The thing about grief is that you cannot fix it. It's like having a broken bone in the centre of your heart, but there is no cast and there is no surgery that will ever mend the break. There are no heartbreak pain killers or drugs to help heal or numb what you are feeling. And even if you tried, it would not work.
You have a pain that is excruciating, and the only thing that will ever be your saving grace is time.
Yet time is cruel. It's one of the cruelest aspects of the entire grieving process, because it moves slower than it ever has before.
Every minute feels like an hour, every hour feels like a week, and I know every week will feel like a month.
I am feeling grief. It's unimaginable, insufferable greif. And I never knew I could feel this type of grief over such a small individual.
Richard's life didn't go according to plan. Richard's surgery also didn't go according to plan. Richard's vetrinary visit, diagnoses, and prognosis, didn't go according to plan. And his euthanasia didn't go according to the freaking plan.
Richard Parker died. As a baby. MY baby. I found him that way, gone, in his bed.
None of this was supposed to happen.
None of this was the plan.
The night we scheduled his euthanasia; the night before Richard Parker died.