I am losing track of days. Weeks too.
I believe I did not post last week, or perhaps it has been two weeks since I last posted. Honestly, I cannot even remember, and I have been far too tired to go back and check. So, for those who may have wondered where I disappeared to, or for those who missed my posts over the last week or two, I truly apologize. I believe I have a very good reason, though, and I hope you will understand.
August has always been a difficult month for me, and I believe it always will be. Within just a few days, between the 20th and 27th of August, I have carried two completely different emotions in my heart for years. Since I was a teenager, I celebrated the birth of my soul mate, Matthew Moore, on the 27th of August. For the last seven years, however, I have also mourned his sudden death on the 21st of August.
Seven years. It sounds like such a long time when you say it out loud. To some people, perhaps it sounds long enough to expect someone to be “over it”. I know there are probably people who quietly think, “Get over it already. It has been seven years.”
All I can say is that I wish I could. But at the same time, I am afraid.
I am afraid that one day I will completely get over it and somehow lose all the memories I had of Matt. Because what does “getting over someone” even mean when they were such an important part of who you became? How do you simply move on from someone whose presence helped shape your life, whose love and care became part of the person you are today?
What people do not realize is the bond I shared with him. What they do not realize is that Matt and his dad were my earth angels. They came into my life at a time when I genuinely felt like my world was falling apart. They cared for me, groomed me, loved me and looked after me. They became my chosen family, and I placed my complete trust in them.
I knew they would never intentionally hurt me. In fact, they were always so careful with my heart that even the thought of them hurting me unintentionally seems impossible. They were people who made me feel safe in a world where I often did not. That kind of love is difficult to explain to people who never witnessed it or experienced the bond we shared.
Some relationships cannot be measured by blood. Some people enter your life and become family simply because your soul recognizes them as home. Matt was one of those people.
Any guy can love a thousand girls, but only a rare guy can love one girl in a thousand different ways. That was Matt.
And perhaps that is why losing him changed me in ways I still struggle to explain.
There was no goodbye. There was no final conversation and no chance to prepare my heart for losing him. One moment he was here, and the next, he was gone, leaving behind a silence I still do not know how to fill.
The worst day of my life was the last day of his.
Since then, I have been trying to learn how to live in a world that no longer has him in it. But the truth is that even seven years later, I am still struggling. I am still carrying the weight of his absence. And no, I am not okay.
Grief is a strange thing because it does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives in tears. Sometimes it arrives in exhaustion. Sometimes it makes you forget what day it is or whether something happened last week or two weeks ago because your mind is simply tired from carrying too much.
Sometimes grief makes you withdraw from the things you usually love. Sometimes you do not answer messages. Sometimes you do not post. Sometimes even the smallest task feels like climbing a mountain. And sometimes you can be perfectly fine one moment, only for a memory to suddenly sneak up behind you and knock the breath out of your body.
Sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks.
That, to me, is grief. It is love with nowhere physical to go.
The pain can be unspeakable. At times, I literally feel as though my heart has been torn out of my chest. But strangely, I also believe that sadness, pain and tears are gifts from God. They allow us to express the depths of who we are and what we feel. If we never cried, would people truly understand how deeply we loved? If our hearts never hurt, would we understand the significance of the people we were blessed to have in our lives?
I do not believe grief is a weakness. I believe grief is proof that love was real.
And if Matt was truly as perfect as I sometimes believe he was, then perhaps I am beginning to understand why Heaven called him home. Maybe he really was too perfect for this horrible world.
This post is dedicated to the man who kept his word, the man who cared for my heart so carefully, the man who loved me in ways that few people ever will and the man who became my chosen family.
The man who was too good for this world.
My Matt.
But as if August was not already difficult enough, last year brought another loss into my life. My feathered baby, Quando, died after seven years of being with our family. Oddly enough, it only recently hit me that I had been mourning Matt for seven years when my feathered baby passed away after being with us for seven years too.
Seven years.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But grief has a strange way of making you notice numbers, dates and connections that you might otherwise overlook.
The last two weeks have therefore been rough on me emotionally. To make matters worse, I have also been fighting a very aggressive flu bug. My body is tired, my mind is tired and, honestly, my heart is tired too.
A year ago, on Tuesday, 19 August, the day began as usual. I had breakfast with Mum and then settled into work. But as the morning went on, something about Quando caught my attention. He was sitting at the bottom of his cage.
Normally, that would not necessarily have worried me. Quando could be playful and mischievous, and sometimes he would sit at the bottom of his cage playing with a paper towel. But this was different. He was still and quiet. Something immediately made my heart sink.
It reminded me so much of when Sunny had been unwell, and deep down, I knew something was wrong.
I called the vet and managed to get an appointment. In the meantime, I washed out his cage because it was the only carrier we could use to bring him along. I held him close and gave him extra love. He was pooping far more than usual, and the colour and smell were not right. All he wanted to do was sleep on my shoulder, which was something he always loved to do.
Every now and then, he would perk up and have a little burst of activity, and those moments gave me hope. At times, I considered cancelling the appointment, convincing myself that perhaps it was just a small bug and that he would get over it.
And yes, I thought about the cost. Veterinary care is expensive, and I knew it could easily cost a few hundred dollars. But my conscience would not allow me to take that risk with him. He was my baby. As the afternoon went on and he showed no real signs of improvement, I knew we had to go.
At the veterinary clinic, there were registrations, questions and examinations. An X-ray was done to check for metal, and thankfully, it came back clear. But Quando had severe diarrhea. The vet cleaned him up and examined a stool sample.
