By Seth Rogovoy

The pain of loss seems to be getting worse, not better, with each passing day. Maybe it’s the accumulation of days since Maggie has been gone – two weeks now – too many days without seeing her or talking to her or getting a text from her or having anything to do with her. Maybe the state of shock and the comforting numbness that grabbed hold of me as soon as Maggie was taken is finally wearing off. So now all I’m left with is this huge void in my life, in our home, and in my broken heart – Maggie’s broken heart, or her broken heart that broke my heart.

The pain and sadness usually descend in the afternoon, right around 3pm – the time of day when Maggie was stricken. This could simply be circumstantial – by that time, the dogs have been walked twice, feeding time is over, and they’re settling down for the long night ahead. I’m tired by this time of day, but it’s also finally my own time when I’m able to best focus on writing and other work. But that focus gets hijacked, and instead I begin to feel what I’ve been pushing aside all day in order to get things done.

I’ve taken to answering the question “How are you doing?” or “How are you holding up?” by saying it depends upon when you ask me. There’s a spectrum of feeling I experience, from Zen-like calm and acceptance — even happiness for Maggie that she has been liberated from the pain and suffering that comes with living (that’s a Buddhist concept, I think) — to total and utter despair. The extremes are rare, and usually I’m feeling something in between those two, although the past few days the pendulum has swung much more towards the latter.

I look at Mickey, Maggie’s dog and the most important being in her life, and I am devastated by his loss, even though he seems to be OK. I’m glad I have him around to take care of; if I didn’t have Mickey and Stevie I’d be way too alone – even though I’ve hardly had a minute or hour to myself these last two weeks, when I’ve been surrounded by friends and family who have been attending to my well-being and care. I’m only fully present to the dogs, I’m sure, but I’m also certain that’s exactly how Maggie would have wanted it.

I’m not alone, however, and my heart breaks for the two or three other people in Maggie’s life who are going through a similar ordeal – people for whom daily life, hour-by-hour and sometimes minute-by-minute, meant being with Maggie, whether in person or via phone, text, e-mail, or just because she was there, at the other end, soon to be seen or heard from or talked to. Always and every day. I can’t fathom their loss any more than I can fathom mine. We are all the walking wounded, or, as Maggie might have put it, zombies. We are the Zombie Mourners of Maggie.