A week ago, I said goodbye to my best friend.

My 15-year-old golden retriever Berkely was a sweet, old man with a good amount of sass and an appetite for adventure. We got him as a pup around Christmas. From the moment I got nose-to-nose with him on the hallway floor and he peed, I knew we had something special.

I was 18 then, so Berkely’s been my true confidant during some crucial years. We didn’t always live together; when I was in college he moved with my family to California for a few years, and when I traveled overseas, he stayed with them in Colorado. But it didn’t matter how long I was away, because whenever we reunited he was glued to my side. He took all my secrets and fears and hurts every time he curled up next to my feet.

He moved with me and my fiancé to North Carolina a year ago, and I’m so thankful I got to be with him in his last year. I saw how my once strong, rambunctious pup was a little more cautious and slow trekking through mountainous trails. Later in the year, his legs grew weaker and he needed help getting up on the carpet and even using the bathroom.

In a way, we both knew our time together was borrowed. Fortunately, his last few months I worked from home and we got to spend a lot of time together. But all that precious time just made the grief in his passing heavier and harder.

---

In his last months, I felt a lot of anxiety in anticipatory grief.

Anticipatory grief is the feeling of grief before an impending loss. I knew my time with Berkely was slipping with each day, and that was scary and sad and overwhelming. I found myself getting angry and irritated on his bad days when I was exhausted, being torn between resignation and hope, feeling lonely because nobody had the same bond we had and could feel the way I felt about losing him, wrestling with guilt thinking I could be doing something more to help him.

It wasn’t an every day struggle with anticipatory grief, but it would creep up suddenly and grip me. And the only thing that helped relieve that pain, was the very thing that I was grieving over.

I spent a lot of time those months talking to my therapist about grief, death and my fear of losing Berkely. I created space for myself to sit and be sad and journal my feelings and thoughts. Usually when I’m really down, I close off and try to feel my sadness on my own because I don’t want to bring anyone else down; but I made an effort to communicate with friends, family and my sweet partner, and that helped me reframe my perspective and focus on the time I did have with him. Ultimately, though I found the most comfort in sitting and talking to Berkely, going through our routines, and feeling the love between us.

 “Love, where it ever existed before, doesn’t cease to exist. To speak of love in the past tense is not to know love at all. Love goes on, being always a continuation and an extension of love. Your grief is but the continuation of the love you once experienced, and will always experience. Grief is another name for Love.”

Jennifer Williamson

Grief is such a weird, beautiful thing.

During Berkely’s last week, life felt so heavy and slow. I was the most intentional I’ve ever been with him, taking him on wagon walks through the neighborhood, cooking his favorite meals, sitting and petting him. But there was so much life in that week too. He found random spurts of energy – enough to walk around on his own! – as we had friends and family come up to visit and spend time with him. Berkely was the most loved dog I’ve ever known, and I’m glad he got to experience a overflow of it on his last weekend.

The moment everyone left, he really was ready to go too. His last night was hard. He was crying, I was crying, neither of us slept. We spent our last hours grieving together, comforting each other.

I came back from the vet to an empty home. I cried, I wanted to throw up, I needed to sleep. Grief is the strongest, most painful thing anyone can experience.

But so is love.

And I’ve come to learn that both love and grief are two sides of the same coin. One cannot exist without the other. Because in this life of impermanence, to love is to open yourself up to heartbreak.

Grief, then, is evidence of love – and I’m thankful for it. As much as it hurts at random moments – sneaking up on me while I’m washing dishes or waking me up from my dreams – I don’t want to rush through my grieving process because in some ways it’s the only thing I have left of Berkely.

People who are about to lose a pet or have lost pets will understand. People who haven’t, won’t get it, and that’s ok. We all will inevitably find ourselves grieving at several points in life, but we should be encouraged because that’s a sign that we were lucky enough to have love in our lives – even if for a brief moment.

Before I said goodbye to Berkely, I snuggled up to him and held him close.

“I’ll be sad, but I’ll be okay,” I told him. “Thanks for teaching me about love.”