Brendan Quealy: Believe me, soulmates are real

Jul. 9—About seven minutes, give or take one or two, were left in my therapy session a few Thursdays ago. And that's when it clicked and the proverbial light bulb flickered on.

Since Luna's passing — now three months ago to the day as of this writing — I have navigated my way through a grief I'd never known like someone in a deep and lightless cavern without the slightest hint of a spark to guide my way.

Stumbling clumsily through fits of rage followed by seemingly endless tears leaving stains on my pillowcases to the point where I didn't bother even putting one on anymore.

Worried parents. Concerned siblings and friends. All sharing one thing. They had no idea what to do or how to help.

But no one could help. No one could come into the cavern with me. No matter how bright they think their light could shine. They weren't allowed. This was my cavern. This was my grief.

I've written so much about grief before.

When I lost my other dog, Guinness, to cancer in May 2020, I used this platform to not only write about my grief but to work through it. A catharsis of sorts through my writing and the support of readers like you. The ones who would reach out with a kind email or a handwritten letter with a story of their own loss of love.

I said it then, and I'll say it again now. Thank you so very much for each and every word of compassion that was sent my way. They helped me grow through my grief and access a kinder, more vulnerable side that truly values the gifts of life shared with those around me.

But the grief that has descended upon me after losing Luna is so much different than the grief that struck me down when Guinness passed. And I felt guilty because of that. I was ashamed.

I questioned myself. Shouldn't I be confined to my bed, wracked with so much pain and suffering that I've been left crippled? Didn't I love Luna so much that her absence would cause the same amount of pain that her presence caused joy and happiness? Isn't that what grief is supposed to be? Pain and misery?

Well, then why wasn't I miserable? And what the hell was this feeling in my chest that I just couldn't figure out?

But I have figured it out.

I figured it out a few Thursdays ago as the digital clock in my therapist's office neared the end of our session.

My love for Luna wasn't the same as my love for Guinness. So why would my grief be the same?

* Light bulb flickers

It wouldn't be, would it?

And that feeling in my chest. It's not pain or suffering or misery. But it is familiar ...

* Light bulb pops on

Love. It's love.

It is a love that cannot be broken by death. It is the love of a soulmate that cannot leave the soul of its other, even if their physical being is no longer there. It was — and is — Luna's love for me and my love for her.

Truly unbreakable.

When that realization washed over me, it covered me in this feeling of peace like a gentle warm waterfall. I felt it through my entire body, starting at the top of my head while somehow emanating from my chest. It was the oddest, yet most comforting thing I'd ever felt.

I feel Luna with me every moment of the day and night. She's just there. As real as the sun sparkling on the water of the Boardman River in which she loved to swim or the wind blowing through the tall grasses of the Brown Bridge Quiet Area where she loved to explore.

Nearly 15 years of our hearts and souls being intertwined and growing together cannot be undone by death. What a silly thing that would be if it were true. Love is so much stronger than death.

I remember that feeling in my chest of my heart breaking while she was in her final days, but now I can feel the ropes being pulled to tie the pieces back together and help it heal — scarred but stronger than before.

So this grief isn't one of loss. It is one of true love that can never be lost. And that is the most wonderful thing of all.

In those final minutes of that therapy session, I realized two important things.

One: Clouds will come. Rain will fall. But the sun will be there to shine on the puddles left behind.

Two: There is no map for grief. We all eventually end up in a deep and dark cavern blindly stumbling until the light finds us.

Maybe it's a light that never left us. I don't know, but maybe we just had our eyes closed.

Email Sports Editor Brendan Quealy at bquealy@record-eagle.com.