Then came the news that broke my heart.
His belly was full of worm eggs.
The vet asked whether he had been around other birds or wild animals. He had not. That puzzled them. The only explanation I could think of was that perhaps it had come from the breeder, and the vet even suggested that it could have been something present since he was a baby.
Quando was given an injection, and we went home with antibiotics, vitamins and a long list of medications. Then there was something I had not expected to have to do again. I had to hand-feed him formula, just like when we first brought him home, to make sure he stayed hydrated.
I went home feeling heavy-hearted but determined. The vet warned me to prepare for the worst and gave him only a fifty-fifty chance of survival. But I refused to give up hope.
The first formula feed and his medications went better than I could have hoped. Quando ate everything. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe that maybe he would pull through. Maybe tomorrow would bring improvement.
That night, I covered his cage and whispered goodnight to my baby. I prayed that he would make it through the night. If he did, tomorrow would be a long day of scheduled feeds, cleaning and medications, but it would also mean another chance at recovery. At that moment, another chance was all I wanted.
The next day, Wednesday, 20 August, was stressful from beginning to end. I fed Quando and gave him his medications exactly as the vet had advised. For most of the day, things seemed to be going reasonably well.
He was weak, but he still sat on my shoulder as he always did. He was less playful than usual, but he snuggled against my neck and nestled between my hair, just as he had done so many times before. Those little familiar moments gave me hope. He was taking his feeds and medication quite well.
Until the evening.
Then he started slowing down.
It became dark, and I remember telling myself that the moment morning came, I was going to take Quando straight back to the vet. Sadly, I never got the chance.
Quando was sleeping in his cage in the living room while I worked on my computer in the bedroom. I kept checking on him every few minutes. Then, at about 9pm, I heard a loud, shrill screech.
I swear I have never moved as quickly in my life.
I jumped across the bed and rushed to Quando.
He was lying weakly in his tent.
In seven years, I had never seen him sleep like that. Normally, he would lean against it and sleep, something I always found amusing. But this was different.
Quando saw me at the cage. He tried to come to me, but he was too weak to move.
By then, the rest of my family had heard the screech and gathered around the cage. I slowly picked my baby up and stroked his little feathered head.
And then he passed away.
I cried as if a human being had died. Yes, he was my pet, and yes, he was “just a bird” to some people. But he was my feathered baby. He had been part of my life for seven years.
Honestly, I never knew losing a pet could hurt this much.
Growing up, I had never had a pet for long enough to become deeply attached or to experience watching one grow old and die. Quando was different. He was the best pet I could ever have asked for. He was definitely a one-owner bird and was fiercely protective of me. He loved me, knew me and trusted me.
And I miss him.
A year has passed, and I am still not ready for another pet. Perhaps I never will be. Quando was special, and I do not think another pet could ever replace what he was to me. Nor should they have to. He was his own little personality, his own little soul and his own irreplaceable part of our family.
When he passed away, I wanted to give him a goodbye that felt as gentle and beautiful as the little life he had given us. I wrapped a box with white silk and filled it with flowers. I laid Quando to rest there while we waited for the animal cremation company to come and pick him up.
They were incredibly professional and compassionate, and despite the heartbreak of the moment, the whole process was comforting.
And now Quando is forever with us in our hearts.
His ashes sit in our living room, in the very place where his cage once stood.
Sometimes I look at that space and remember the sounds he used to make, the little movements, the routines and the way he would sit on my shoulder. I remember the way he would snuggle against me, and once again, grief reminds me that love changes form, but it does not simply disappear.
That is perhaps what I am still trying to learn.
Healing after loss does not mean forgetting. It does not mean loving someone less, and it certainly does not mean waking up one morning and suddenly being completely unaffected by their absence.
Healing means slowly learning to carry them differently. You carry them in your memories, in your choices, in your quiet moments, in the stories you tell and in all the love they left behind.
I do not know if grief ever completely goes away. Perhaps it is not supposed to. Perhaps we simply become better at carrying it.
Some days, we carry it gently. Other days, it feels unbearably heavy. Some days, we laugh and remember with gratitude. Other days, a date on the calendar can bring us to our knees.
And both are okay.
To anyone who is grieving the death of someone they love, please know this: you do not have to heal according to anyone else's timeline. There is no deadline for missing someone. There is no correct number of years after which your heart is expected to stop hurting.
Let yourself feel. Let yourself cry. Let yourself rest. Take life one day at a time.
And if all you can manage today is simply getting through today, then that is enough.
Your grief is not a weakness.
It is proof that your love was real.
So, if you have wondered where I have been for the last week, or perhaps the last two weeks, this is my answer. I honestly do not know where the days have gone. August has taken its emotional toll on me again.
I have been grieving. I have been remembering. I have been missing. I have been sick.
And I have been tired.
Very tired.
But I am still here.
I am still taking one day at a time. I am still learning how to live with the people and the little feathered soul I have loved and lost.
And perhaps that is what coping with grief really is.
It is not getting over it. It is not forgetting. It is not pretending that it no longer hurts.
It is learning how to continue living while carrying love and loss together in the same heart.
Matt, I still miss you.
Quando, I still miss you too.
And perhaps some memories will always find their way out of my eyes and roll gently down my cheeks.
Maybe that is okay.
Maybe that is simply love reminding us that even though someone is no longer physically beside us, they were once here. They mattered. They were loved.
And they will never truly be forgotten.
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