There are so much I would like to tell you, but for now, I couldn’t just bring myself to it. This is a really bad moment for me, and I could not talk about it. I think, the only thing I could do, and actually the only thing I could think of would help me release a little bit more of the pain I am feeling right now is by writing.
I hope I was right because I honestly cannot handle any more of this…
This morning– after a quick good morning with my husband, as usual I would check my phone. The time difference between the UK and Indonesia usually means there would be some waiting to be read messages either from my friends or family. Or checking emails. The thing about the modern smartphone is, that you could read a sneak peak of what’s going on just by reading your phone screen the first thing, even before you open everything.
But today was not just a usual day. The sneak peak told me there was something wrong.
I couldn’t gathered what was going on.
All I could read and remember was one from my mother saying: “Chika could have been alive”.
I tried to think. Frantically. Hoping that I was reading that wrong. Maybe what mum said was, “chika was in a big of trouble, and she could have been dead… if someone did not saved her. Or she was drowned and could have been dead if someone did not take her out on time. Or she was hit by a car, but she was a live… although, she could have been dead”.
She must have been wording it wrong. You know, mothers usually do that.
But today was not just a usual day. Not in the least. Not for me… at least.
I quickly skimmed the message she’s been posting on our family Whatsapp group (yeah, my dad was there too), and I was wrong. My mum said it just right and clear.
Chika was dead. In an operating table. And she was only 1 year, 4 months and 3 days old.
Now I have to stop and breathe. I might even try to get you some photos of her if I could even finish this entry without hyperventilating.
For some people, Chika was just a dog, or a puppy (because she was really really small), For me, she was a family. She was my baby. Some might not care about her, the way I don’t care about their children, but she is my baby, and I don’t fucking care if people think I was overreacting, because they could shove that ignorance up their arse and stop coming to my blog ever again.
Chika was born on 21th of April 2013. I was in Indonesia, and was waiting for Mr. Fix-It to come to my hometown. She was so small, she would fit and sit nicely (or sleep, like what she did almost all the time) nicely in my palm. Yes, she was not bigger than my right hand palm when she was born. But she was healthy, and growing up very quickly. I couldn’t believe how big she was when I came back from UK, last year.
I cried my eyeballs off when I was going back to the UK earlier this year to get married, because I know I was going to miss her. The silver lining was that I could always go back to my hometown to see her, while my family would always send me her photos. Now the silver lining has gone. And also she.
I am not a fan of favouritism, but she’s definitely my favourite. She used to sleeping with me with her body touching my leg. She would wake me up in the morning because she would need her morning pee in the garden. However at night, she would follow me around, knowing that I wouldn’t have the heart to leave her alone and would take her no matter how grubby she was to my bedroom and take her to bed with me.
Mum would be a little bit worried because my allergy would kick off if Chika was sleeping with me with grubby fur, but I’d rather being ill and take my allergy medication than saying no to Chika’s pledge. Sometimes even, I took her to work, and she would be bored in the office. She would start bullying her friends, and making a mess until she’s too tired to be naughty and sleep in the pile of mess she had just did.
Oh naughty Chika. I really missed her. I couldn’t even say goodbye.
I did not even know how she went. I couldn’t bear reading the whole conversation in the group, and never finished reading it. I just dropped my phone and broke down. I haven’t even said a word to my family, I couldn’t ask anything. My husband did — he texted my sister to find out what happened to Chika, but I told him not to tell me a word.
I don’t want to hear it
Not right now.
All I could think of was the things I could have done to prevent this from happening. I could have asked my mother to take Chika here to the UK. She would have been alive if she is living with me. I could have told my mum not to let Chika take the surgery. I felt I have killed Chika.
I killed her, didn’t I?
If not, it must be my mum or her vet.
Someone must have done something wrong. We must have wronged her in some way, and I couldn’t help thinking that it was my mistake. I would do anything to keep her alive. I would have done anything to keep her with me.
My husband was superb. He was around, taking care of things, and played Hot Fuzz and Paul, so I could watch and laugh, before I then broke down and cry and slept crying. Today was surreal. Definitely surreal and gloom, and emotional too… unsurprisingly.
I just don’t know what I could do. My phone wallpaper was Chika driving our car. My Path’s profile was Chika’s photo from when she was a baby until she last time I saw her. My laptop’s wallpaper was her photo too. When I picked up my knitting, it reminds me that I have bought wools to knit her a puppy jumper. I even asked my mum if she would be my ringbearer for my November wedding in Indonesia.
In just a second.
And she was my baby.
My husband said that I couldn’t do anything. That’s a horrible thought. But he said I could grieve. I could grieve and just experience all this pain, and he will be there all the way. He’s been really great. But I don’t know how long I could grieve without falling apart. Because she’s not a dog, she’s a part of me.
She’s my baby.
I’m sorry I couldn’t post any photos of her right now. I couldn’t go through my photo folders to get her photo without wailing like a dying wolf. Just bear with me this time. And thank you…