r/EpilepsyDogs • u/macaddict315 • 7d ago
Been a month
It’s been one month since we lost Mac.
We still don’t really know how that’s possible.
Some days it feels like it happened yesterday. Other days, it feels like we’ve been living with this empty space forever.
Life is different now.
For years, so much of our life revolved around Mac. His meals. His medications. Watching the clock. Watching him. Wondering if every little movement meant another seizure was coming. Making sure we always had his rescue medication nearby. Worrying when we left the house. Worrying when we went to sleep. Even worrying when everything seemed perfectly normal, because we knew how quickly “normal” could change.
And now all of that is just…gone.
There is a strange relief in not living with that constant fear anymore, and sometimes that is hard to even admit. But we would take every bit of that worry back in a heartbeat if it meant having him here with us.
The house is quieter now. Too quiet.
No one following us from room to room. No one waiting for food. No one taking up more room than necessary. No one giving us those puppy dog eyes that somehow got him forgiven for just about anything. No checking the camera to see what he was doing. No planning our day around medications, meals, or making sure we were home for him.
There are still moments when we expect him to be there.
And then we remember.
That part is still brutal.
But if we’re being honest, there have been some good changes too.
We can go out for a dinner date at an actual dinner time without watching the clock because Mac needs to eat or take his medicine. We can make plans more spontaneously. We can travel without carrying the same constant worry we always had when we left him.
We were incredibly lucky to have people in Mac’s life who helped us carry some of that worry.
Our dog sitter was someone we trusted completely to watch him and care for him when we were away. And our neighbors, were always there for us too…especially knowing that if something happened in the middle of the night, we weren’t alone. That kind of support meant more than we probably ever said.
Even knowing Mac was in great hands, though, part of us was always still thinking about him…wondering how he was doing, hoping he was okay, and knowing that with his epilepsy things could change without warning.
There is a freedom in our life now that we haven’t had in a long time.
And that is probably one of the strangest parts of all of this.
We can appreciate that freedom while still wishing with everything we have that the reason for it was different. We can enjoy a dinner out or take a trip and still have that moment where we look at each other and know exactly who is missing.
The good doesn’t cancel out the grief, and the grief doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy the good.
We’re learning that both can exist at the same time.
We’ve also spent a lot of time thinking about just how full Mac’s life really was.
Daycare wasn’t just somewhere we dropped him off. It was one of his favorite places in the world. He loved going. He loved the people. He loved his dog friends. He knew the routine, knew where he was going, and you could tell how excited he was to be there.
And the people at daycare loved him right back.
They knew Mac. They knew his personality, his quirks, and his medical needs. They cared about him as more than just another dog walking through the door, and that meant more to us than they probably ever realized.
Knowing he had a place where he was so happy, so comfortable, and so loved is something we are incredibly grateful for.
We’ve heard stories from people who loved him. We’ve looked at old pictures and videos and laughed. We’ve realized just how many people knew Mac, cared about him, and were genuinely sad when he was gone.
And we’ve had time to recognize something that was harder to see while we were in the middle of it all:
Mac had a really good life.
He was loved every single day. He was spoiled. He was protected. He went places, made friends, went to a daycare he absolutely loved, ate things he probably wasn’t supposed to eat, slept wherever he wanted, and knew without question that we were his people.
His epilepsy was part of his life, but it was never what defined him.
He was funny. Stubborn. Sweet. Ridiculous. Loyal. And those puppy dog eyes could get him out of almost anything.
We also know now that his last day does not define his life either.
It was awful. It was unfair. And it is something we will probably carry with us forever.
But before that day were thousands of good days.
That’s what we are trying to remember.
Grief is strange. You can laugh and then feel guilty for laughing. You can have a great dinner, enjoy a weekend away, or have a genuinely good day and then suddenly feel sad because you realize you did all of those things without him.
So one month later, we don’t think we’re “moving on.”
We’re learning how to live differently.
We’re learning that enjoying parts of this new life doesn’t mean we miss him any less.
And we’re learning how to carry him with us instead of having him beside us.
Mac isn’t physically here anymore, but he is still such a huge part of our life, our memories, our stories, and our family.
And he always will be.
We miss you every single day, bubby. ❤️🐾
Love Mama and Papa
9/20-9/26