Early Losses, Late Grief
Today I am grateful for a beautiful evening last night to enjoy the outdoors. I am also grateful for the work of healing from pain. It brings me to a better place.
Here is an example of that healing from pain. I grew up on a farm and cats were always around. They stayed outside the house, unless you didn't get the back door closed fast enough and one got in for a little bit. But they didn't stay out of my heart. From a young age, I enjoyed the new litters of kittens. That is, if we could find them. Cats, at least our farm cats, are known for going into hiding to give birth and during the early weeks of life for the new batch. Like so many animals, baby kittens are just about the cutest. Once their eyes opened and they got more mobile, we would see them out and about.
I would often name the kittens in a new litter and pick out a favorite. I recall crawling into an old milk cooler (It was the size of a large freezer and it held the 10-gallon cans of milk we filled with each day's milking, until we got a new barn with a pipeline and a bulk tank. If none of that made sense to you, go back to the large freezer visual.) Probably around nine or ten years of age, I was quiet and shy, and somewhat starved for attention. I turned to the kittens and gave them attention and love. I would sit in that cooler and hold them and confide in them as only a child can.
I recall at least two untimely deaths of my favorite kittens. One involved our dog, the other involved a car. It may have happened more than that, but I even remember their names in these two instances--K.C. (probably for K.C. and the Sunshine Band) and Holthaus (my maiden name). I was not a crier, thinking it was a show of strength to carry the pain of loss without breaking down. I may have been consoled by family members, but I don't remember. What I do remember is deciding it was just too painful to have favorite kittens. So I stopped. I turned my back and walked away, burying grief and healthy adjustment with those kitties.
I didn't realize how significant those losses, and the way I handled them, were in my life until about fifteen years later. I went into counseling for a time, and as I worked through some of the "stuff" from my childhood, I finally came face-to-face with the grief I had buried. My show of strength was nothing more than a faulty way to deal with difficult emotions. (That was a theme that played over and over in my life, especially in my years of active alcoholism.) The grief that finally came, the feelings that were finally recognized, led to catharsis and the beginning of true recovery.
Losses early in life. Grief recognized later in life. Both important parts of my story.
After that, I still wasn't interested in pets. More from a practical approach than a fear of loss. I didn't want the added work and expense, and I lived alone and was gone a lot.
It took some time for Darcy to help me warm up to the idea of a dog, but seeing my son around dogs, and enjoying himself, certainly helped. Getting a cancer diagnosis shot down some of the other barriers too. Once I met Oliver, it didn't take long before I was ready to love an animal again. What a gift that counseling was in my twenties. What a gift Oliver is in our lives now.
Here is an example of that healing from pain. I grew up on a farm and cats were always around. They stayed outside the house, unless you didn't get the back door closed fast enough and one got in for a little bit. But they didn't stay out of my heart. From a young age, I enjoyed the new litters of kittens. That is, if we could find them. Cats, at least our farm cats, are known for going into hiding to give birth and during the early weeks of life for the new batch. Like so many animals, baby kittens are just about the cutest. Once their eyes opened and they got more mobile, we would see them out and about.
I would often name the kittens in a new litter and pick out a favorite. I recall crawling into an old milk cooler (It was the size of a large freezer and it held the 10-gallon cans of milk we filled with each day's milking, until we got a new barn with a pipeline and a bulk tank. If none of that made sense to you, go back to the large freezer visual.) Probably around nine or ten years of age, I was quiet and shy, and somewhat starved for attention. I turned to the kittens and gave them attention and love. I would sit in that cooler and hold them and confide in them as only a child can.
I recall at least two untimely deaths of my favorite kittens. One involved our dog, the other involved a car. It may have happened more than that, but I even remember their names in these two instances--K.C. (probably for K.C. and the Sunshine Band) and Holthaus (my maiden name). I was not a crier, thinking it was a show of strength to carry the pain of loss without breaking down. I may have been consoled by family members, but I don't remember. What I do remember is deciding it was just too painful to have favorite kittens. So I stopped. I turned my back and walked away, burying grief and healthy adjustment with those kitties.
I didn't realize how significant those losses, and the way I handled them, were in my life until about fifteen years later. I went into counseling for a time, and as I worked through some of the "stuff" from my childhood, I finally came face-to-face with the grief I had buried. My show of strength was nothing more than a faulty way to deal with difficult emotions. (That was a theme that played over and over in my life, especially in my years of active alcoholism.) The grief that finally came, the feelings that were finally recognized, led to catharsis and the beginning of true recovery.
Losses early in life. Grief recognized later in life. Both important parts of my story.
After that, I still wasn't interested in pets. More from a practical approach than a fear of loss. I didn't want the added work and expense, and I lived alone and was gone a lot.
It took some time for Darcy to help me warm up to the idea of a dog, but seeing my son around dogs, and enjoying himself, certainly helped. Getting a cancer diagnosis shot down some of the other barriers too. Once I met Oliver, it didn't take long before I was ready to love an animal again. What a gift that counseling was in my twenties. What a gift Oliver is in our lives now.
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