The third anniversary of the death of my very favorite animal ever happened on the 24th of March. It was three days after my Dad had his heart event. Bad things tend to happen on the third day after an insult like Dad took to his heart. And after surgeries, too. The irony of the possibility of Dad dying on the day the Shoba died did not escape me. I spent the day nauseated and surly with the anticipation of what might be. I was elated that they had removed his breathing tube. But nervous that he would code again and need the tube. His time awake was spent hallucinating that he was dreaming, that we were in his dreams. He also had nightmares, and spoke of horrific things. He said some things to me that I am sure he would not have if he were not drugged. Nothing terrible or hurtful, but very raw. I held his hand and prayed that he and Shoba would not share an expiration day.
I was awake when midnight rolled around, and I felt a wave of relief. Followed by a wave of sadness and grief once again for Shoba. Oh how I miss that dog. The comforting look in her eyes and her unwavering love for me. And I mourned again that night for that wonderful dog. Three years. Still hurts.