It Isn’t Perfect, But It Might Be
Illustration by Iman Jafrani
January has never been a favourite month of mine. Cold, damp (at least if you’re from where I’m from), and full of fake promises to be better that are certain to be dropped at the first sign of Valentine's Day chocolate offers at the store. When i’m now dreadfully remembering last January, in which I convinced myself I was a fashion goddess on par with the likes of the Hadid sisters, and vowed to become more “whimsical” in 2025- whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. I can distinctly remember it was all going rather well (not) when January 27th put a frank stop to this deluded path of self-resurrection. My dog died.
After 11 years - from birth to age 11, to be exact - of begging my parents to get us a dog, they finally caved one November afternoon and drove us out to a rescue shelter to take a look. What was originally going to be a quick visit to introduce the idea of a dog to us kids ended with us going home with the shelter’s latest admission. Only an hour before we arrived, he was dropped off to the shelter by owners who could no longer care for him. His name was Russel. He hated squirrels and hated dogs bigger than him even more, he loved people (especially my mother) and stealing scraps out of the garbage when no one was looking. He was sat by my side through getting my first phone, my boyband obsessions, a global pandemic, friend groups that had come and gone, and graduating high school.All for 10 years. When he died, I was at a complete loss for how to feel.
Back and forth dialogue spun in my head like wind that stirs up piles of leaves on cold autumn days.
He’s gone. He was your pet, YOURS for 10 years and now he’s gone. You weren’t even there to say goodbye.
He was just a dog, get over yourself. There are people out there really suffering, and you’re upset over an animal?
You’ll never pet his head again. You’ll never hear his bark or feel him licking your face when you wake up in the morning.
He was old. Everyone’s dog dies eventually, you knew this was coming. Don’t be stupid.
Luckily, and somehow by divine timing, Bridget Jones was there for me as she usually is. The newest installment of the series, “Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy,” shows my favourite disorganized London socialite (sometimes) dealing with the loss of her husband, Mark Darcy. Through beautiful storytelling and character building, Bridget and her children learn to live with the loss of such an important person through simply allowing the grief to exist beside her. It isn’t rotting in her gut like an infectious sadness trying to claw its way up to her throat. It isn’t chained at her feet keeping her from moving anywhere,doing anything. Instead, it is with her. It comes with her and her children wherever they go, reminding them of the person they love. Granted, the Bridget Jones saga is rooted in its feel-good rom-comedy, hence why they focus on the more positive aspects. But Bridget Jones has offered me some fairly relevant life advice since my childhood, and connecting my own experiences to film has always helped me.
Most importantly, no one should be expected to grieve a certain way. We experience things so uniquely, as humans, that our emotions and feelings are something we must hold close to us. Pain is part of the process, and there’s really no limit to when it ends. What Bridget Jones taught me, however, is that leaning on the people around you and trusting yourself with your grief is a confounding act of strength and love. It’s not easy, and I won’t claim to have all the answers, if there even are any. But it’s important to give yourself grace. Drink a glass of wine and belt a Cher song at the top of your lungs. Lie in bed extra long in the morning and have a piece of toast slathered in butter for breakfast. Do all of this knowing that the people you love are always with you, even if they’re not with you. Love is shared, and when we lose someone, we have to carry our love for them and their love for us with us. It isn’t perfect, but it might be. Hold on to that.
