grief – Schpilkes The Blog

In life, we mourn many things—not always death.

I’ve mourned my celiac diagnosis, my sudden hearing loss, and most recently, a friendship of nearly 30 years that quietly came to an end.

When I was first diagnosed with celiac disease, I mourned my freedom. The freedom to eat without fear, without reading every label, without scanning menus for hidden gluten. Back then, gluten-free options were scarce, and most of them tasted awful. I remember walking through Costco and crying, realizing there was nothing I could buy there ever again. That moment stayed with me. It took a long time to adjust to this new reality—20 years later, I still feel that sense of loss sometimes.

When I lost my hearing overnight, I mourned again—this time with fear. Fear of navigating life without a major sense, one that’s crucial for safety, for work, for connecting with others. I’m now five years into living with hearing loss, and some days are still hard. Crowded spaces overwhelm me. Conversations at parties are nearly impossible. I’ve become even more of an introvert, not by choice, but by necessity.

And this past year, I’ve been mourning a friendship. A nearly 30-year bond with someone I once considered a true friend. The kind of friend you shop with, laugh with, lean on. The one who would’ve helped me pick a dress for my daughter’s wedding, told me the truth in the fitting room, and listened when I needed to vent. She would have been there—and I would’ve done the same for her.

I have other friends. Good friends. But that doesn’t erase the ache of letting go of someone who once held a permanent place in your life.

Grief comes in many forms. And like any loss, it moves in stages. Maybe I’ve reached the final one. Maybe I’m at acceptance.

Or maybe I’m just learning that some grief never really ends—it just changes shape.

We lost our dog this past July, and the shock still lingers. She was young and seemingly healthy, so her sudden passing took us all by surprise. One day, she was her lively self, barking at the Amazon truck, and the next, we found ourselves at the emergency vet.

Our grief has been profound, especially since not everyone in the family got to say goodbye. She had regular check-ups, medication, and pet insurance, so we never expected this outcome. Each of us is grieving in our own way; there’s no manual for it. My youngest and I finally put away her crate, toys, and dog bed, saying our final goodbyes to her space in our home. Other family members chose a toy to keep as a memento. As for me, I find myself somewhere in between.

While the house is now free of her toys, my car still holds her presence—her nose prints on the back windows remain, offering a bittersweet comfort every time I get in.

I’ve been asked if I’ll get another dog. I probably will, but not yet. I’m not ready for the final goodbye and the full letting go. She was my companion for seven years, a mirror to my feelings, and a source of comfort when I lost my hearing.

We cherish the wonderful memories of her life filled with walks, treats, and endless love. She is missed every day. I’m almost ready to let go, but not quite—just lingering in that space of grief. It truly is a funny thing.