A Lesson in Loss and Love

The first month of this new year was a veritable doozy.

I’m not talking about all the stuff that’ll end up in future history books, but some personal experiences that consumed me after the holidays, yet nonetheless taught me something of great value I’d like to pass on.

In the short span of two weeks—between January 4th and January 21st—we lost two of our closest family members—Peanut Francis Monarth, an almost 19-year old Dachshund, and Jack Elizabeth Monarth, an almost 22-year old cat, both of them girls, and you might infer from my sentimental inclusion of their middle names the level of parental affection they’d enjoyed.

Those two, and their younger sister, Butter Sophie, who had passed a couple of years earlier, truly were the MVPs of our little family. Our schedules revolved around them completely—feedings, walks, doctor’s visits, vacations, business trips, you name it—and their needs often superseded ours. For instance, in the girls’ advancing years, we were no longer content having our good friends take care of them while we’d go on a vacation, lest there’d be a medical issue or some other circumstance that would cause the little ones distress or pain, so my wife and I would, happily, more or less—at least without the slightest resentment—forego spending alone-time together, away from home.

This level of devotion to one’s pets can only be really understood by other pet parents, most likely, perhaps, by those who have no human children.

I’m reminded of one of my favorite lines from the somewhat obscure (and underrated) ‘90s movie “Thick as Thieves”, featuring Alec Baldwin as a professional thief who, in compelling contrast to his otherwise tough-talking character, shows a genuine depth of love and devotion to his terminally ill dog other characters in the film cannot relate to. Wanting to spend as much time as possible with his dying pup, Baldwin would keep him by his side as much as possible as he went about his business, when, during an attempt on Baldwin’s character’s life by other criminals, his dog dies in an explosion at the hotel where they were staying. As Baldwin mourns the loss of his beloved pet, one of his partners tries to console him but doesn’t quite know what to say. Baldwin, his face buried in his hands, looks up and goes: “Look, I’m not gonna explain to you the scope of my relationship with the dog, because if I do, the words are gonna sound f***ing stupid coming out of my mouth!!”

As it became apparent that Peanut’s time had come--she'd suffered through four seizures in just a 24-hour time span--I tried every emotion regulation strategy I knew of to help me through the dread and fear and sadness I was experiencing.

I had some practice at this, as I’d spent the past 15 years teaching emotion regulation strategies to CEOs, cops, wall street traders, NASA engineers, and managers at all levels, in all types of organizations, as part of my coaching practice. I devoted an entire chapter in my book, Executive Presence, to this topic.

Particularly in high-pressure jobs where being able to regulate one’s emotions up or down is directly tied to optimal performance, regular practice of such strategies improves analytic thinking, creative insight, and problem-solving abilities, to say nothing of the increase in overall mental well-being.

Yet, as I tried everything from labeling my emotions, such as, for instance, “I’m feeling a deep sadness over having to let go”, a practice that research has shown to downregulate activity in the area of our brain mainly associated with the processing of emotions—the amygdala, to distraction, a strategy that would have me focus on things other than Peanut’s condition, to gratitude, like telling myself that Peanut has had a long and happy life, and at 19 years more life than most dogs enjoy, I had only moderate success.

My sense of the impending loss of such a sweet soul, and the dread of anticipating the step-by-step process we’d gone through just a couple of years earlier with Butter, was overwhelming.

And in that feeling of overwhelm, I found what eventually worked for me. I surrendered.

In a way, I gave myself permission, actually articulating it out loud, to be incredibly sad. This was a combination of labeling the emotion, and mindful acceptance, both of which are emotion regulation strategies recommended by the renowned Columbia University psychologist and brain researcher, Kevin Ochsner.

When the day came, and the vet showed up to send Peanut off to sleep, in her own bed—something I was incredibly grateful to be able to arrange—we were devastated of course, but my mindset of acceptance, and allowing myself to be in the moment, to be sad, to feel it fully, and letting my sadness show, as opposed to struggling to compose myself or suppressing my emotions, made it all a bit easier, in spite of the tremendous loss.

This mindful sadness, the acceptance of the inevitable, also helped me through the loss of Jack, my little sidekick of almost 22 years. She was a tough little cat, resilient and loving to her last moments, when a fast-growing tumor in her jaw prevented her finally from eating, or even drinking the milk she loved so much.

As brutal as it was to say goodbye to those two loved ones, so close together, I still learned a valuable lesson through it all: sometimes the best thing in a tough situation from which there is no escape is to surrender and to accept, and to be fully present with your feelings when the unthinkable happens.

In the days and weeks after they’d passed, tried and true emotion regulation strategies such as gratitude and reframing have helped put it all in perspective. And now I can smile and feel warmth and love when I think about them.

We sealed Peanut’s blanket in one of those vacuum-plastic bags, to preserve that lovely, somewhat pungent, hard to describe smell she had—something reminiscent of warm corn-chips. A couple of days after Jack had passed, I found one of her nails, or claws, by the side of my bed. I kept it as a physical reminder of her loving presence over the previous 21 years and 10 months, I was so fortunate to enjoy.

And I’m always happy to gush about them, even if, as Alec Baldwin said in the movie, "the words are gonna sound f***ing stupid coming out of my mouth.”

Until next month,

Harrison