the desire to be dissolved

It’s been less than sixty hours since we asked them to stop compressions; I held you for twenty minutes, caressing your face, knowing that this would be the final time that I held your precious body in my arms. Your nose was still wet, but we knew when we received the phone call thirty minutes prior to that… you were gone. I have tried my hardest to reallocate the anger, sadness, pain, trauma, guilt, shame, the intense melancholy elsewhere. It is so difficult to swallow the crumbling reality that I now live in a world where I can only feel your death lingering over me, knowing that this is the immense loss that I will carry for the rest of my life. 

I whispered to you on repeat, as your dad looked on, taking photographs – I asked him to capture me in the most vulnerable and raw moment of our shared life together, I wanted to remember the final time I got to hold you as close I ever could – and I reminded you that you were my beautiful little girl. My precious princess, my baby love… we did everything right and we still had to let you go. 

I am not ready to say goodbye. 

A recurring problem in my world is that there is a sense of inescapability to my academic self. That is, I always find my writing informed by some ‘theoretical framework’ that will legitimize what I am presenting. As I sit here and collect the mixed thoughts that are running through my brain, tempted to leap into my fingertips and to the keys, I find myself incapable of simply sitting in that space between irrationality and reasoning. It certainly feels like the ‘curse of academia,’ which makes writing without the focus of a primary object feel futile, like I am doing a poor job of reinforcing my claims because I simply do not have the proper foundation to build direction. 

(And here I am again, justifying myself.)

I have thought about Chambers-Letson’s work, After the Party: A Manifesto for Queer Life of Color, a lot these past few months. But I think about the opening preface and the concluding passages in his chapter about Nina Simone, and it makes me want to breathe More Life into the experiences I have been fortunate to have outside of academic inquiry. 

“What we’ve got, when there’s nothing else, not even the feeling of freedom, is our flesh, life, and each other. We can’t afford any more losses. We need More Life.”

– p. 77, “Nina Simone and the Work of Minoritarian Performance”

I think about how much being Ozilla’s mom gave me purpose these last thirteen years. In February 2012, my dad believed that our family had healed amidst the loss of our family dog, Twinkie, in 2010. A family friend – who has since left us – told my dad that he had some pug mix puppies, maybe he was interested? He was, but I had no clue. I joined him on an adventure that day, never knowing that I was going to be handed a precious life that would complete the rest of mine. 

She was perfect, and naturally every fur/pet parent advocates that their child is. And I believe them, because I believe my little one was simply perfect. Her little round face, her tiny little paws that smelled fresh, the little streaks of white that would disappear from her black hair over the coming months (only to return some years later in her senior years). I was in love. I remember stopping at the gas station on our way home, and as we were pumping gas our new little friend decided to squat on the seat and pee. I fell even deeper in love – maybe it was self-evident that a puppy wouldn’t have bodily regulation, but I always told myself that she was simply a little bit defiant. (That turned out to be true; she was quite the rebellious little wild spirit, and I embraced her stubbornness with everyone – except me.)

–

My Baby Love, 

You gave me thirteen beautiful years of More Life. I tell myself that every time I spoke to you, you tilted your head and understood. Your dad and I talk all the time about our choice to avoid having human children; we didn’t want to forsake independence to spend the rest of our lives being ‘so-and-so’s mom and dad.’ In reality, I knew that wasn’t true. We decided against having children because we already had children – you and your siblings. I knew, deep down inside, that our lives would always be full, rich, and tremendously joyful because you four kept our hearts complete, crowded with so much love, joy, and happiness (and a little bit of frustration) with every little thing that you all did.

I know that I will miss you greeting us at the doorways, holding whatever thing you could grab from the floor to greet us with. Your dad put his favorite LA hat in your bed so it’ll always be safe for you. 

We will miss hearing your excited little muffled growls as you wagged your curled tail, trying to release that energy in any way you possibly could. Your dad thinks I used to get annoyed that I always had to wear mismatched slippers when working around the house, but I never did. I just know that you loved carrying those slippers around more than I needed them to belong to a matching pair.

Your dad and I remember how much you loved to mess up the folded blanket as we tried to get the bed ready for you and your siblings. How much you’d try to redirect your excitement as you hopped around the blanket, scratching at it angrily, growling when it didn’t fold the way you wanted it to. 

I am going to miss your licking habit, your little paws digging into my arm as you held me in place while you gave me long licks on the arm. Or you would bite my ear lobe when you seemed to get too caught up in the experience of being close to mom – but it’s okay, because I loved that you seemed to calm down right after, and snuggle against my shoulder. I am going to miss hearing your snores in my ear as I sat on the couch, trying to re-read the same passage over and over again. 

