the freedom I gained didn't replace what I Lost

Every night before I go to sleep, I take a few moments in my head to say goodnight to Forrest, Olaf and Bobo. I say goodnight to each of them individually and picture them in my mind, sometimes doing something that I associate with them: Forrest poking her little head out from under the couch to check on me, Bobo flopping over on his side with pure bliss, and Olaf coming over, resting his chin on the floor for a cuddle. Most nights now, that’s enough. I can picture them, say goodnight and fall asleep afterwards. Other nights, I still cry because I miss them so much, and it takes me a while to settle.

Bobo died on 29 April last year. Olaf had died four months earlier, on 27 December, and Forrest in September 2022, exactly 2 months to the date before my 50th birthday. When Bobo died, I was without bunnies for the first time in 11 years, and so much of my everyday life disappeared with him.

The bunnies were everything to me. I lived, breathed for the bunnies. I gave them so much and they gave me so much in return. Because I work from home, they were simply there throughout my day. They didn't need to be doing anything. I loved their silent presence, knowing they were nearby while I was working. Forrest was extremely nosey, and as I work from the couch to be close to them, every time I moved she would stick her little nose out as though asking, “where are you going?”

There was always somebunny there. When Dennis travelled for work, sometimes for at least a week, I had them with me. There were routines around caring for them and every evening I spent sitting with them after dinner, however there was also something much bigger that is harder to separate into individual things they gave me. I never wanted children, yet I loved mothering the bunnies. They were my children. Other people knew that part of me too. I talked about them all the time and posted about them on Facebook. People knew me as a bunny mummy and followed what Forrest, Bobo and Olaf were getting up to. When they passed, I lost a huge piece of my identity, a huge part of who I am and what I love about life.

There had also been another story running alongside our life with them, though, particularly from Dennis's perspective. Having bunnies restricted us. Without them, we would have more freedom. I never experienced the restrictions in quite the same way. We could go out for an entire day because the bunnies slept during the day anyway, and we would be home with them in the evening. We went on holidays with them when we could travel together by car. If I wanted to visit my parents in Northern Ireland, Dennis could stay home and look after them, although I usually kept those visits shorter because I missed the bunnies and experienced separation anxiety when I was away from them.

Still, I understood what Dennis meant. Without bunnies, there would be no need to think about who was looking after them. We could fly somewhere within Europe rather than needing to travel by car with them. We could decide to spend a night or two somewhere without arranging anything around the bunnies waiting at home. There was also the ordinary evening space they occupied. Dennis didn't like that I sat with them every evening after dinner. Once they were gone, I would be back on the couch with him. Somewhere in all of that was an implied life afterwards.

I don't think I had a detailed picture of what that life would look like, because I wasn't waiting for the bunnies to pass so that another life could begin. I would have kept them forever if I could. Yet once they were gone and the restrictions Dennis had felt were gone with them, I think I expected our lives to change. Perhaps we’d travel more. Perhaps there would be flights to places around Europe, more exploring together, occasional nights away because we could simply decide to go. Perhaps being back on the couch together in the evenings would bring something different between us too.

It’s been approximately sixteen months since Bobo passed. Dennis and I have spent perhaps two or three nights away together in that time. The greater freedom exists in theory. There are no bunnies at home determining when we need to return, no arrangements to make before going away, no reason we couldn't occasionally be more spontaneous. Yet our life hasn't radically changed. That’s part of what I am struggling with now, because I’m ready to have bunnies again. Dennis isn't.

If our life without them had become full of the things that supposedly weren't possible when we had them, perhaps I’d experience that differently. If we were travelling together, going away for weekends or filling that space with shared experiences, I might be able to look at what I’d given up and also see the life that had become possible because of it. Instead, there is simply a space where something I loved used to be.

I find myself thinking, “If this is going to be my life now, surely something will come into the space they've left”. That thought doesn't sit particularly comfortably with me because nothing can actually replace Forrest, Olaf and Bobo, and I don't expect anything to. Another bunny wouldn't be one of them either. They were three completely individual little beings whom I loved for who they were. Life around them was full in a particular way. There was companionship in the house. There was something to care for. There was mothering. There were the small interruptions during a working day and somebody waiting when I was alone because Dennis was away. There was an entire part of me that had somewhere to go.

Now I’m ready to have bunnies in my life again, while the person I share my life with doesn't want them. I can also feel something more complicated appearing alongside my grief: “If I'm going to have to sacrifice not having bunnies again, then I expect Dennis to make the effort to ensure my life is full with him”. I don't know yet what to do with that expectation. I know another person cannot be responsible for filling every empty space in my life, just as I know that having bunnies again wouldn’t resolve everything that feels missing. Yet it’s difficult to separate those things neatly when the reason for continuing without something I deeply want is connected to the person with whom I expected to experience the freedom that came afterwards.

Sometimes a loss changes the shape of a life in ways that aren't entirely about grief. Something ends and, eventually, you begin noticing what has and hasn't grown around the space it occupied. For women living abroad, where so much of life may already have been rebuilt around changed homes, relationships and circumstances, another significant loss can alter more than the daily routine. It can leave questions about who you are within the life that remains. Those questions don't always need an immediate answer. They’re part of what I hold space for within Personal Support sessions, particularly when something meaningful has ended and the life afterwards feels different from the one you expected to be living.

I don't know what will happen about having bunnies again. I don't know whether Dennis will change his mind, whether I will eventually accept that there won't be more, or what might come into the part of my life that still feels empty without them. I only know that sixteen months after Bobo passed, the freedom I was supposed to have without the bunnies doesn't feel like much of a replacement for the life I had with them.

And then night comes. I lie down, say goodnight to Forrest, goodnight to Olaf and goodnight to Bobo, picturing each of them for a few moments before I fall asleep. They’re no longer part of the life happening around me. Yet they’re still very much part of mine.