Take note of what you’ve lost

The simple tool I’ve discovered to help me process grief

He followed me to a house party one day from a burrito shop next to the bar I was at with friends. Small, friendly, and covered in dirt and road grease, he clawed his way up onto my shoulder and crawled into my heart.

I called him Nietzsche.

I was a junior in college, riding the waves of grief following my mother’s 6-year fight with cancer, and in my irresponsible era. Partying too much, spending my nights too indiscriminately, and generally having way, way too reckless a time.

I was not in the market for a roommate, let alone a furry one that depended on me for his basic needs.

I spent weeks contacting local shelters, trying to figure out if he had a home. We, because we had quickly become a we, got kicked out of my apartment, which didn’t allow pets. He absolutely destroyed the arm of my brand new couch. I had to take a second job to cover the cost of his neutering.

By the time I realized that I was going to keep him, he’d already become an integral part of my days. I started coming home every night, because I always fed him in the evening. I got used to waking up earlier, no matter how late I had been out the night before, because he had no problem digging his claws into the soft part of my littlest toe when he was ready to play.

I became a better version of myself, because he needed me to be.

And then, a year ago…

Nietzsche Genesisquoi Morejon was 15 when, after a series of illnesses that kept my partner and I in a constant state of anxiety, we had to make the heart-wrenching decision to let him go.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of his leaving this realm. He was a very good boy, a beloved companion, and continues to loom large in our hearts (and in the minds of our new foster-fails).

During the phases of his various illnesses, I had started a habit of making a note in my phone of what we learned from the vet after every visit. His weight, his symptoms, the dosages and specifications of the medicines he needed.

Finding a way to process my grief

On that final car ride, drowning in a peculiar brand of relief, fulfilled expectations, and shock, my hand resting lightly on his empty carrier, I pulled out my phone like I always did on these rides. I opened a new note, and before I realized what I was doing, I began to document the only thing I had left: the accumulated memories of 15 years of lives shared.

I updated this note feverishly over the next couple days, and consistently for the next few months. Every memory that came to me, every moment of disappointment because he wasn’t there to do what I knew he would do if he were there (it’s amazing how well we learn each other’s habits)… the good, the bad, the ugly, and the joyful.

I cried more than I ever have, but found solace in that note. I’d read it when I was sad and needed to wallow, and I read it when I was happy and wanted to remember our little beastlet’s unparalleled personality.

Grief is a process.

I still revisit the note whenever a memory springs to mind, when I remember something that I don’t want to lose to time.

It’s helped to move me through stark, cold grief to lightness and joy in memory. I’ve found myself laughing more often now, instead of crying onto my phone. It’s helped me to process, and helped me to have something to focus on in those moments when the house feels unbearably empty.

It’s a natural part of the grieving process to try to hold tight to our memories, like we’re afraid of losing even more than we have already, like they might slip out of our fingers.

Start listing out the things you want to remember, even if it hurts right now.

Someday, you’ll stumble across this reminder to appreciate the little things, and you’ll smile about how far you’ve come.