply. Judging by my pain that remains—and that has otherwise re-emerged as the anniversary looms closer—I must have really loved that sweet, little thing.

Grief feels like I’m standing at a junction, not knowing which road to take. I could easily take the path of guilt and ruminate about all the ways in which I didn’t love him as best I could. Anger, too, feels about right. Why him? Why then? And if so, why not when I was home so that I didn’t have to hear about it over the phone? God knows sadness, too, appears the best path to take. I couldn’t stop crying about eleven months ago and tears continue to brew when I glance at his photo on our wall. And as I stand at the junction, confused about how to move forward, I know that any road I take won’t get me to where I’d ultimately love to be, which is, of course, by his side.

Time is unapologetic. I knew, months prior to his passing that he wouldn’t be with us forever. I vividly remember hugging and holding him, my mind reminding me that, soon enough, his soft fur would be a distant memory. And when that day come, nothing could have prepared me for it.

Grief is my side of the story. There’s no perfect way to die for the people who are left behind; but I must remember that he is no longer in pain. Wherever he is, medication no longer serves any purpose, nor does he cough in his sleep. He is at peace, and I know I’ll find mine eventually, after many more years of grieving, when I accept that the pain of loss will be with me forever. But, as I’ve explained to grieving clients before, one cannot let go of the pain entirely; one simply gets used to it. I recognise that now, nearly a year on. The pain isn’t as bad as it was. I was able to get used to it even though I didn’t want to. But it did serve a purpose, just as Steve did what he needed to do on this earth—a little old dog with more love given in three years than I could have ever imagined. I know he’ll continue to walk beside me in some way.

Number three: Grief demands we accept contradictions in thinking and feeling.

Compartmentalising two mutually exclusive truths is what both defines grief and makes it incredibly challenging. How can I possibly be happy that he’s gone? How can I be relieved that I no longer have to clean up after him all the time and now have more time for myself throughout the day? Writing that, despite me being honest, evokes a plethora of guilt (and I have half a mind to delete it). How can relief and the pain of loss co-exist? They can’t, but they must.

Steve was in pain in his final months. Siobhan and I were oblivious to this because we spent every day with him. With hindsight—and with gratitude for Siobhan’s photo bank—we see how rapidly he’d declined from the dog we first met in 2021. His freedom from pain brings me much happiness; the guilt of my relief hurts; then sadness works to lighten the load.

The 19^th and 20^th century psychoanalysts believed the mind to be a battleground of dynamic forces. Suppressing any aspect would inevitably lead to neurosis. Taking a psychodynamic/psychoanalytic viewpoint for grief appeals to me. Sure, I could work through a Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy (CBT) model and come to understand which behaviours engender which emotions, leading to painful or limiting beliefs; but that seems far too clinical and inhumane. What feels right, however, and what has worked since his passing, has been to feel it all when it needs to be felt. Grief isn’t a problem to be solved, but a dichotomy to be managed. Some days, I needed to be sad. Others, I relied on anger to get me through the day. Then I felt—and still feel—guilty and lifeless. Overtime, these volatile waves have calmed, and I am, more often than not, now left to enjoy a tide that rises and falls rather predictably. Still, writing this article has stirred the waters. Paradoxically, it has been therapeutic. And this has been an unbelievably important lesson for me to learn—the fundamental grieving paradox: Only when I truly accept its presence will it cease to exist. If I am okay with grieving the loss of Steve forever, the grief will become manageable. Hence, the resistance to the suffering is “my work”.

Number four: Grief and depression—Brothers in arms.

I can feel my memory slipping away slowly as the days, weeks and months without him unfold. It hurts to feel him become more distant, like a ship sailing away. The feeling of his presence isn’t as clear anymore. I don’t remember his energy in the house.

I know that in order to continue to heal, I need to get used to him not being around; but if I am to get used to this reality, parts of him I must forget. And this makes me not want to feel better because I don’t want to lose the parts of him I miss. It makes sense why we become attached to our suffering.

