Why Loving My Dogs Feels Like Preparing for Heartbreak
How the trip of a lifetime resulted in a mid-flight panic attack
Welcome to Am I Cured Yet? I’m so happy you’re here—my sincere thanks for hanging out in my little corner of the internet.
Today, I’m writing about the panic that struck me mid-flight to Hong Kong, where I found myself consumed by thoughts of my dogs dying. This post is part of a series, Where Death Meets Life, in which I explore how confronting mortality can inspire us to live more fully.
Picture this: I’m flying to Hong Kong for a long-awaited, first-time trip to the country my husband grew up in.
I’ve saved enough credit card points for a good seat, made exciting plans to explore the city, and am looking forward to the adventure of a lifetime.
There’s just one problem.
I can’t stop thinking about my dogs dying.
To be clear, there’s nothing currently wrong with my dogs. Flynn and Suki are healthy and spoilt, three years and one year old, respectively. Their biggest problem in life is that I insist on spending my day writing at my desk, which they find unforgivably dull. I’ve tried telling them I’m spinning gold over here, but they don’t care. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.
Around me, passengers were bundled under blankets, the soft glow of their screens fading as they drifted off. The hum of the engines seemed louder in the stillness, amplifying the noise in my mind. I’d just finished watching a shockingly silly horror film—Night Swim—and as if the ludicrous plot hadn’t rattled me enough, now I was mentally planning my dogs’ cremations at cruising altitude.
I tried to fall asleep, but every time I came close to dozing off, I’d jolt awake with a start, my body apparently deciding that the best thing for me wasn’t a nap but a surge of adrenaline.
By now, my mind was imagining tandem horrors: instead of the dogs dying, what if my husband and I both died in a fiery plane crash, leaving our beloved pets alone and unprotected?
I’ve never really been afraid of flying, trusting that the plane will likely land again after a few inexplicable hours in mid-air. But on this particular flight, I felt acutely afraid.
I hadn’t left a plan in place for this scenario.
If we kicked the bucket, how would the dog boarder even know? How would ANYONE know?
Who in our adoptive country would even want to take our dogs? Could my parents or brothers somehow have them shipped back to England? Wouldn’t that terrify them? Did I even remember to tell the boarding staff about Suki’s fear of water bottles? Would Flynn, my three-year-old “velcro dog,” understand I wasn’t abandoning him? Or would he wait by the door forever, confused and heartbroken?
On and on, my thoughts went. If you have anxiety, I’m sure you know the feeling well. It’s like a runaway train of awful scenarios.
I opened my phone to distract myself, finding an unread email in my inbox. It was—I kid you not—an email from Quora about the gutting grief of losing a pet.
If I weren’t struggling to breathe, I would’ve laughed.
I didn’t have my Ativan with me, and even if I did, I’d had a few celebratory glasses of champagne. The plane was dark and dead quiet—most people were fast asleep. Despite my panic, I wasn’t disturbing anyone. Years of dealing with anxiety have allowed me to develop the unique skill of panicking very quietly lest my terror disturb anyone else.
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, with the gentle hum of the plane and the dark expanse of sky beneath me, I felt that familiar, bittersweet melancholy—a reminder that all the best parts of life come with the possibility of loss.
It’s funny, isn’t it? We put so much of our hearts into creatures we know we’ll likely outlive—as if we’re signing up willingly for future heartbreak.
Flynn and Suki aren’t just dogs; they’ve seen me through cancer treatment, grief and depression. They’re the children I chose when I couldn’t have babies, the perfect writer’s companions, my fluffy best friends. I rely on them for emotional support, knowing full well that their absence will one day burn two more holes in my heart.
Is that what real love is? I wondered. Finding the courage to wear my fragile heart on my sleeve, to keep loving even knowing that loss is always waiting for me?
As the plane forged on, I pictured my dogs in my mind: their silliness, unbridled excitement, and endless capacity for love. It was in remembering their joy that I finally found calm.
I’ve faced so many losses in life, but with each one, I choose to keep loving—because to love is to live, even in the face of inevitable heartbreak.
Have you ever found yourself confronting unexpected fears during moments of uncertainty? I’d love to hear your reflections! And if this is your first time here, I’d be honoured if you considered subscribing. You can expect always thoughtful, occasionally funny, weekly essays about health, happiness and mortality.
I’ll be back next week—with more to share. Until then, thank you for reading, and take good care of yourself :)
Emma
xx