Broken

Alison Rosen
Mon, 01 Sep 2014 21:00:00 -0700
Lifestyle

One of the most disappointing things I've learned about life is that the cliche "whenever you go, there you are" is true. Over the years, I've found myself heartbroken in a variety of locations from Paris to Italy to New York to New Hampshire. Recently, my grief over the loss of my sweet puppy Oliver followed me to Las Vegas, where I was performing with the Adam Carolla show. It's hard to be on stage cracking jokes when all you want to do is cry — though I think I'm a professional enough that I can do it. But the minute I'm off stage the grief hits even harder, as if making up for lost time plus interest.

It was naive to think the lights, smells and sounds of a Las Vegas casino could somehow drown out the montage of upsetting thoughts and images going through my head — getting the call while my husband and I were on our honeymoon saying Oliver had been attacked by an off-leash Malamute, the updates from the vet that he wasn't recovering as well as they'd hoped, the discovery of an underlying kidney condition that was heading downhill fast, flying back early praying he'd still be alive by the time we landed, being told the only merciful option was putting him to sleep, watching him have a seizure from the build up of toxins in his blood from his failing kidneys, the myriad times I asked if they were sure there wasn't any chance of recovery, sure he wouldn't survive a kidney transplant, sure he wouldn't survive the car trip home to let him die in familiar surroundings. Every door I pushed revealed a resounding no. I've never found myself so unable to coax reality into something tenable.

Oliver was our baby, my husband and I treated him as such for the short time he was on this earth, and to put him to sleep, to "let him go" as our vet put it, went against every instinct we had to protect this little being. And yet there we were, cradling his little bandaged body, watching him have a seizure, being told he was in a semi-lucid state because his brain couldn't function with the level of toxins in his blood. "Throw a tiny wallet in his mouth!" I almost yelled through tears as he convulsed, because I tend to make jokes at the wrong times. And his decline happened so fast I'm still trying to process how my sweet baby went from seemingly healthy one day to a sad, swollen, seizing mess whose eyes were barely functioning and who couldn't walk, due to the injuries from the attack, the next. His body was bandaged and his neck was shaved and covered in stitches. He moaned when he moved and yet still he tried to lift his head when he saw us on the final day.
Updated: Tue Sep 02, 2014

One of the most disappointing things I've learned about life is that the cliche "whenever you go, there you are" is true. Over the years, I've found myself heartbroken in a variety of locations from Paris to Italy to New York to New Hampshire. Recently, my grief over the loss of my sweet puppy Oliver followed me to Las Vegas, where I was performing with the Adam Carolla show. It's hard to be on stage cracking jokes when all you want to do is cry — though I think I'm a professional enough that I can do it. But the minute I'm off stage the grief hits even harder, as if making up for lost time plus interest.

It was naive to think the lights, smells and sounds of a Las Vegas casino could somehow drown out the montage of upsetting thoughts and images going through my head — getting the call while my husband and I were on our honeymoon saying Oliver had been attacked by an off-leash Malamute, the updates from the vet that he wasn't recovering as well as they'd hoped, the discovery of an underlying kidney condition that was heading downhill fast, flying back early praying he'd still be alive by the time we landed, being told the only merciful option was putting him to sleep, watching him have a seizure from the build up of toxins in his blood from his failing kidneys, the myriad times I asked if they were sure there wasn't any chance of recovery, sure he wouldn't survive a kidney transplant, sure he wouldn't survive the car trip home to let him die in familiar surroundings. Every door I pushed revealed a resounding no. I've never found myself so unable to coax reality into something tenable.

Oliver was our baby, my husband and I treated him as such for the short time he was on this earth, and to put him to sleep, to "let him go" as our vet put it, went against every instinct we had to protect this little being. And yet there we were, cradling his little bandaged body, watching him have a seizure, being told he was in a semi-lucid state because his brain couldn't function with the level of toxins in his blood. "Throw a tiny wallet in his mouth!" I almost yelled through tears as he convulsed, because I tend to make jokes at the wrong times. And his decline happened so fast I'm still trying to process how my sweet baby went from seemingly healthy one day to a sad, swollen, seizing mess whose eyes were barely functioning and who couldn't walk, due to the injuries from the attack, the next. His body was bandaged and his neck was shaved and covered in stitches. He moaned when he moved and yet still he tried to lift his head when he saw us on the final day.

My last memories of our sweet baby are so painful and upsetting I can understand why people join cults and jump off buildings and turn to the escape of drugs. Because I feel haunted right now.

Somehow traveling in this bereft state left me more vulnerable. It's as if all the effluvia of daily life, the stuff that comfortably clutters my mind providing just the tiniest hint of a buffer was shaken loose and I was left with nothing but the undeniable loss. And so when everyone left the casino to go to an after party at a strip club I declined. I've done my fair share of regrettable things but I've never gone to a strip club. I guess I just feel like the window for going to a strip club, much like the window for doing hallucinogens, closed years ago. And I'm OK with that.

I broke the news of my not going like it was going to meet resistance. "You know what, I'm thinking I'm probably not going to go the strip club." I said apologetically. "Yeah you absolutely shouldn't," said one of the crew guys, in a way that made me almost want to change my mind. And so, alone, I wandered the casino feeling like a something in between life and death.

I lost $100 at blackjack, a combination of stupid bets and liking the dealer so much I didn't want to get up. "Do you have any idea how annoying that is to is to us dealers?" She asked with a conspiratorial whisper, motioning to the group chanting nearby at the craps table.

When you're brokenhearted, a tiny kindness can go a long way. I debated staying and losing more money, but instead I shuffled off.

In time I will tell you more about Oliver, about the way he loved nothing more than turning his head to the sun and squinting, about the way my husband carried him to bed each night and rubbed his chest and reminded him what they'd done together that day so he'd know what to dream about, about the way he loved string cheese and chasing moths and falling asleep on my lap wrapped in a blanket with his head on my chest or his chin on my wrist. About the way he made us a family. About how the experience of having him in our lives has now been bookended and while I always knew one day this would happen, I just didn't expect it to happen anytime soon. I figured we had another 10 or 12 years, and even then I figured we'd find some way around the loss. Some backdoor. Some shortcut. Some way to cheat death. Because when you love something as much as we loved him, it's impossible to say goodbye, impossible to let go, and so I figured we'd put our heads together and find a way to avoid it.

In time I will make you understand why we loved him more than anything, why he was unique, why he was the best little guy on the planet and why, without him, we are broken.