Losing Bai: A Journey Through Grief and Healing
Losing Bai to cancer was one of the hardest things I've ever had to witness. Each day, he lost more weight, and it became harder to get food into him. The pain of seeing my once-vibrant, strong dog deteriorate was unbearable, but in some ways, there was a sense of relief when I finally said my goodbyes.
The suffering had ended, and I knew he was no longer in pain.
When I lost my first dog, Chess—the staffy I had loved for years—back in September 2023, I was absolutely shattered. It came suddenly, and I felt broken in ways I didn’t think possible. My heart felt like it was completely shattered, and I was drowning in the grief.
Bai was there for me through it all. He sat beside me, offering nothing but love and loyalty, as I navigated the devastating loss of Chess. For months, he stayed by my side, as if he could sense my pain, never leaving me, never judging me for my brokenness. He was a constant, a quiet comfort, as I struggled with even the smallest daily tasks—living, breathing, existing seemed like monumental challenges.
Bai wasn’t just my dog; he was my protector. He was a naturally fierce and loyal guard dog who made me feel safe wherever I went. There was something so comforting about his presence—his unwavering loyalty, his protective instincts. Even though he was once a challenging dog, nearly euthanized at just two years old because of his resource guarding and difficult temperament, he transformed into an incredible companion.
At 90lbs, this Black Mouth Cur, bred to hunt big game, found his place beside me. Together, we figured out how to love and trust each other.
Our last summer together was full of adventures, doing all of Bai's favorite things. We swam together, explored the trails with the side-by-side, and of course, snuggled endlessly. I used to joke that Bai was like a golden retriever crossed with a lion—always needing affection but also craving serious adventure. His heart was as big as his spirit, and he filled my life with joy.
My grief journey for each dog has been so different.
After Chess’s sudden passing, I struggled immensely, feeling lost in the five stages of grief. I experienced each of those stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance—deeply. But with Bai, I learned to approach grief in a completely different way.
That’s where Dual Grief came in.
Coined by psychiatrists Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut in 1999, the Dual Process Model of Grief was something I unknowingly began to experience with Bai. In a sense, grief wasn’t just about feeling sad and mourning the loss; it was about navigating two processes at once:
Loss-Oriented Grief—the sorrow, the pain, the sadness of losing my best friend. This was about remembering Bai, missing him, and feeling the sharp sting of his absence.
Restoration-Oriented Grief—the need to adapt and rebuild my life without him. While the loss hurt, there were moments when I had to pick myself up, continue living, and re-engage with the world around me. This process helped me remember that life still had a purpose, even after losing such an important part of it.
With Bai, I'm going between these two experiences. I find myself deep in grief, missing him, and then, at times, I would shift focus to rebuilding my life, living day-to-day, and even finding joy in new moments. It's not always easy, but this back-and-forth process is helping me heal slowly.
The relief in knowing that grief doesn’t have to be a single, linear experience has been profound. It’s a reminder that healing isn’t just about feeling the loss, but also about learning to move forward, even if just a little at a time. Bai taught me that grief can be complex, multifaceted, and ever-changing, and that it’s okay to feel joy alongside the sorrow.
Bai was the dog who helped me survive the hardest grief of my life after losing Chess. And now, he’s was the one who helped me navigate life without him, showing me that love and loss can coexist in unexpected ways.
In memory of Bai, I’ll continue to live with both the sadness of his absence and the gratitude for the time we shared. And I’ll keep learning—day by day—that grief is a journey, not a destination.
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