Romeo at Five Years Gone
I was sitting outside as I started thinking about writing this on our front porch last night. It was a strangely chilly evening after a slew of 90+ days and it was windy. The chimes were chattering in such a pretty way. I bought myself these windchimes almost five years ago, a gift to myself, because I love the sound of chimes, all of them, and I thought every time I’d hear them ring, it would be a reminder of a sweet dog, Romeo.
Last night was the fifth anniversary of Romeo’s sudden, brutal death. I don’t really want to get into the details, both for my sake and for anyone reading this, but I will suffice it to say that I walked out that warm, Friday night, the last day of July in 2020, with my happy, friendly dog, and I came home thirty minutes later with an empty leash, save for his collar and tags. You can imagine the shock, horror and grief. (I will link to the story of what happened in the comments if you care to read it.)
It was five years ago and about 75,000 tears ago last night. The chimes were busy, ringing and resonant, the middle weighted piece knocking the surrounding metal tubes in fragmented movements in the intense winds. I said, “Hi, Romey. I love you.” The chimes seemed to pick up even more speed. I often do this when I am walking in the door, greeted by the sound of chimes instead of my perfect dog.
To understand what the loss of Romeo meant to me, you have to understand that at that time in 2020, my husband was just starting to return to himself after a harrowing journey with leukemia and then recovering from a bone marrow transplant. The experience as caregiver for someone who was extremely vulnerable, especially as a global pandemic rolled out, wrung me out beyond description. One has to become almost robotic, at least I did, to succeed at what we pulled off, focused on nothing but the goal of survival. Coming home after endless doctor’s appointments and hospital visits, burying my face in Romeo’s soft curls and staring into his loving eyes, helped me to remember that I was still human. At night, we’d spoon when John was in the hospital, and when my husband came home after weeks of intense treatment, Romeo would snuggle back up with him like no time had passed, two warm bodies pressed together.
One thing I could count on during this time of my husband’s cancer was Romeo’s dedication. He’d been this present and gentle, after all, years before with my mom toward the end of her life. He slept on her lap as my mother napped with her hand on his soft body. We adopted Romeo not long after she moved in with us and immediately, they bonded, two orphans in the storm, knocked around a bit by life. I think they saw it in each other. Romeo always seemed to sense who needed his love the most and gravitated to them. He made it a point to shine extra attention on all the abuelitas in our neighborhood who would have it. It was remarkable to see. I’d say, “Sorry, he’s a flirt. He loves women,” and they’d giggle and nearly blush, each one. His name was Romeo, after all, and for a good reason.
For months after Romeo died, I wandered the house, lost, wailing, like a Shakespearean ghost. I had gotten us to the finish line with my husband and then, when I could finally let my guard down a little, the unimaginable happened. I missed everything about Romeo – the habits, the affection, the play times, the idiosyncrasies – but especially the weight of him, pressing against me, curled up on me. He was just about 1o pounds, all heart. The loss of his physical presence was just an utterly visceral void I felt within me.
I would buy fluffy pillows, weighted blankets, stuffed animals to try to give me anything approximating the physical sensation of holding Romeo, and of course nothing worked. There was no replacing his warmth, his heartbeat, his existence. I would clutch them to my chest and crying into a void just made things exponentially worse. Eventually, I figured out that since none of those were good proxies, maybe I should try something else entirely. I eventually landed on chimes. In this way, there was always something I came home to, and always something I could listen for as a reminder of his spirit. Nothing could replace my Romeo, of course, but this was the closest I came to bringing him home again.
I had pretty severe anxiety, guilt and PTSD for a long time after Romeo’s death. Five years out, I still miss him every day. (It took therapy and interventions to help with the anxiety, guilt and PTSD.) The one thing I know is that I did not fail at loving him and receiving love. He had a wonderful, joyful life as part of our family until that last awful minute or so, and I know that Romeo’s spirit can put that in perspective, even if I am sometimes still too focused on the end, not the vastness and richness of his daily existence with us, which was happy.
It’s such a cliche but I can’t believe it’s been five years. I will see you on the other side, Romeo. You made me a better person.
((Hugs))