This season of Lent showed me how freeing it is to be disconnected from social media. So, my plan is to move away from the creative castration of self-imposed blog post timelines. Who cares about unspoken rules for growth? Those who want to read will find it. All others – who cares? No need to strain for readership. Numbers have never been my purpose.

Still, today is Sunday – my usual day for posting. Today I do not feel like posting, but I must.

Today is April 23 – Bailey died in my arms on March 23 – 3/23/23. One month since I lost my best friend. And I owe her a public farewell.

It is also the two-year anniversary of my ordination and six days until my M.Div. graduation . . . just this morning I wrote in my prayer journal about my apprehension about graduation . . . and my longing to feel Bailey’s presence and support at graduation the way I felt Brad at my ordination. But that is a topic for another day. Today is about my Bailey . . . ALL about my Bailey.

In grief counseling, we are taught of the value of public memorialization rituals. In death – human death – we mark the occasion with a funeral service. Rarely do people hold public funerals for pets, even ones as beloved as my Bailey girl. But I owe her something – some public acknowledgement of how much she meant to me – how much I miss her – and how much I will always miss her.

So, here is my way . . .

The extent to what Bailey meant to me can be summed up in the phrases I used to describe her, things I repeated to her often:

You are:

• My angel
• My heart
• My best friend
• The love of my life
• My everything

I often sang to her. Oftentimes, I made up songs. Sometimes, I rewrote the words for famous songs:

Once, twice, three times my Bailey. And I love you. (Three Times A Lady by the Commodores)

Bailey, Bailey Baby, Bailey Baby. Bailey, my Bailey girl. I love you so, so much. (Sherry – Four Seasons)

She would turn her head, close her eyes, and push her cheek up to my lips for a kiss. I told her over and over again how much I loved her.

She knew how to get anything she wanted from me with a look, a kiss, or a tiny whimper.

She acted as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. I lovingly scolded her that she was as impatient as her daddy.

Before she began to lose her hearing and sight, she followed me everywhere and I took her everywhere. She slept right beside me and loved snuggling under the covers.

She loved being outdoors, going for walks, playing in the park, or simply sitting outside with her momma.

She never met a human or dog she didn’t like. Unlike her momma, she was very outgoing and personable.

She loved stuffed toys.

She loved going for car rides.

She enjoyed going to Petsmart and even looked forward to going to the vet and her groomers.

She could stay in bed all day, but as soon as she heard me come home, she was right there to excitedly greet me.

Even when she got older and would no longer sleep with me and could no longer hear when I got home, she would pick her head up when she finally noticed me, sniff the air, then come close for me to pick her up and love on her.

She never lost her sense of smell. She always knew when I was in the kitchen and came to investigate, letting me know she was there and was ready for a treat.

She was 16 and a half years old. I knew she would soon die. I always watched her sleeping, looking for signs of life – breathing a sigh of relief when I saw movement.

I prayed she would die peacefully and in my arms. I begged God to let me be with her as she took her last breath. I prayed I would not have to make the decision to end her life.

Half of my prayers came true. Her final hours on earth were excruciatingly painful for the both of us. She was in so much pain and I loved her enough to end it for her. I had to make the decision, but it was an easy decision to make. I promised her it would be over soon, that I would not make her linger in her suffering.

I told her she would soon be pain free, snuggling with her daddy, and that she would be my real-life angel. I held her, comforted her, and loved her.

Nothing can prepare you for the death of a loved one. No matter how prepared you think you are.

I often pray with patients and families at the time of death – stating the reality that their loved one’s pain is about to end and theirs is just beginning.

We may think we know, but we cannot know until it happens to us.

It has happened to me before, but Bailey’s was a thousand times worse. Most people don’t get that – how a pet can be more painful than a human death. I don’t care. Others don’t need to get it. I get it. I feel it. It sucks – big time!

The stages of grief make their rounds just the same. They are not linear. They are not even cyclical. Sometimes I feel them all in the same day. Sometimes multiple times in the same day. Sometimes all at once. And they are not always what we expect.

So, here, as a memorial to my beloved baby girl, my Bear, my bubby (baby + buddy), I offer a peek inside some of the manifestations of my own grief:

Denial

The days following her death, I went through the motions as if she were still alive – the familiar routines. I said aloud everything I would have said to her as I left the house or returned home. I pretended to take her outside to potty, pretending to support her bottom as she managed the three steps back inside.

I put her treats in her normal spot as I imagined her little face begging.

Her food and water bowl remained in place, filled with the last remnants of her last meal.

I could not bring myself to eat because every time I went into the kitchen, I saw the way she used to react whenever she heard the refrigerator door open or smelled whatever I was cooking. I could not bear to eat knowing she would not be at my feet waiting for a taste.

One month later her bed and blanket remain in their place on the floor.

Anger

Not addressed to anyone in particular. I was not angry with myself for anything I had done or failed to do. I knew I did my best for her. There was no doubt about my love for her or her love for me. I was not angry with Bailey for dying. I am certain she hung on as long as her body would allow because she loved me. I was not angry with God for taking her from me. I called her my old lady for a reason. No one lives forever. Besides, I was eternally grateful that I was there, that she did not have to suffer like that alone, that I got my one wish to hold her as she died.

I was angry that life still went on as normal, that I had to live without her.

I took breaks from life often, stared at her picture on my screen saver, and cried to her that I was trying. “I’m trying, Baby girl. I’m trying for you.” I was angry that I had to try.

I once told a patient’s husband that it is easy to say we would die for someone, but do we love them enough to live for them?

I was angry that those words came back to bite me in the ass. Now, I had to ask myself the same. I did love Bailey enough to go on living for her. But I was angry that I had to.

Bargaining

I begged God to take me home to her. I did not want her to come back because I knew the last year of her life was not her best. I could not ask her to come back, but I begged and pleaded for God to take me with her. We belonged together. How could I possibly go on without her?

Depression

It took all I had to simply go about the motions of my life. I went to work, but the joy was gone. I showed up for church and school, but I stopped participating. My smile was forced and painful. I could not bring myself to hang out with friends. The bare minimum . . . and that took all my energy.

Acceptance

Every first was taking a step toward acceptance.

Removing her food and water bowl.

No longer putting out treats she would never eat.

Giving away her remaining food.

Making – and eating – a meal she would have enjoyed with me.

Living through another day . . .