A Letter to Rodrick

It has been a week since I lost you, and I am struggling.

I want to do what people say, embrace the countless happy memories of you. But it’s hard. I can’t seem to see through this fog of heartache to deservedly celebrate your life and the joy you brought to me. Every. Single. Day.

Sometimes my mind fails to recognize this is real. I imagine that you’re still here. I expect to turn a corner and find you basking in the sun streaming through the blinds. After a particularly long conference call, I search for you, thinking I’ll find you napping on the couch. I call for you to get “snackos.” I see dog toys at the grocery and select the ones that would be perfect for you.

I want to smile remembering how…

…excited you got when I walked in the door, grabbing the nearest toy and jumping on the couch to greet me…

…you crawled into and sat on my lap on the porch steps to watch the morning light touch the lake…

…you never saw a bench that you didn’t want to sit on; you loved to people watch from the bleacher seats outside the Lululemon on Southport…

…you pretended to hate when I scooped you up and held you to my face, pulling away after a barrage of kisses like an embarrassed teen being dropped off in front of his friends at school, then immediately pressed your face against me for more—over and over…

... you waited for me to return from every trip to the grocery, hopeful that I got you a new toy (the soft, plush toys with a rounded end were his favorite) …

…you nursed your toys, self-soothing and purring with satisfaction…

…you trotted excitedly, your butt swinging to and for, whenever you saw someone you knew…

…we created an ever-expanding list of nicknames for you, from little lamb to gnocchi to white shadow to Bubba…

…you came running for breakfast and dinner when I sang our “snackos” song…

…you immediately fell asleep in the backseat when I took you for rides with me…

…I built piles of leaves, snow, and sticks for you to investigate like strange alien objects…

…I hoped for warm, sunny days so I could make you happy by putting your bed on the porch, shifting it throughout the day to ensure you remained in the warm light…

…you slept tight to me, your head on the crook of my knee all night, and me, aching, remaining in one position for hours for fear I’d wake you…

…you bumped me in the shins or the calf with a toy during my afternoon meetings hoping for me to wrestle with you for a moment…

…you walked into Petco like you owned the place and picked out your own toy after each successful nail trim and on every birthday…

…you went on every vacation with me, but you especially loved the frozen custard in Door County…

…you defined me.

When you were little, you depended on me. You had a cleft palette, a would-be fatal condition. But I fed you like a baby bird with a syringe for months until your head was big enough for surgery. You gave me purpose during a time of loss. You were such a strong little boy, so brave facing each surgery without hesitation. Watching you eat from a bowl for the first time made my heart full. And then there was the joy of finally getting your first toy. Hundreds would follow.

A few years ago, you came to my defense when I was mauled by a German Shepherd, held fast by canines dug deep into my hip. But you woke up from your nap on the porch and launched yourself at it, buying me and your brother, Dalton, just a tiny puppy then, some critical time. I never felt worse than watching you run past me to engage it. I tossed Dalton into the house and returned for you, scooping you up mid fight. You were covered in blood, and I was never so relieved to find that it was my own.

But you really saved me every day. You were my life for nine years, a part of nearly every hour of every day. You organized my world, giving it structure and shape. Every nuance of our routine brought me happiness.

In the end, I asked God to make a deal with me, trading years of my life for more time with you. But that was not to be. It happened so fast, and your decline was so precipitous. The doctors discovered a massive cancerous tumor on that big heart of yours. In optimal conditions, they gave you 40 to 60 days with chemotherapy. But you never fully recovered from anesthesia, and you labored to breathe despite a steady flow of 100% oxygen. They suspected pneumonia. You were sedated and on opioids to relieve your constant pain. You were no longer eating or drinking. And you hated being in the ICU. I hope you remember me telling you how much I love you. I thanked you for being in my life. We told you that you’re a good boy, the best boy. And I placed your favorite toy under your chin as we said goodbye.

I don’t know when the pain stops, when I’ll be able to look back without tears in my eyes. Nothing seems to have meaning. Nothing brings me a single ounce of happiness or respite right now.

For outsiders, this grief must look disproportional or skewed, like some sort of melodrama steeped in personification. But I never had children, and I imbued you with all the love I could. You, Dalton, your mommy (Jen), and I were a family, and I placed your needs above my own.

If there is a light in this anguish, it is this: if I had never loved you, I would not know this sting. They say the pain of loss is proportional to the bond shared. So it is no wonder I am haunted. It is no wonder I feel this constant ache that sits heavy on my chest like a stack of weights.

You will always be loved. You will always be missed.

Daddy