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Tripawds Three Legged Dog and Cat Forums Coping with Loss The Heartbreak We Choose

The Heartbreak We Choose

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izzysmomma

Durham, NC

Member Since:
16 September 2015

Offline

12 June 2017 - 1:47 pm

A former colleague sent me this and I thought I should share it here. She has watched me slowly, begrudgingly and unwillingly prepare for the inevitable parting of ways I will have to make with my sweet, wonderful Izzy. She is a dog lover, too, and knows the pain of loving a pet. I was planning to save this to post when Izzy's final days were closer (however, as we all know, one never really knows for sure when that will present itself), but with so many of our beloved friends coping with that final transition, I thought I would go on and post it now. Here is the link http://www.huff.....3158f2d242 but the text appears below:

Supporting a pet through the end of life is like caring for a baby. Relentless needs are constantly evolving, feeding and pooping take front and center, and sleep is disrupted. Both situations are heavy with love and sacrifice, but they move our hearts in opposite directions. While a newborn promises a long future of easier days together, an old, fading dog reminds us that the hardest part is yet to come.

Sometime after line-drives became gentle lobs, but long before the tennis ball was fully retired, there unfolded a gradual progression of bent rules and new privileges. Most of the earliest changes were unconscious, like “forgetting” to make him sit for a treat. Others were more deliberate, like finally granting his quest to sit under the dinner table. Eventually, the allowances became downright shameless, like smuggling meatballs from my plate.

In hindsight, I wasn’t merely “spoiling” my old boy; I was augmenting his quality of life.

For a long while, Max’s declining comfort and mobility were easily accommodated. When his weak joints refused to jump, we lifted him into the car. When stiffness became pain, we added a second medication to his anti-inflammatory. And when family walks became unmanageable, we pulled him along in a wagon. Long gone was his former exuberance, but he was content. Family life marched on.

Now, suddenly it seems, Max is elderly... and his discomfort exceeds my ability to compensate for it.

Good days are far outnumbered by not-so-good ones. He sleeps all afternoon and becomes restless at night. Finely-attuned to the sounds of pacing and panting, I awake frequently to offer water, turn on the fan, or escort him outside. The growing inconveniences are a labor of love; I would continue them indefinitely… if they weren’t beginning to fail.

I would do anything for him, and it’s almost time to prove it.

Looking back to his adoption, my dog is the only thing that hasn’t changed since 2005. Twelve years, two marriages, six moves and three states… Max stood with me through it all, steady by my side, as the world evolved around us.

Through divorce, job loss, financial struggle, miscarriage—all my darkest days—Max was there with his quiet, absolute presence. He stayed up all night with my insomnia, waited outside the bathroom for my stomach flu, and spent long days in bed with my broken heart.

Through new love, remarriage, pregnancy, motherhood—all my greatest joys—Max was here with pure, undoubting encouragement. He fell for the man who makes me happy, rested his muzzle on my expectant belly and accepted my son, like a slow, patient grandpa.

For 4,254 days, he has been my constant, unwavering companion. My home.

The embodiment of devotion, Max wins my victories, loses my defeats, and loves my soul mates. Unbridled by the concept of death, he has no doubt that our duo is forever. I’m glad he’s unaware of the wretched truth, because I’m not evaluating his quality of life; I am his quality of life. But I’m rapidly declining under the weight of this decision.

It’s often said that a dog is ready to die when he’s just “not himself” anymore, but too many things remain untouched by the aging process: He still does the flappity-ear shake to announce himself into a room, and still snouts along the couch in celebration of an especially good meal. Stroking his whiskers still makes him yawn and, sitting with him now, I still hear the familiar thump of his sleep-wagging tail.

With or without his quirks, Max could never seem completely un-himself, when loving me is so much of who he is. I think “readiness” is better measured by what Dr. Jessica Vogelsang described as the “...intuitive emotional bond that develops between owner and pet when they are signaling that they are done.”