It’s too hard to sit in my office because your little cushion footstool still has your imprint in the blanket. I can’t seem to find the strength to sit at my desk, knowing only your brother will be curled by my feet. Your absence in that room feels so heavy. Writing only seemed to get done because you took turns between your footstool and mom’s lap. How can I write when I don’t have you interrupting, scratching at my thigh, every other hour?

I haven’t sat down on the usual corner of the couch in the living room quite yet because it’s too cold without your body snuggled up against my leg. You would get hot and jump down, but it didn’t take very long for you to stretch lazily on the edge of the couch cushion, waiting for me to pat the empty spot beside me. That spot will always remain open, free, and empty. I know I am waiting for a return that will never happen… but it’s there for you. 

It’s going to be terrible to go on car rides and stroller walks without you. Your sister’s bark sounds so much quieter without your company; I wish you could be here to see how much of a pair you two really were, even though you got frustrated when she got close to you sometimes. Turning on the windshield wipers without you trying to attack them through the windshield just doesn’t have the same comfort as it did. 

I am going to miss sneaking a peek on the home cameras while I am at work. I get so sad thinking that I don’t need to leave the bedroom door open and the television on during workdays anymore… I won’t have a need to keep the bedroom camera plugged in because it’ll just be a silent bedroom that feels so empty without you stretched across the mattress or leaving your body impressions in the pillows. 

Our home feels so much quieter without you here. Our hearts feel emptier, less capable of feeling as full as they did before. I wonder if you would ever know how much you made our family feel perfectly complete. 

I like to believe that you knew how loved you were, that I spoiled you as much as we could – that we really did buy the house, the truck, the crossover, the stroller, the ramp, the new bed set, the couch set, the regular seating dining table for you all. That our lives, our lack of vacations, our days off, our inability to leave you alone for more than an hour at a time (and by ‘our,’ I mean me because your dad simply tolerated my fear of separation) were because I loved you immensely and couldn’t have spent enough time with you. 

My work never suffered because of you. My work has always been inspired by providing you with another jar of treats, another vet visit, another car ride, another full bin of toys (that your sister stole from you), another closet full of clothes, another day to spoil and love you as much as we could. 

I wish that I could have finished this journey with you still here. I guess you finished your journey before mine.

 – 

I won’t say goodbye quite yet because I don’t believe I will ever have the courage to close out this chapter. I know that she is no longer here with us, but that I carry this sadness deep within me for the rest of my life. And I know mourning looks differently for everyone, that grief comes in cycles; however, I also know that I want to share this sadness and heartbreak openly. I find it to be important to be vulnerable and publicize this sorrow because who I am now is shaped by it. My identity is formed by the abrupt loss of my eldest baby, gone before her time. We did everything right, even though I was afraid and terrified of what that cost was. And we still had to lose our precious baby – it didn’t matter that we made the right decision for her because she still left us behind. 

I believe that many people assume that pet parents are “doing too much.” And if I wasn’t one, I certainly might feel the same; how incomparable it is to the feeling of loss and heartbreak that comes when you lose a ‘child.’ But I have lost a piece of myself; I will never be who I was before the moment came when I realized I had to be the one to make the decision to stop the compressions and let her go in peace. I continue to find myself in the throes of anguish, asking myself if I had done something wrong and what else could we have done to make it possible for her to still be in our world, to keep our family intact. I tell myself that I would sacrifice any amount of time from my own life to simply have one more hour with her. 

To hold her close again, to cuddle her against my chest and never let go – because I know what I am losing when I release her. 

A part of me left with her that day; a part of my husband was taken, too. We are trying to figure out how to simply ‘be’ and I know he is trying to adapt to a world where I cannot feel the same way as I did before we endured losing our baby. It feels like we are strangers, inhabiting bodies that look familiar but feel so strange. I don’t know how to learn to live in this reality where I don’t wake up and feel her laying against my belly, watching me carefully and deciding where she can curl closer to my body to avoid me getting out of bed. I wish she hadn’t been taken from me, that her life hadn’t been prematurely robbed. There are so many ‘I wish’ feelings that I only wish I could have held her little body for the rest of my life. 

Losing you was the worst feeling in the world. Your brother and sisters need me to stay strong and resilient, but just know… we love you tremendously. And our world got a little bit smaller without your presence here with us. 

Until we meet again, princess. We love you, Ozilla. 

Thank you for letting us be your parents. But most importantly, thank you for giving me a reason to live for the last thirteen years. Mommy loves you very much. 

I will love you for the rest of my life. Thank you for giving me More Life in this lifetime. I wish I could have given you more of the same.

Love, Mom.

* This was a painful experience in writing. I know I am not done writing about this little bundle of joy, and I will return to her as much as I can in order to preserve her life and love, but also so that I can honor how much this precious thing changed my world.

Thank you for taking the time to see my baby. But mostly, thank you for allowing me to honor her legacy. *