the desire to be dissolved

Losing Ozilla was a devastating gut punch – gasping for air, unmistakably drowning. Trying to make sense of words, the failure of language to match the sounds they breathe to life. Like reading the final pages of a story that never implied a tragic ending.

We lost Ronaldo Tuesday evening. I cannot even begin to express the depth of our despair. How do you start the story at the end?

I should feel at ease knowing that our sweet, tender, precious, gentle boy passed away at home. But I don’t. I continue to play the point when we realized he was gone, the rising difficulty to accept that his heart simply stopped beating, collapsing in recognition of how empty the world suddenly felt. How do you grieve not just the loss of life, but the loss of what will never be again?

I think only of ways I could have done things differently the week before – I should have spent more time giving him scratches behind his ears (just the way he liked), I had no need to go to the grocery store as often as I did, I wish I had spoiled him a little more with treats even despite the diabetes. I could have kissed him a hundred times more than I already did, should have reminded him with greater frequency how much of a handsome boy he was.

Everyone sends their condolences the first few days, determined empathy and tender concern because that’s just what societal expectations have dictated to be normal – kind pity as ordinary as breathing, as trivial as thanking someone for holding open a door, as common as covering one’s mouth when coughing, as expected as excusing one’s self when retreating from a dinner table.

When I lost Ozilla, the empathy was overwhelming; I often felt like I was buried under the pressure of thanking everyone when I simply wanted to drift away, drift far away from reality and existence. I still feel this way as I mourn the absence she’s left – unbearable, tiny, but larger-than-life in a way that only her dad and I understand. To us, she wasn’t just a dog. She was a character, a made egoist princess that earned her place as an overpowering spectacle. Her death shook our world from its abrupt presence, leaving us stumbling as we determined how to live a life without her. It felt, and still feels, immensely impossible.

But losing Ronaldo didn’t just hurt us. The hurt extended beyond us, to our families, the community of people who knew him.

It makes me sad to know that his absence doesn’t just pain me. I’ve lived with the sadness, the overwhelming melancholia that I wear like a shroud. But Ronaldo’s spirit was innocent, pure in a way that everyone simply knew he was not just a good boy – he was the best.

He was patient. Loving. Devoted. Sweet. Gentle. Kind. You looked into his eyes and all you saw was genuine love. It wasn’t simply love for me, but love for everyone he came into contact with. He loved to love everyone, he adored being in the presence of others, he enjoyed loving everyone who he came into contact with. When he was younger, I was always nervous that his sociable disposition would make him susceptible to strangers – he wagged his tail at anyone walking on the sidewalk near my parents’ house, greeting anyone like family.

But anyone who knew Ronaldo, who truly knew him, understood that the depth of his love for me was an abyss – bottomless, never-ending, immeasurable.

I learned true, stubborn, and absolute love from Ronaldo. The totality of his love for me was palpable, unmistakable when I would walk through the door; whether two minutes or two hours, Ronaldo was never more excited for anything than to see me. To be around me. To parade right behind me. To trot with his head high as he followed me wherever he could follow me. Before my husband, Ronaldo was my metric for determined, steadfast, and all-consuming love. He loved me when I didn’t even know how to be loved. It didn’t matter because wherever I was – from cleaning the debris from our fruit trees to the front porch of my parents’ home while we handed out candy on a brisk Halloween night to the vet’s office for his three-month checkups – that was where he wanted to be. To be close. To be there.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. But Ronaldo was.

And it makes me sad to acknowledge that our families were devastated with the news of his abrupt but quiet passing. I cannot escape how much of who Ronaldo was became so important for everyone else outside of my husband and me. My husband always joked that he wasn’t sure who loved me more, him or Ronaldo, but he always reminded me that Ronaldo’s love was first, pure in a child-like way that you rarely find in anything. And that was who he was: loving, sitting with others, enjoying their company because he loved them just the way they were. I know that I am not the only one in mourning. Much like Ozilla’s life, Ronaldo’s touched so many more worlds that I imagined.