My years working as a therapist have showed me how similar depression and grief are. Depression describes a general feeling of loss or sadness coupled with a longing or despair and a lack of hope—an inability to perceive a brighter day. Simply put, where depression is, hope is not. In a 1997 study, authors Nesse and Williams suggested that depression—withdrawing from society—is necessary to re-evaluate one’s situation cautiously, to prevent making impulsive decisions and prevent further loss. The two authors of the study highlighted that therapists often observe a cessation of depressive symptoms when people change or let go of a goal they’ve had for a long time but have not been able to achieve.

Goals fashion our identities. Who we are is what we do across time, and what we are aiming at influences what we do. I have had lengthy discussions about this with clients struggling with depression. I find it helps them view their depression as something worthwhile and necessary in order to heal. It is tremendously painful to let go of an idea of who you want to be or who you thought you were. Think of a mother losing a child at birth or a footballer burdened by a career-ending injury.

For me, letting go of the idea that Steve may, at any moment, poke his around the corner of the kitchen or bark at a bird is an ongoing struggle. Looking at a photo of him for too long brings tears to my eyes. I know my sadness isn’t a disorder. It is necessary. It is healing, not something to medicated or diagnosed. As Jim Carrey said: “Your body needs to be depressed. It’s needs ‘deep rest’ from the character you’ve been trying to play.” I can’t be Tom, Steve’s owner, anymore. Accepting that will take the rest of my life. He was a wonderful pet. Yelling, hugging, crying, screaming, punching (a pillow)—it’s all “healing”. There is no deadline and there is no key performance indicator. Being in the grief and the depression is the right thing to do.

Number five: Dream Analysis Helps

Not so much anymore, but in the beginning, my dreams were very vivid. Dreams are our emotional regulators, our mind’s way of adapting to new realities, updating our maps of the world and integrating experiences into the narrative of our lives. Dream analysis is highly effective therapeutic work and something I often rely on when working with clients. I recall two very distinct dreams within the first month of Steve’s passing”

Dream One:

“I am in my house and can see Steve. The front door is open, and I am feeling intense fear and sadness because I know he is about to walk out. He is looking directly up at me as if to say that he will sit by my side for as long as he needs to. He seems very present but all I can do is cry at the thought of him leaving. I know he is trying to tell me to just be with him, right now in the present, but I can’t. And that is when I wake up.”

Dream Two:

“I am at a gathering. The party an apartment high-rise in a parking bay. I don’t know anyone, but I seem quite confident. As I make my way up some stairs and around the gathering, I see Steve looking at me. He is sitting next to an owner and a subsequent family I do not recognise. He is on a leash. He seems very happy to see me but is also very calm and content. I want to get back down the stairs to give him a hug, but I can’t. Steve’s expression doesn’t change. He remains happy and vibrant. Despite the pain I feel, I recognise that he is in safe hands.”

Dreams will give you important insights into where you are on your journey of grieving. I try to pay attention to any reoccurring themes or ‘blocks’, if that is what they are. There is no need to force or try to “heal faster” (an expression a client of mine once said) if you do notice patterns; simple feel into and accept the immensity of the pain in the moment.

Though the meaning behind the two dreams is relatively obvious, it helped me feel Steve’s presence in the mornings, halfway between wakefulness and sleep, in addition to gaining deeper insights into how my mind and body were processing the loss of a pet so dear to me.

A Final Note For Other Grievers

Little did I know that the passing of an elderly dog would evoke such pain. I’ve had dogs die in the past and, whilst it hurt, seldom did I feel like I do now, one year on. Still, the lessons above are continuing to teach me about life and love, and the one great antidote against nihilism that is connection. Whether pet or human, doing life with someone is what makes it all worthwhile. As the saying goes, what’s the point of climbing to the top of the mountain if you don’t have anyone to share the view with? And if you are, by chance, reading this with a pet lying at your feet—please, for me, hug them. I’d give anything to hug Steve again.