Coping with loss

Hello all of you beautiful turkeys. I hope you all survived your tryptophan comas and awkward family gatherings.

This is the time of year that we are supposed to say the things we are thankful for. Well, I am thankful that 2021 is almost over. I know most of you were saying that about 2020 but not me. I didn’t hate 2020. I spent a lot of time at home. I cooked a bunch. I made bread. I got to be a lazy bum, and nobody said anything because we were all quarantining ourselves. It honestly was not the worst time for me.

Now 2021 can suck my dick. This year, especially the last four months, have really put me through the wringer.

Back in August, I lost a close friend — Fantasha. Her death was sudden and surprising. Some days it still feels like a kick in the balls. She would do a song in the Rose Room, Pepper Mashay’s “Dive In The Pool,” and every time she would sing “Let’s Get Soaking Wet!” she would pour a bottle of water or beer all over herself. Everybody loved it, and it was a big money maker, so she would do it often. When she would take off the soaking wet costume, she would drape it over a locker in the dressing room to let it dry for the next show, so she could do it again.

Her costume is still draped on top of the locker where she left it last. I don’t want to move it. No one else has moved it. I like it being there; I think of her every time I walk in the dressing room and see it. It’s stupid, I know.

Fantasha made almost every costume I have worn in the past seven or eight years. I wear a Fantasha original in every show I do, and I have a flood of emotions every time I put one on. Every garment she made, she sewed by hand. She sewed faster by hand than most people sew with a machine.

Fantasha was also one of the most captivating performers I have ever watched. She performed like she was the headliner for the Super Bowl halftime show no matter where she was. She performed full out every time — the same for a packed house or just a few stragglers wandering the room. Where other girls, including myself, would be irritated and half-ass a performance because the crowd was small or not paying attention to us, she did not. She put on a show, full force, no matter the size or mood of the crowd. It was my favorite thing about her and why she stayed fully booked.

I miss her.

Then in September we lost my Uncle David. He was a good guy with a heart as big as his cowboy hat. He always had a big hug for me and made me and my husband feel welcome whenever we saw him. As many of y’all know, that is a big deal to a gay boy. Uncle David and I were both smart enough to not talk about certain things around each other. Our world and political views were very different, but I loved him. Our family is feeling more and more like Swiss cheese — holes everywhere. Uncle David has definitely left a void in our family dynamic.

Then on Oct. 20, my husband and I lost our bestest boy, Sunny. He was the happiest, best dog you could ever hope to have. I got Sunny as a birthday present for my husband Jamie when Sunny was just a tiny little poofball of fur.

He was so tiny. It was love at first sight for the two of them. Their bond was immediate and beautiful.

We knew pretty early that Sunny was special. We love all of our furbabies but the connection we had with Sunny was one in million love. Sunny and Jamie were connected in a way many people may never understand — well, unless you are an animal person. If you are an animal person, you understand. I will never understand non-animal people. It sounds so depressing not having a pup greet you when you come home. Sure, a spouse is nice, but being greeted so enthusiastically every time you come home makes you feel like a rock star.

Sunny was a smart dog. Pomeranians usually are, but Sunny was crazy smart. I know people that couldn’t learn things as fast as Sunny could. He could apparently spell. Every time we would spell a word to keep the dogs from knowing what we were talking about, like spelling treat or outside, he would bark knowingly. He was fully potty trained faster than any other dog I have had. He understood pointing. I know that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but have you ever tried to get a dog to look where you are pointing? They just stare at the end of your finger, like what?

Sunny understood to look in the direction your finger was pointing. I have only known two dogs that ever understood that, and they were both Poms.

Sunny was 13-and-a-half when he passed away. He was diagnosed with a heart murmur a few years ago and was on medication but his death still felt like it was a surprise. He had white fur, which hid his grey hair. All of the other dogs we have had that have passed away looked older. Black and brown dogs’ little faces turn white and are a constant reminder of their age. Sunny not only didn’t look like an older dog, he never acted like one. He was up for whatever the Daddies wanted to do.

He loved the water. If we were in the water, so was he. He thought our boat was his, and if we went anywhere with it he had to go or would literally throw a tantrum. He loved to ride on anything that Jamie drove. If Jamie was on the riding lawn mower, Sunny was in his lap. A jet ski, a kayak, whatever it was — if Jamie was doing it, so was Sunny, without fear or hesitation.

He had this little dance he did; we called it the Sunny Shuffle. He did it when he was excited, wanted something or was just being cute. He would put his front paws together and bounce them up and down. He would do it laying down on his side when he knew we were looking. He knew he was adorable, and I think he did it because he knew we loved it. He was such a ham.

Our home does not feel right. Even with four other dogs, it seems empty somehow. After he passed, we brought his body home to let the other dogs smell him. I don’t know if they understood but I’m glad we did it. Our Riley, another Pom, was Sunny’s shadow and has seemed a little lost without his big brother around. He tries to pester the other dogs like he did Sunny, but they just ignore him for the most part. We have been giving him extra attention to make up for it, but it feels like he is grieving with us. I think they understand more than we realize. We miss our good boy.

I’m hoping writing about all this death will help me. The heaviness my heart has had these past months feels like a constant companion. I compartmentalize my grief, as I do with most of my emotions. It is probably not heathy, but it is how I cope. I apologize for being such a Debbie Downer, but that is who I am today. Tomorrow, I hope I am different.

Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova