Tag: Zach

Thirteen Days

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I rearrange the photos I printed of you, 

Two amongst the flowers, one in a frame.

It has been thirteen days since you passed;

Thirteen days, since I called out your name…

I refill the oil in the diya that burns for you,

The flowers in the vases haven’t quite died;

The loss of you seems to have numbed my heart;

But not enough, since I have unevenly cried. 

I used to call you my first-born son;

For my sons, I tried to be the father I never had;

But for each of you, my love was strangely given –

And I know, I know, at times, I made you very sad.

I’m sorry. But I tried my best. 

I have held you in my arms and I have sung to you; 

You wagged your whippy tail then and were glad:

You were my honey-bunch sugar-plum, my sweetie-pie,

Never doubt, I was very proud to be your dad. 

It’s been thirteen days and I can’t let you go;

Your life and death come to me in flashes –

I yet sing to you and will forever more,

Even after having surrendered your ashes. 

Like all my kids that have passed on by,

You shall be somewhere close, some place near; 

And I’ll always sing a song for you, my son,

Because you were and are so very, very dear. 

Broken

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

You and she both cancer-ridden;
But you had to go first.
I have no words to express
What you must have gone through,
You just looked at me with glassy eyes
Caused by hanging onto life.

I lifted you for every walk
And you told me,
When you were done.
I listened.

I’m sorry, I lost my temper…
My love was frayed and my heart broken…
And I tried my best to love you better…
But breaking human hearts
Have – limitations.

I let you go, my first-born son.
I didn’t know I still had it in me.
I don’t know what will happen
As your sister continues to bleed.

But I will stand by her
As I did by you –
Even though our bodies don’t.
Even though my heart has
broken,
It is yours.

Loving Them All the Way

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Tonight, I gave Xena a bath.

I cleaned away the remnants of blood from last week — not because they bothered her anymore, but because I wanted her to feel fresh, clean, held. I dried her gently, blow-dried her fur, and then sat with her the way I do every night, performing what has now become ritual.

Cleaning her mast cell tumours.

Bandaging the ones that still bleed.

Cleaning her anus and the lipoma around it.

Cleaning the mast cell near her eye.

Only while writing this did I remember that I forgot to apply the Fur Fresh ointment around her eye. The cone is on, though. I’m sitting right here. She’s safe. Sometimes caregiving is like this — you do ninety-nine things right and then your heart races over the one you missed.

Beyond the physical work lies the real weight.

The daily fear of losing her.

The anxiety of that dreaded call — again.

The kind of love that doesn’t sit quietly but presses against your chest until breathing feels incomplete.

Xena has been my heart and soul since she stepped into my life in 2014, after Zoe passed in 2013. And now Zach is gone too. Losing him shattered something in me that I’m still gathering up, piece by piece. Taking care of two dogs with terminal illnesses has taken a toll — on my back, my knees, my head, my heart.

Sometimes, in the middle of work, I just start crying.

I look at Xena and think of Zach.

A song plays, and I’m undone.

I am hurting. I am exhausted. I am terrified of the inevitability I don’t want to name. And still, every day, I choose to show up and make her comfortable — because this is what love demands when it is no longer convenient or pretty.

I don’t expect help from friends. I’ve made my peace with that. But my family and my partners have risen in ways that matter. My sister has been a pillar. Her husband, who was close to Zach, sees now — truly sees — the toll this has taken on me. Anand is grieving too, even if his grief speaks a different language than mine.

And me? I am so tired.

So anxious.

So stretched thin that sometimes I can’t take a full breath.

I want to write this because I want the world to understand something simple and brutal: loving an animal doesn’t mean loving them only when they are young, beautiful, playful, and easy. Loving an animal means going all the way. It means staying when they are old, sick, inconvenient, and breaking your heart.

This is the first time I’ve had two senior dogs at the same time. I’ve always had one elder and one younger — balance, continuity, hope. But losing Zach and knowing Xena may follow within months has cracked something open in me.

Six months apart.

Two souls.

One heart learning, again, what it means to love without conditions.

This is not a story about strength.

This is a story about staying.