Despite being a ripe old age, Chester's sudden deterioration (he fell ill the previous Wednesday and didn't wake up from his life-saving operation on Monday) followed by his death, has shuddered me into a state of grief.
Having to wait out those turmoil five days between Chester first falling ill and the day of his operation meant I had time to (forcefully, involuntarily) think about Chester not being around and if I THEN thought it would be tough near impossible, NOW I can recognise how right I was to think that way.
If You've ever owned a pet You'll know just how much they become part of the family and if not here anymore, You'll know all too well the heart wrenching emotions that their death brings; I became numb, an emptiness resides and the thought of never seeing Chester again sends me into floods of uncontrollable tears.
Many have advised me that I'll "get over" the feeling and that with "time being a great healer" I'll "move on".
Yet there is a part of me that feels guilty about such a notion, moving on and living my life to the fullest again without him, and whilst I can recognize that this is a sure sign of grief I can't help but recognise how Chester's death has given me physical symptoms too.
For example when Chester became ill I lost my appetite and still always feel 'full' irrespective of whether I eat or not; never before have I woken up feeling like I've just eaten a three-course-meal. Many times the feeling of loss makes me feel physically nauseated and sick and until I cry and release the stress I wonder if I'll be physically sick to compensate.
Often, in those situations, I don't mind the thought of being physically sick if it means the pain will go away.
My Dad, Mum, Sister and I first met Chester on Monday, April 1st 1999 in a pet shop near London (bizarrely the exact date that fourteen-years-later he would be put to sleep on) and from that moment on he became part of the family.
Fourteen years having Chester in my life, the thought of him never coming back is what on a personal level, once remembered every few hours, heralds the many tears that I can't stop on account of sadness.
But in that sadness there are the good times, admittedly half remembered half forgotten at present so that I don't have to believe his memories are all I'll ever have, and from those good times I'm sure in the coming weeks and months I will cope.
Chester's burial will take place next Wednesday 10th April at a Pet Cemetery forty-minutes away from home, luckily only a twenty-minute drive North of my University campus which means I plan to visit each morning at 7:30am on my drive-in and spend an hour or two there with him before doubling back on myself and starting my day.
That gives me comfort: despite what has happened I can still be near Chester each day.
It feels such a shame that I should introduce Chester to You, the reader and friend of Surviving Emetophobia, on sad terms.
Chester was a good dog and will always be missed.
Chester.
1999-2013.
"Walkies"
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