Never Say Good-Bye

Good-byes are never easy.  And many of us we spend our lives in dread and fear of them.  Building up great expectations and scenarios in our mind of how they must, and will be played out.  Hoping that when the time comes, we will be in control. 

And yet, we seldom are.

How many good-byes will we have to say in a lifetime?

Many.

And each one that we say stays with us.  So we hold on tight to our memories of those significant and painful good-byes, replaying them time and time again, trying to make sense of them, needing to assimilate their reality.

For me there has been a whole spectrum of good-byes.  There have been countless airport good-byes when we lived in the States.  And other easier ones, along with those meaningful ones, which have stayed with me, and always will.

One of those that stands out occurred the year I was twenty-one, and living with Steve in Stafford while he finished the final year of his degree.  Struggling to find work, we’d decided I should return home to get a job, to begin saving for Steve’s return home in a few months. 

Even now, years later, when I think of that afternoon, that good-bye, my chest tightens and I am back there in Stafford, driving away from him in the car. 

It was a perfect summers day, sunlight glistened in the rearview mirror as I watched Steve fade away from me, becoming smaller and smaller, while the ache within me grew. 

There have been many other good-byes over the years that have been tougher and more traumatic and yet this one still stays, hovering, in the memory bank of my mind.

Still, there’s no getting away from the fact that whatever the circumstances, good-byes are emotionally challenging.

During my recent research for an article, I investigated the emotional effects of being evacuated as a child during the 2^nd World War.  In doing so, I listened to several evacuees in their mid to late seventies talk about the difficulties they had faced throughout their lives when it came to saying good-bye. 

Some, sadly, were unable to overcome the damaging effects of that abrupt good-bye from their parents on the 1^st September 1939, and their powerlessness to prevent it.  And so they’ve spent a lifetime trying to avoid ever having to say good-bye again.

This week, Steve and I were forced to say our own goodbye.  One that we knew was looming on the horizon, but which we hoped would never happen.

But having battled through constant infections and put up with numerous visits to the vets, it was finally time to say farewell to our little Guinea Pig, Luce. 

Back in November, in my blog ‘Life Lessons From a Guinea Pig,’ I wrote of our trip that week to the vets and our expectation that it was time to let Luce go. 

On that day, as we drove in the car we were able to whisper our good-byes.  I sang to Luce, we explained what was happening, told her that we loved her and would never forget her.  We felt, somehow, that although we were devastated, we at least, were in control.

Last Monday, we drove to the vet, careening through the empty country lanes, frantic with panic. 

Only days before, Steve had taken Luce to the vets and she’d been given another dose of powerful antibiotics, which had perked her up again over the weekend. 

Just another false alarm we thought.

But in the darkness of the car, last Monday, I knew that something was seriously wrong.  Something that was beyond antibiotics and Lucy’s iron will power to get better. 

We both did.

‘This is something she can’t come back from,’ the vet told us, confirming our worst fears.

And in the awfulness of that moment, there was no question of what we needed to do.  Our little Luce was in trouble and it was time to let her go.

When we drove her to the vets in November, I had imagined that I would cradle her in my arms, kissing the soft deliciousness of her fur as she faded from us, and into a world where there would, we hoped, be endless fields for her to roam in and meadow grass for her to nibble on. 

Reality, as to be expected, was very different.

The vet cradled Lucy in his arms, as I splattered kisses upon her head.  Unable to watch as he walked her away from us, along the corridor to where he would anaesthetize, and then give her the injection that would release her from this world, and the physical distress she was in. 

And that was that.

Minutes later we were in the car returning home, to begin a life without Luce.

Fidget, our ginger cat, who loved watching Luce dart and rustle about in her cage, was waiting for us by the front door, as if he already knew.  For days he’s been quiet, stalking around the house.  Curling up in strange places, and just sitting there. 

Like Fidge we feel Lucy’s absence.  We miss her.  Our home feels empty and silent without her in it. 

And while we fight to manage our grief at losing the little GP who encouraged us to live again, and whom allowed our shattered hearts to heal, the messiness of the good-bye haunts me.

I wanted to be there, to hold her.  I needed her to know that she wasn’t alone: to feel how much she was loved.

But it happened so fast, and not as I had expected. 

Snuggled within the crook of the vet’s arms, in that moment: I didn’t even think to say good-bye.

Instead, kisses were my farewell.

Over these past few days our final moments together, our hurried farewell have become tarnished with an overwhelming sense of relief that she’s no longer suffering.  Sorrow that we have lost her. 

And guilt. 

Guilt that during these past few weeks as we’ve cared for, and worried about her, as Luce slowly slipped away from us, I too, felt myself disconnect.

Emotionally shutting down in preparation for this moment.  A sense of self-preservation to help get through these taxing weeks of uncertainty, while we lived knowing that time was short, and that all too soon we would feel the knockout blow of grief.

This disconnect had nothing to do with our love for Luce.  It’s simply what we do, and how, when faced with life’s traumatic events, we strive to cope.

It is the process of saying good-byes. 

Good-byes are messy and complicated.  They leave you gasping for air, struggling to understand, desperate to see the person, place or beloved pet, one last time.

There’s no evading the truth, good-byes are tough, but they’re also how we learn.  They teach us to value those loved ones whom we have lost, and also those, whom we are still lucky enough to be sharing our lives with. 

Good-byes remind us that life is short, that we need to live each day the best that we can.  They also allow us to hope, that one-day we will see our precious loved ones again.