" “Thank you so much for thinking of me, Jennifer, but I really don't feel like going out to dinner this weekend."

"But Nadine, it's your birthday- we have to celebrate!"

I gripped the phone receiver even tighter in my hand. I knew Jennifer's intentions were good and caring, and like many of my other friends, she felt uncomfortable, confused and impotent when it came to what appeared to be my refusal to get on with my life.

Several weeks later, I sat alone in front of the TV, paying only the slightest attention to the coverage of Ronald Reagan's funeral. As I watched the motorcade wind its way through the California hills across my screen, I felt wrenchingly sad, but it wasn't because of Ronald Reagan's death. Just a few months earlier, I'd weathered the one-year anniversary of my dog, Buttons' passing. For the last year, I'd somehow survived not only being without her physical presence for the first time in almost 2 decades, but also the inevitable, "Why don't you go get another dog?" or "Aren't you over it yet? She was JUST a dog!" from many well-intentioned friends.

Every pet parent who's ever had a heart-dog knows, Buttons wasn't just a dog. She was my best friend, my partner in crime, my greatest teacher and my adopted daughter. We'd lived all over the United States: Chicago, Tucson, Santa Cruz, and been together for 19 years. She was there to comfort me when my fiancé broke our engagement, and I was there to help her heal and become an 11-year cancer survivor on all natural remedies. No, she wasn't just a dog… she was the love of my life.

As Nancy Reagan sat silently staring at her husband's coffin, I felt myself getting agitated. The familiar voice of a famous network newscaster had launched into a commentary praising Mrs. Reagan up one side and down the other for her incredibly admirable stoicism. I, on the other hand, just wanted to reach through the screen and shake Nancy by the shoulders, "QUIT HOLDING IT IN," I wanted to shout at her. "It's natural to cry and feel pain! You're creating disease in your body by holding in all that emotion!" But instead, there on the couch, I dissolved into my own heartbroken tears.

Was something really wrong with me because I wasn't "over it yet"… because I was so very far from being admirably stoic? Not only did I hurt almost nonstop with longing for my sweet doggy, but I had no desire to go anywhere or see anyone. No one was comfortable around my grief and it just took so much energy for me to pretend everything was normal in front of them- that my whole world hadn't been shattered. For me, the thought of getting another dog at that point felt like a traitorous act. People didn't understand, I didn't want to wallow in my pain, I wanted to honor it and let it breathe. I wanted to honor Buttons and all our years together. Was that really such a bad thing?

Some weeks later, I sat once again alone in front of my TV. This time, it was to join the rest of the world in watching the horrible aftermath of the Beslan school hostage crisis. Three hundred and thirty-four hostages were killed including 186 children. I watched, nearly mesmerized as parents and grandparents- grown men and women, threw themselves weeping and wailing on the coffins of their sons and daughters, siblings, nieces and nephews. They held nothing in, but outwardly expressed their unbelievable pain. Sure, it was messy- all that unedited grief and emotion, and in my own heart, I knew it was also really healthy… healthy, authentic grieving.

And so more and more everyday, I took my cue from those brave Russian people. I stopped trying to distract myself and make myself feel better. I no longer told myself it was time to get over it already. Instead, I began leaning even deeper into my pain. I gave myself permission to feel everything as I gave my mourning free and total rein.

There were times when I feared that my seemingly endless tears would destroy me. There were times when I prayed that they would. But at one point, lost in all that emotional messiness and tumult, something totally unexpected happened: the agony merged with what felt like ecstasy.

When I rode it to its depth, my grief catapulted me into the ever-present moment. No past, no future, just the eternal now- where everything is always ok. Where, when the mind stops thinking and spewing its endless chatter, dialogue, and commentary, and all there is, is love.

I had found the gift that had been waiting for me deep inside all that grief: the experience of the depth of my pain being in direct proportion to the depth of my love. And then I knew. Buttons hadn't left me at all- she hadn't gone anywhere. The part of her that really mattered was right there in my heart, where the only true solace resides. What had been required of me, was my having to surrender fully to the pain, in order to find her again. Because the truth was, it was never JUST pain… and my girl, Buttons was never, JUST a dog.”

©2010 Nadine M. Rosin Posted here by Pets We Loved with written permission of the author

Nadine M. Rosin is a certified holistic pets/toxic-free living consultant, pet bereavement facilitator and author of The Healing Art of Pet Parenthood a true story about the human-animal bond, healing cancer holistically, senior canine care, and an empowering new take on the grieving process when a beloved animal passes away. Available on Amazon and all online book retailers. Can be ordered worldwide through any brick & mortar bookstore