The three things I live by during grief
When I got married five years ago, I sang my speech. Together with a good friend, and my husband’s best man, I had created a medley of Jason Mraz songs that described my partner’s and my journey, from meeting to marriage.
Next to my lifelong penchant for Bon Jovi, Jason’s my all-time favourite troubadour. When it comes to musical fandom, I am as loyal as a Labrador. They’re probably the reason my writing has always been lyrical, even in my non-native language.
And I tend to live by the wisdom in their music when it comes to love and grief.
Jason Mraz’s ‘3 Things’ is the one I put at the end of my Lewis playlist - the playlist that includes songs like ‘Wonderful Life’, ‘End of the Road ’, and ‘How do I live (without you)’.
It’s the song that is currently playing in my head each morning, as I pray to Lewis, without experiencing that gut-wrenching feeling of fresh grief, seven months after we said goodbye.
Letting emotions loose during grief
There are three things I do when my life falls apart Number one, I cry my eyes out, and I dry up my heart Not until I do this will my new life start So that's the first thing that I do when my life falls apart
Grief makes all your senses pop. And every little thing can remind you of your loved one. In my first month, I couldn’t listen to any music, period. Not just one type, all music.
The only music I could handle was birdsong as I was alone with my thoughts, weeding the garden, washing dishes or walking over the farm. Even a car ride was done in silence. My thoughts and feelings were so raw, there wasn’t any space for anybody else’s.
I remember the first time I opened myself up again to it. Sarah Weiler had come to town with her 90’s and 00’s singalong crew and it was one of my first musical outings.
I never realised how much Celine Dion had sang about losing your best friend and loved one when she sang about Jack and Rose of the Titanic, until Sarah & Co sang the song with he crowd. I mean, I could have known because I know what happens in the story, but now I really knew. I felt it to my core. Almost as if she had created that song for my experience of grief alone. Because my heart did go on - even though his didn’t.
Around the same time, I also went to my mother-in-law’s ballet recital. A beautiful afternoon where ballet students, from 2 year olds to mature students were showcasing what they had learned the past year.
One of the acts was a father and daughter dance, where fathers with various degrees of intensity on their faces were twirling their four year old daughters around along to a Taylor Swift song about not wanting a little one to grow up.
Usually I’m not a softy for a mush-trap, this time I was a blubbering mess. There was something there about the beauty of vulnerability when you’re young, the people you go to for support, and what happens when you grow older.
I am slowly starting to be able to listen to music again, but not all. 80’s and 90’s rock ballads are still my kryptonite at the moment. Bon Jovi’s iconic rendition of ‘Always’ in Wembley Stadium in 1995 has always had a special place in my heart. Last week, watching them perform the song 31 years later, the song has a whole other layer to it which left me unable to sing along. But that’s what music is for, to make you feel. And in that sense grief makes life more rich, at least for me. It has helped me appreciate and experience art and the sound of nature on a deeper level.
Finding gratitude during grief
Well, the second thing that I’d do is I close both of my eyes And say my thank yous to each and every moment of my life I go where I know the love is and let it fill me up inside Gathering new strength from sorrow, I'm glad to be alive
It’s common knowledge that keeping a gratitude journal or reminding yourself what you’re grateful for each day, is conducive to a positive outlook on life and living a mindful life.
I never had such a practice, or a spiritual one for that matter. Lewis’s morning and evening groom sessions had that purpose for me. Each morning, I was gently prodded and sometimes even shouted at that it was time for a brushing session. Both of us thoroughly enjoyed a few minutes of mindful brushing. I called him my Japanese Zen garden, because I would create little patterns in his fur.
To the untrained eye, these moments might have looked like daily maintenance activities. To the initiated, they were rituals. Rituals of comfort, of gratitude, a meditation, a prayer. Sometimes he’d invite someone else in, if I was preoccupied. Often it was a ritual between the two of us. Him and Jamie had something else; noddles (or bunting as it’s officially called) is something Lewis would only sparingly hand out to me.
When such important landmarks of your day, which keep you grounded, are being taken away by loss, it’s easy to fill up the gap with mindless scrolling and more sleep. I did this for a while, and felt worse for it.
So I picked up my old friend again: yoga. Previously something I’d done quickly in the morning to stretch my body, now a practice of uniting the body, mind and soul.
Yoga literally means to yoke, or make one. My mat is positioned in the lounge, in bright sunlight, looking out on the bird feeder and on Lewis’s little shrine where Nag Champa incense is burning, reminiscing of the thousands of times he helped me unite breath to movement and calm down my nervous system. At the end of each time “on the mat”, I finish my practice in a bow towards his photo and ashes, radiating gratitude for the long and beautiful time we’ve spent together on earth and promise to continue doing the work in his name and honour.
Picking yourself up after grief
Well, the third thing that I do now when my world caves in Is I pause, I take a breath and bow, and I let that chapter end I design my future bright, not by where my life has been And I try, try, try, try, try again
Some of the greatest ideas are inspired by the loss of a loved one. An example is Love, Baxter, a platform that was set up by Baxter’s human after going through the loss of his best friend. Another is the Cinnamon Trust, set up by Cinnamon's human who recognised that older caregivers need extra support to stay independent and care for their companion animals.
Humans are incredibly resilient and resourceful, and for some reason, losing someone can both drain your energy and stoke up that inner flame.
My loss has been incredibly helpful in creating a laser focus on what I need to do in life, what my purpose is.
I have managed to zone in on what feels needed and let go of the superfluous. Others started recognising that fire, and as we know, fire spreads easily. Windows started opening. There was no more doubt about my path, because I had been guided onto it by my fluffy white teacher. I was now ready to walk it without him by my side, but always with me in memory.
Living life after loss
It has been just over seven months since Lewis breathed his last breath. I worked really hard to make his whole life with me meticulously cared for, even his death and his body’s aftercare. His death was truly good, the literal meaning of the word euthanasia. Yet, I sometimes still doubt minor decisions I made along the way. I believe this is a normal part of the grief journey: doubt and regret.
I occasionally still wake up feeling utterly miserable, and I know what I need to do that day: get my work done, look at photos of Lew, touch the collected fur and smell it, and have a good cry. But whatever the mood is, the underlying feeling, the foundation, is always gratitude. I am grateful for the long time I had with the feline love of my life. And grateful for the experience of the grief, which is a manifestation of the love I feel for him.
Sies.
About me
My name is Sieske Valk (pronounced as Sees-kuh Falk). Most people call me Sies. I started my career as a veterinary nurse in the Netherlands. Following a short stint as a social science researcher in climate change adaptation, I set up an animal home-care company in London called Sies Petcare. This grew into Autumn Animals, the UK’s first holistic palliative and hospice care organisation. Trained as an end-of-life doula for companion animals, I supported numerous families through the autumn and winter of their companion animal’s life and what comes after.
I currently focus on three pillars within ageing pet care under the brand Autumn Animals:
Coaching pet caregivers with ageing pets, writing about caring for ageing companion animals and research about interdisciplinary palliative care for companion animals.
If you’d like to know more about Autumn Animals, visit autumnanimals.com.
I live on a farm with my husband, Jamie, in beautiful Devon, and have a Lewis-shaped hole in my heart.
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