He was a very special boy. I wish there was a way to convey how much meaning there was in being his mom, to seeing how many lives he reached, to know that I was so fortunate to raise him as a gentle, kind soul that leaves a big void in the world.

In April 2012, Ronaldo came into my life. His original family had begun to neglect him, he was simply too much work – his hearing was practically non-existent, his balance poor. They simply did not want him because he was a special needs dog that they couldn’t imagine dedicating time and effort to. He was the runt; everyone was surprised he lived as long as he had. I didn’t know how much work it would be for me – but what young twenty-something year old is prepared to renounce self-centered pursuits for a dog’s needs? Ozilla was my spunky, defiant wild spirit, and Ronaldo wobbled behind his sister, determined to meet her energy. They became each other’s counterpart, companions in everything; Ozilla was unruly, but sweet, and Ronaldo was gentle and persistent. The brief time apart spared them, and me, from littermate syndrome; they were the perfect pair.

I loved Ronaldo from the start, and I like to imagine that he immediately loved me, too. He might play with his sister, but he always ended his morning tug o’war by snuggling at my feet while I studied or watched TV. If I was working at my desk, my bed, or the dining room table, he was fast asleep below my feet. If I walked back and forth, putting away laundry or attending to other chores, he happily trotted behind me. He would collapse wherever he could keep me in his sightline, prepared to spring into action if I made any suggestion of movement.

I will miss his steadfast companionship. I will miss his quiet, unassuming, but continuous presence.

So much of my life this past year has been built around keeping him comfortable. No one really prepares you for what it truly means to have a chronically ill pet. Our family sacrificed a lot to keep his schedule, to ensure that he has a daily routine that keeps him as healthy and happy as we possibly could manage. I missed out on field research, conferences, vacations, family and personal events because it interfered with his twice-daily insulin shots, his feeding routine, cooking his dinner, taking him to the vet every three months, or putting on his glucose monitor.

My world wasn’t simply about me, not anymore. It was about giving him the best quality of life that we could manage. There were concerts and performances I was sad to miss. I lamented how the freedom to leave and travel – whether to the bookstore or to pick up his prescriptions – was a luxury others took for granted. I missed out on social gatherings or family occasions because it broke my heart to even think about inconveniencing others with Ronaldo’s needs. At moments, I felt trapped. And then I felt ashamed and embarrassed that I was being so selfish when my baby boy depended upon me because he couldn’t fully take care of himself, would never know what it was that made his body feel like it was holding him hostage.

Without him, everything I have built my days around is gone. I still look down and expect to feel his nose brush against my feet. I get sad when I open his Libre app and only see three dashes, devoid of a line chart that tracked his glucose. No more need to communicate with his vet about his biweekly glucose trends, no more fructosamine tests, no more auto Chewy orders for his insulin and syringes, no more explaining to the butcher why we purchase chicken breasts in the double-digits. I still flinch when I realize I don’t have to set multiple alarms throughout the night to ensure that he doesn’t go hypoglycemic. I feel a different weight in my chest as I recognize that I don’t have to coordinate shopping trips in between his insulin shots. The rhythm of my world that was dependent upon Ronaldo is now completely gone – and I don’t know how I will begin to adjust to this new reality, too.

I feel incomplete, and I am quite sure I will remain this way for the rest of my life. I cannot believe that this year I lost both precious lives who helped me learn how to become an adult, to care for lives that were dependent upon me, to love these creatures in the only way I could but the ways that they enjoyed and needed.

The grief of Ronaldo sits in my belly.

I cannot believe I have to start the new year without my boy, my Guapo, my sidekick, my shadow.

The world feels so bleak without him. His absence echoes here, deep within. How do you move with this kind of perpetual sadness? Can one move with this loss?

You should’ve lived forever, my boy, like your sister. Now we have to live without you.