My 16 1/2 year old pug Gracie slips away more each day. She isn’t suffering, the vet confirmed that, but she also isn’t here — or rather, she’s here, but not here. Dementia, hearing loss, impaired vision, and the distance that comes with advanced age and a weakening body have taken away my trusty little companion. As she gets worse, so does my grief. At this point, tears are always there just under the surface. I feel death moving in, I listen to her breathing as I go to sleep and wonder if I will still hear it in the morning. It would be better if she went on her own, if I didn’t have to make the decision to end her life, but no scenario will ease my grief over the chasm that will open up when she is no longer here.

In the 6 years that I ran my support group, Beyond Alzheimer’s, I have listened to many people speak about grief, and I have counseled many people on the journey of it. I’m now faced with taking the advice I gave to others. So many people have told me about the changing landscape of their life when grief claims them — how some friends avoid them, how they feel lonely and self-conscious about the visible sorrow they carry with them. I went through that with my father’s Alzheimer’s, but it was a 10 year journey, so I think some of the intensity was spread out across time. This grief right now is immediate and constant. It leans into me, breathes with me. Grief does change the landscape of your life. People you thought might be there for you move away from you instead, or say inappropriate things in a misguided effort to cheer you up. Someone who is grieving doesn’t want to be cheered up; they want to be listened to, heard. They want the other person to give them room for their sorrow. I heard about a woman whose child was killed and was subjected to people saying things like, “It’s such a blessing you have two other children.” I’m going to assume that they meant well, but if they had any reverence for grief they would never have been so callous.

On the flip side, strangers sometimes show the compassion and empathy that’s longed for. There have been times when I’m walking Gracie, or carrying her, which is more and more necessary, and someone will stop me, tell me about their last dog and how the end came. They will share with me their sorrow, how hard it was, and let me know that they understand how I’m feeling. I’ve found myself on many sidewalks fighting back tears in front of a total stranger. I’m so grateful for these interactions, for the reminder that not everyone shies away from grief, even someone you’ve never met before.

For the people who do shy away from it, I have come to feel sympathy for them. We grieve to the depth that we have loved. I said that so many times when I was running my support group — that grief is an aspect of love. So someone who resists grief, puts up barriers against it, does a happy dance to keep it away, has also put up barriers against overwhelming love, the kind of love that knocks the earth off its axis. I don’t ever want to be one of those people.

My heart is breaking because it was so filled up by a sweet little dog who was the size of a shoe when she became mine and who brought love and laughter and loyalty into my life for more than 16 years. I will get another dog — probably very quickly after the end comes. My father believed strongly that you need to fill up the yawning emptiness that the death of a pet leaves in your heart even though you are still grieving. He emphasized that grief and joy can co-exist, and I’ve found that to be true. But for now I wait for what I know is inevitable. I breathe her in, I remember the life we had together, and I pray that the end will be peaceful.