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Grief and service dogs

I’m grieving Doc. I’m sure this comes as no surprise. But there’s another aspect of grief, too, that a lot of people don’t understand. In the last 24 hours, it’s whacked me over the head twice.

Yesterday my husband, Quin, and I went to a very small Pride festival in our local town. There was a little parade, mostly councilmembers, some kids groups, Dykes on Bikes were there, and some businesses. We sat on the curb and cheered and waved. Afterward, we went to check out the dozen or so booths. A few weeks ago, I could have stayed an hour before my sensory disorder insisted I go home, or suffer a massive panic attack. During that time Doc would have checked in with me, reminding me to check in with him. He would have grounded me and given my brain something tactile to focus on. (Touch is a big thing for me.) He would have forced people to give me a little more space. Most importantly, he would have let me know when I needed to get a little space, take a minute, and then re-join the group — something I can’t tell on my own.

Instead, I lasted about ten minutes before I felt the world closing down on me. We got out of there before I had a panic attack, but I did break into a sprint at least once to get out of a group of people.

Last night Quin and I were discussing our schedules for today, and I said, “I have to get my teeth cleaned tomorrow.” And then I freaked. Out.

My sensory disorder makes metal scraping my teeth absolutely horrific. The water pick method isn’t much better. I don’t react well to sedation, in large part because I’m on so many meds. Getting my teeth cleaned — thinking about getting my teeth cleaned — can send me into a full blown panic attack that lasts for about 45 minutes (that’s 45 minutes of crying hysterically, feeling like I can’t breathe, my vision closing down, being unable to stand or walk, etc) and wipes me out for days. At one point, I didn’t get my teeth cleaned for nearly ten years.

The way I get through it is that Doc lays on me in the chair. This forces my breathing to stay slow and even, adds pressure that my subconscious tunes into instead of the tooth sensation, and allows me to pet him, play with his ears, and otherwise focus on him instead of what’s happening with me.

Last night, when I realized I didn’t have him, I nearly went into a panic attack. It took about an hour for me to calm down, even with Quin’s help, and even though I didn’t go into a full panic attack.

I rely on him. People, trying to help, say, “I know how it feels when a pet died. I loved my dog and…” I appreciate that they’re trying to relate, but its not the same.

Today Quin made the comment that I’d basically lost a spouse, and he’s right. I lost someone I rely heavily on; in some ways, more than I rely on Quin. I lost my security in the world. I lost the knowledge that I could do things like walk through a crowd or Costco without having a full blown panic attack. I lost freedom and independence.

Additionally, there’s now a question in my mind: can I do things on my own? Or do I need another service dog? I don’t want one. Not right now, at least. So there’s this big question mark hanging over my head all the time. Can I do it? Must I get another dog?

Today, I feel flattened. I’m working on marketing, but it’s not going smoothly. I did some writing and edited, but that’s slow, too. Mostly, I’m exhausted, primarily from last night.

This doesn’t mean that anyone else’s pain from losing their beloved pet is less than mine. But it is different than mine. This feels kind of lonely, to be honest, though anyone who’s lost a service dog knows exactly what I’m going through.

It sucks.

J

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