Jimmy Dean passed away on 3 February 2025 at the age of 16
Dear Jimmy Dean Waite:
His paws are warm. He twitches under my soft palm. All is focused on breathing. All other systems of his small body are shut off. He barely blinks. There is no food left in his digestive system. He won't eat. Can’t eat. Only the fast rhythm of his heart. The medicine he is forced to drink is sour and disgusting. It leaves a horrible taste in his paralyzed mouth. His tongue sticks out, no longer able to swallow or keep it in.
He twitches again. There's fear of having another stroke especially when he's already gone through two of them. His eyes are glossy and accepting for what's to come. He knows I'm here with him despite being blind and so close to the cliff of death. There is no pain anymore.
I leave. I regret leaving him. I thought he had more time. I thought I would be back before he departed from our world. But I went anyway.
When I came back, he was gone. Fifteen years. Ten were with me.
His paws are cold. Ears are cold. Eyes still open but a void of life and now dry. Rigor mortis takes over. His body is stiff. He lays there in his dog bed. Even his brother grieves.
My tears are no more. My eyes are puffy and hurt from crying quietly.
His body is still warm, cooling now. As I lay my hand on his chest, there is no heartbeat. No breathing. No more life. I lay my head on his firm stomach. There is no growling. No breathing, No warmth. No more life.
An hour passes. I refuse to leave again. I don’t go until I’m pulled away.
“He’s dead,” I would repeat to myself. Dead. Dead. Dead. It doesn’t fully hit me. I realize, it never will. Never. Grief is not something you get over, it’s simply something you learn to live with.
Two days is all it takes—only a day to understand he’s leaving, only hours to sit and cry and wait. Every minute is another accomplishment until it's not—until he's gone.
The feeling of your stomach sinking into the abyss never passes. The throbbing in your skull never goes. The tearing of the muscle in your heart never dies. But Jimmy died. Jimmy went. Jimmy passed.
Death makes you appreciate life. If you've never seen it, you aren't living. Well, life until– you have no more. No more life.
He's dead. I stay by his side. Hoping. Waiting. Hoping and waiting for a heartbeat, a small breath, a simple twitch. But, I know he's gone.
I miss you, Jimmy Dean.
By Elsa Rose Hess
