a mini 1: a note on grief

an unstructured piece of writing in an attempt to fit my grief into a neat box.

I wrote briefly about grief and loss for an instagram reel the other day. how funny is it to distill an experience that feels like it never ends into a 40 second video that does? for my first unstructured mini 1, I wanted to reflect on my journey with grief thus far in a format that doesn’t necessarily have to end.

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grief and I are distant friends.

we first encountered each other in august of 2020, when I got a call that someone I knew had passed away. I was driving my family back from the beach (we were all quarantining at home in southern california) and we made a stop at a local asian grocery store to pick things up for dinner. now, grocery stories and I aren’t necessarily friendly. I get overwhelmed walking up and down the aisles, and I have decision paralysis when comparing this soy sauce or that soy sauce. I find more joy in unpacking the groceries and stalking our pantry, the decision of each item partially already made for me. I asked to stay in the car and sit on my phone while my family went into the store and everyone agreed.

it was during my fourth instagram reel when my phone went off. it was nick, a loose friend of mine — close enough to have each others’ numbers but not close enough for a casual call.

“hello?” my phone was plugged into the car’s bluetooth, so putting it up to my ear did nothing. nick’s regretful tone filled the air as he told me the news: a mutual friend of ours had passed away unexpectedly. “I’ll let you process,” he said before hanging up, and I was left suffocated with the weight of this news in the closed car.

for the first few weeks, the grief cropped back up. it was like the mailman coming to deliver a package: they would drive down your street doing their rounds, but you didn’t know if they would stop at your house today.

I cried and pleaded and fought with God or whoever was listening, telling them that this is unfair. it was the first time I was confronted with death head on. the idea that someone was there one day and gone the next, forever.

but, because hunter and I weren’t that close, and because he was never really a big part of my life before he passed, the grief moved on.

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unfortunately, as life goes, the grief came back. this time, grief and I experienced a slow burn.

my dad texted the family group chat asking to ‘speak with us, not urgently but just whenever you can.’ like the call from nick, this is a weird request from my father, who is never known to “need to get on a call” for anything.

he told me, as gently as he could, that our childhood dog had aggressive bone cancer. she was given six months. then, in the most my dad-like fashion, he asked if I had any questions he could answer or provide more information about. thanks, dad.

for three weeks, I held my breath, anticipating the day I would fly from london heathrow to los angeles international airport for christmas. I was already planning on returning home early — my flexible job allowing me to work remotely from anywhere — but instead of excitement, I felt dread. it was an unspoken understanding that this christmas was the last christmas we’d have as a family of seven. once we left our family house to catch our respective flights ‘home,’ it would be the last time we saw our dog.

I was the first one home out of my sisters, which meant I had uninterrupted dog time. at this point, the cancer had spread so aggressively that she could barely walk. I watched my childhood dog, who was once so full of energy, struggle to hobble outside and use the bathroom. every time she squatted down, I was worried a gust of wind would tip her over.

we spent time baking in the sun, me reading a book and her looking out onto the view. if she was actually seeing anything is to be determined; in her old age, her eyes were scarred with cataracts. but she was happy to be there, happy to enjoy the stillness with me.

we fed her from the dining table and cuddled her into the night and whispered to her how much we loved her over and over and over again. for ten days, she was the star of our family christmas.

then came time to leave her. we all had flights to catch, jobs to get back to, lives to live elsewhere. I pulled out my phone camera and took one last photo of her, sitting quietly at the end of the hallway, watching us drag our bags to the car parked in the garage. how long would you hug someone knowing it would be your last time?

my sisters and I returned back to our respective lives in our big cities, pursuing the dreams we were told to have when we were younger. I called my parents more often, using the opening line ‘can you please put the dogs on the phone?’ I burst into tears randomly, waiting anxiously for the day I got the text “this needs to happen” but dreading it’s arrival. I knew I wouldn’t see her again, but the idea of her being alive comforted me in a strange way.

one saturday morning, the text arrived. it was time. the appointment was scheduled for monday morning pacific standard time, nearly midnight in london.

it was both relieving and crushing — the limbo month of knowing she was alive but deteriorating, and knowing I would never see her again, was over.

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now, the after.

I no longer wait in anticipation to see her for the last time.

I no longer wait in anticipation to get the text that it’s happening.

I now wait in the silence that is the lack of her existence.

grief isn’t so much a mailman as it is a big, shiny paperweight on my desk. it’s a small thumb pushing lightly on the weakest part of my heart. it’s the less frequent phone calls to my parents, knowing that I’d have to say ‘can I see the dog’ not ‘the dogs.’

I know she’s doing better. I know she’s able to actually walk and squat and play and see the views, the cancer and the cataracts and the dry, aging skin spots wiped clean from her body. I know it was her time. I know this doesn’t negate how much I have grieved or will continue to grieve.

I wait with dread for the first time I return to our family home and she isn’t there.

the grief lingers like an unwanted visitor on my doorstep. we are now close friends.

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the 1-1-1 newsletter is a weekly newsletter with 1 quote, 1 journal prompt, and 1 piece of advice. the mini 1 is an infrequent, bonus piece of writing on a topic of interest.