I’m not making this decision alone; we’ve been partnering toward this for a long time. We’ve brought each other so much comfort over the years, it feels wrong to write full-blown misery into the end of our story. I don’t want our goodbye to be an emergency. I don’t have to wait until he stops eating or falls down the stairs. Rather than waiting in distress for some moment of anguished certainty, I can trust myself half as much as Max does, and drop this yo-yo of self doubt.

I can let him go because I feel, like no one else can, that it’s time.

So tomorrow I’ll ask the vet to make a house call and I’ll spend Max’s last few hours alone with him. I’ll give him an extra pain pill, cuddle up to a movie and feed him salami. Dignity intact, he will greet Dr. Hamilton enthusiastically while I breathe through the sickening anxiety. I’ll play the song that feels like “ours,” and hold him as he drifts into a barbiturate overdose. With the rise and fall of his last breaths, I’ll thank him for being such a fine boy… and my heart will shatter into a thousand pieces when he dies in my arms.

I’ll see the doctor out, rush back to Max’s body, and have the complete meltdown I’ve been resisting for months. The deadness will startle me when he doesn’t lift his white muzzle to comfort me. I’ll sob into his neck and, for the last time, feel his tear-soaked fur against my face. Lying still with him, I’ll collect myself enough to call the rest of our family home. My son and our other dog will kiss him goodbye, my husband will carry his body to the crematory, and I will never see him again.

Every cell in my body recoils from the thought of ending my best friend’s life; I want to throw myself on the floor in kicking, screaming refusal. I feel like I’m being forced to overcome my own survival instinct: volunteering to walk the emotional plank. I’m absolutely terrified, but determined not to let fear steal the end of our togetherness. There’s still a little time to lean into each other.

So tonight I will trim his nails one more time, brush his soft black fur, and tie on the handsome blue bandana. I will sit with him all night and try to keep him comfortable, reflecting on his life lived so fully—so faithfully—for me. I’ll speak softly of our adventures, from the bottom of Death Valley to the top of a city skyscraper, and of how deeply he savored simple pleasures: chasing rabbits, barking at the mailman, and basking in the sun. I’ll talk about the way he grumbled out of bed to accompany every late night newborn feeding, warming my feet at the rocking chair. I’ll remind him that, as soon as that baby could talk, he declared that “Max is a happiness dog!”

He was right. You’re a good boy, a great friend, and the best kind of happiness. I’m going to miss you for the rest of my life.

Several Weeks Later...

The next day went almost exactly as imagined. It was agonizing, but also full of love and importance. Grieving Max is painful, to be sure, but it feels more natural than preparing to lose him. Anticipating the loss was desperate, agitated dread; a blinking, neon orange. Mourning him is sorrowful, empty throbbing; a muted storm cloud gray.

The grief comes in waves, swelling up from a thousand daily reminders. It sneaks up and bears down when my three-year-old asks, “Mama, is Max alone?” I know time will blunt the edges but, as life resumes its normal ups and downs, the ache to hug my dog is still sharp. I’m learning how to be sad without him; navigating without my North Star.

I’ve lost so much more than a pet, I miss his love: the kind you can’t get (and wouldn’t want) from a human relationship. It would be weird if my husband burst into crazed elation upon my return from the grocery store, but it sure felt good when Max did it.

No complicated relationship dynamics, no mixed emotions… nothing but the pure love of a dog is worth the heartbreak we choose by loving them back. So I’ll take the winter to heal, and then I’ll choose it again. I’ll adopt another dog—again and again—knowing that each will break my heart.

But none as deeply as Max.

Momma to the world's most beautiful American Bulldog, Izzy!! Lost her front leg to OSA 9/18/15. Diagnosed w MCT in June 2016. Celebrated her 1 year ampuversary with knee surgery on 9/18/16! MCT recurrence in Dec 2016. Happy & hungry til nearly 14, earning her wings on 7/31/17.

teri

Santa Fe, NM

Member Since:
19 July 2016

Offline

12 June 2017 - 2:59 pm

Gee, I've gone two whole days without crying, thanks Amy.

