Goodbye
My wife and I lost our best friend, Chester. He was a sweet, gentle, and loving Devon Rex.
I’m writing this for many reasons… For those who understand so it may resonate, for those who do not understand so it may give them the chance to understand… For me hoping to heal and for Chester in his honor.
Sometimes language cannot communicate emotion. Hopefully these words express my love for Chester and bestow the honor he deserves…
Along with my wife, Chester was my best friend. I work from home and for the last nine years Chester has been my companion. We developed a deep relationship that is difficult to adequately convey. We had our respective routines – I knew his and he knew mine. We intersected at points during the day that were “required” affection, feeding, or play times. He gave me a break from the monotony and loneliness of home-based work and I gave him companionship in an only-pet household.
He cherished these intersections of time. So did I.
Before explaining anything else, it is important to understand the uniqueness of the Devon Rex breed. They are sometimes described as a dog-like breed in that they fetch objects and engage owners more like their canine counterparts. Devon’s want to be with you, in everything you do. This video is of “Olaf,” not Chester – but shows the affection Devon’s have for their owners…
They will fight off sleep and catch up later if there is something interesting going on. They will watch movies with you (Chester always wanted a popcorn kernel if we had some), they inspect every new thing you bring into your home, and Chester adored getting packages delivered to the house.
Chester helped me renovate this old house room-by-room, he was my study-buddy during long hours reading and writing during graduate school, and he rubbed on my leg as I paced around while starting up new businesses. He never missed a nap with me on the couch – always splayed out with his paw reaching out to touch my cheek. We grew together and our affection deepened and matured. It happened without noticing.
The understanding of the depth of my love for him came to the surface as his life slipped away on the operating table, my hands holding his feet as I begged him to stay.
He had hidden his pain from us while developing a mass in his abdomen. He was so stoic that he got past me and my wife who is his mother, veterinarian, caretaker, and on that day – surgeon (along with her father). The surgery was a family affair and in spite of the stress of “working on your own,” they both performed a perfect surgical procedure. Chester was just too sick (septic) and went into shock moments after the last suture closed him up. He stopped breathing and did not respond to respiratory stimulant drugs. We bagged him manually, but he slowly slipped away until his heart became irregular. In the end, his heart was palpated manually, but he was gone. The gasping cruelty of going from hope and elation (the mass was operable and the surgery went well) to sudden loss in the final moments, was a blow no one could handle.
I was not prepared. Karen wasn’t either and she shouldered the added emotion of tortured thoughts that all surgeons have when their patient doesn’t make it. But Chester was her patient and child.
To say our grief is overwhelming is an understatement. We are inconsolable. Our home has a deafening silence. Chester is everywhere but Chester is no longer seen and touched, rolled and rubbed, or held and kissed.
The emotional impact of loss is related to the relationship, the circumstances of the loss, and one’s beliefs about death. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler said,
“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.”
I have been changed in profound ways by Chester. As these realizations come, the gratitude to Chester grows. I wait to be whole again. Until then, I continue to grieve and look for him.
