Longest Night

The comfort of darkness in the midst of grief

Yesterday was the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, the day when our part of the earth is tilted the farthest away from the sun. It is a time to both acknowledge the power of the creative darkness as winter takes hold, and to recognize that the light will return, as it does each year, in its own time. The long nights are feeling particularly quiet this year because we recently had to say goodbye to our beloved dog and family member Lucky.

Lucky was a 17-pound bundle of joy in the form of a jet-black Schipperke, a breed of small herding dogs originally bred in Belgium to work on canal boats. We didn’t know any of this when we adopted him 12 years ago in West Virginia, only that he seemed like the right dog at the right time. He was incredibly smart and food-motivated, willing to learn any task for a reward, which came in handy when we discovered later in his life his amazing ability as a medical alert dog. After my health started getting worse, he would come bother me whenever my blood sugar dropped too low or when he sensed a migraine was imminent by standing on my feet, trying to get me to lay down, and then putting himself on top of me, for all the world like he was trying to keep me safe. It was something of a miracle that he could smell all these changes happening in my body and sense danger. And so we trained him to do other tasks and to behave himself in public, all of which he was happy to do in exchange for tiny bites of liver treat or peanut butter.

After he was trained, he went with us everywhere, faithfully trotting next to my wheelchair to explore all kinds of places together. We went camping, to museums, on hiking trails. He even rode in a backpack when I rode my bike, his hair flying in the wind. And after he started slowing down from arthritis and had to retire as my service dog, he was still our best friend, part of our family, always there, always excited to play.

The last few months of his life this fall were particularly hard for all of us. Dementia that had started a few years ago was ravaging his mind. He would wake up in the middle of the night, inconsolably upset and anxious. He required more and more medicine to keep him calm and comfortable, and the last month of his life I knew it wouldn’t be much longer. But still we hoped, as all pet parents do, that he might get a little better, that we might have a little more time with him. On December 4^th, we finally had to say goodbye. His kidneys were failing and his mind was no longer with us but stuck in some other shadow world that we couldn’t reach. I have lost several good friends in my life, who I have loved deeply and shared so much with, but having to say goodbye to Lucky was much more painful, and I’ve been sitting with that paradox for several weeks now. Having a dog, even a working dog, is a bit like having a life-long toddler. For almost 13 years, we fed him and brushed him and took him for walks. We cuddled and played and were frustrated together.

And suddenly, he isn’t here anymore, and the house feels too quiet, and my heart feels like it has a huge Lucky-sized hole in it. I have been surprised at the depth and intensity of my grief, a different flavor of grief than when friends or family members die. Grief is such a physical emotion; it grips the whole body with wracking sobs and sadness that feels like wearing a lead vest. I hear noises that I am sure are him snoring in the next room, or crying, but there’s nothing there. I feel him brush up against my leg, but it’s only the hem of my pants.

In some ways I am intensely grateful that this time of grief is happening on the longest nights of the year. It feels more appropriate to shelter inside from the cold and snow, tucked in warm blankets while the stars shine in the dark sky outside. The darkness feels like a safe space, holding me in the midst of my sadness. It doesn’t feel harsh but comforting, which is something I haven’t experienced before. There is a power in allowing ourselves to be enwrapped in the darkness, tended with a different kind of love than the warmth of sunlight. It is moon-medicine, moon-love. It doesn’t burn if you get too close for too long, like the sun. It invites you into silence, into waiting, being present in the midst of the pain of loss, as we wait for the light to creep slowly back into the world, as we wait for the land to wake up again from a winter rest, and figure out how to keep moving forward into an unknown future.