Aftermath

I'm trying to let Hannah have grieving space but also checking up on her occasionally to make sure she isn't over the edge.  She came completely unglued Tuesday night, blaming herself for not doing enough, for not being there when Klunk died, and every other irrational, illogical thought you have when you are wounded and confused and so desperately sad.

It all happened quickly.  Within half an hour of giving him his nightly dose of medications, his breathing sounded ragged, and Hannah knew he needed to get to the doctor.  The coronavirus protocol at the offices is for staff members to come to cars and pick up the animals, while the owners wait in the parking lot.  Then the doctor calls to let you know what's going on.  That night, the calls went from bad to worse.  Eventually, Hannah wasn't able to talk to them, so I navigated the last hour and a half or so.  He had had to be sedated for something they did, so at least he wasn't aware of what was going on, wasn't suffering at the end.

Yesterday was my day to cry.  Today's been my day to have the after-all-the-crisis-has-passed -and-after-doing-all-that-crying headache.  Hannah sounds a very tiny little bit better, but even that comes and goes.  She still blames herself.  She still wonders why any of it had to happen, why her life just can't go "right" "for once."  There's not a lot you can say to things like that.  You just have to listen.  And trust that The Universe will hold her tight.  Softly, but tight.