Field Notes is where I post short, observational pieces about the week behind me—work, home, heritage, and whatever else insists on being noticed.
Field Notes. #12. Grieving My October Canon
I’ve recently discovered the October Canon theory on the internet, and I can attest that it is a real thing, or at least I felt it this month. The theory goes that October, ahead of the winter months, acts almost like its own new year, bringing in a significant shift to reshape the person we become. The “October canon event” is a viral social media theory about facing some unexpected heartbreak or disruption in/around daylight savings.
Perhaps it’s because the darker months already tend to skew our perspective. The days get shorter, the weather changes, and there is a natural pull towards hibernation. Factor in a life-altering event and suddenly the theory doesn’t seem so far-fetched and it can really shock those affected.
As our household had been preparing for the seasonal shift, anticipating the days to come, we were already thinking about our annual escape to somewhere warmer, hoping to avert as much of the winter gloom as possible, the October canon hit us and life shifted upon impact.
All of a sudden our elderly dog wasn’t doing well, and we had to make a difficult decision. Our little companion of thirteen years is now gone. With him went a familiar presence in our home, and the atmosphere has changed. The quiet feels different. Our routines feel different. Even our outlook has changed. As painful as it was, and I realize this is something only dog owners can empathize with, we knew our little boy was in a better place now. What he left behind, however, is a lifetime of lessons and memories that Ashley and I will carry with us for the rest of our lives.
Curiously, there seems to be a spiritual connection whenever these things happen to us. As if the universe has a way of passing by for a moment to let us know that everything is going to be okay. Maybe it’s our spirit guides reminding us that they’re around. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe we simply notice things differently when we’re grieving. On the day we scheduled to say goodbye, which was blessed to feel like the slowest time had ever moved, we wanted to give Chewy the best day we could muster. There were treats, a cheeseburger, and all the little things we knew he loved.
Then a woodpecker stopped by our backyard deck. We had never seen one land there before (mind you, we frequently spot cardinals, blue jays and other species). It perched on a deck post and drilled three holes into the wood; two beside each other and a third separated from the others. Three holes. Two together. One apart. It felt strangely symbolic of the new reality Ashley and I were going to face. Then, during the procedure, a candle put itself out. Another strange little moment that I can’t really explain.
Maybe none of these things mean anything. Or maybe they do. I don’t know. And trust me there are no bugs in my deck for any woodpecker to be hunting for. But grief has a way of making you look for meaning in places you normally wouldn’t. All I know is that grieving has been very painful. We’ve taken solace in the fact that he isn’t suffering anymore and that, no matter where life takes us, he will forever be our boy.
The entire experience also brought some of my most self-destructive thoughts to the surface. As I slowly pulled myself back into a more reasonable state of mind, I realized something that had been staring me in the face all along. My yearning to become a parent had caused me to overlook the fact that, in my own way, I already was one. I had been caring for him. Feeding him. Worrying about him. Making decisions for him. Trying to give him a good life. And sometimes, I took that responsibility for granted. I wish I had recognized that sooner and that the frustration of maintaining his disease had not overshadowed everything I loved about him. But perhaps realizing it now means something, too.
One of the things I promised myself is that I will do better. And maybe that self-awareness, caring enough to recognize where I fell short and wanting to improve, is, in itself, indicative of a decent parent. I tried my best. God bless you, Chewy.
Since settling into this new cadence of life with Ashley, my writing has tapered off somewhat, with the exception of these Field Notes. There is still plenty happening, but I’ve found myself needing a little time to settle into the quiet. In the coming months, we plan to host friends and family for some festive gatherings while tactically planning our annual winter escape to somewhere warmer than here. Of course, Portugal is the most likely destination.
Hopefully, I can feed my soul with the nostalgia of visits to some of my favourite places while discovering new terrain and, perhaps, something new about ourselves along the way. Maybe that change of scenery will incite some creative writing abroad. After all, if October is going to rearrange our lives, perhaps winter can give us something back.
Photos From the Field.
Field Notes.
Fragments from a Portuguese descendant learning where he stands
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