Really beautiful, all of it, and so true. It is the final gift we can give them. "... determined not to let the fear steal the end of our togetherness" - I do think it is so much better to make the decision, however much self-doubt is involved, and not let it turn into a crisis of ER vets and trauma drama. A peaceful transition with as much spoiling as can be piled on has a lot to be said for it. Not that I wasn't praying the entire night before I called the vet that Isa would simply pass peacefully in her sleep. I'm not as brave as I wish I was. But I did it for her. I owed it to her.

And this is all the more poignant since I just adopted a new fur baby over the weekend. Makes me wonder what I was thinking. I don't know if I will survive the loss of another dog however far in the future. Okay, I know what I was thinking -- life without a dog is not much of a life.

Hugs!

Teri and Angel Isa

Right rear leg amp 7/12/16 due to OSA. Metastatic lesion on her right front leg, January 2017. Joined the Winter Warriors January 19, 2017. Run free my sweet girl.

mom2shelby

Los Angeles, CA

Member Since:
13 June 2013

Offline

12 June 2017 - 3:22 pm

OMG ... that took me right back ...over three years ago when I said goodbye (for now) to my beloved Shelby. And while I have Jasper now ... the moments of watching Shelby age are still very present with me.

And being older and wiser now ... and perhaps a lot less Pollyanna (I never really thought Shelby and my story would end) ... I know that with each birthday and each day, Jasper gets a bit older. And while she is young at 4 ... days that she prefers sleep to play make me sad.

But I still get those days of FULL puppy ... full stuffing explosion all over the home.

Thank you for sharing ... I, too, hope that Izzy's journey has many, many, many more months and days. And this is indeed timely with the passing of some of our beloved warriors.

XOXO heart

alison with Spirit Shelby in her heart (and little Jasper too)

PS - I could have written that - while never married Shelby was with me through 4 moves and 2 horrendous break-ups; licking the tears as they streamed down my face.

Shelby Lynne; Jack Russell/Shiba Inu mix. Proud member of the April Angels of 2014.

October 15, 2000 to April 8, 2014

Our story: Broke rear leg in June 2013 - non-conclusive results for cancer so leg was plated and pinned. Enlarged spleen in September 2013 and had it removed and was diagnosed with Hemangiosarcoma and started chemotherapy. Became a Tripawd January 8th, 2014 and definitive Hemangiosarcoma diagnosis. Three major surgeries in 7 months and Shelby took them all like a champ only to lose her battle to cancer in her brain. We had 8 amazing extra months together and no regrets. #shelbystrong #loveofmylife

benny55

Virginia

Member Since:
22 February 2013

Offline

12 June 2017 - 3:26 pm

Speechless...and balling like a baby.

Eloquently written from a divine and beautiful place in her heart where words don't exist, but love and compassion certainly do reside. heart

Yes, this is helpful to everyone. Whether we experienced the perceived "loss" recently" or years ago, or experiencing it now, or in the future.......this will help bring comfort.

So thank you for sharing this Amy. heart Very thoughtful. Much needed now with so many current "transitions".

Dogs do, indeed, know the "duo is forever". Some day we humans may gain the wisdom of our dogs heart

With love

Sally and Alumni Happy Hannah and Merry Myrtle and Frankie too!

Happy Hannah had a glorious additional bonus time of over one yr & two months after amp for osteo! She made me laugh everyday! Joined April's Angels after send off meal of steak, ice cream, M&Ms & deer poop!

Brenda

Member Since:
20 March 2017

Offline

12 June 2017 - 3:46 pm

Sobbing. So beautifully captured. My Bella is laying next to me as I write this and we are coming off a rough few days. Our vet was on standby today, but we canceled. When I got home Bella was up wagging her tail and so happy. I gave her a cup of vanilla ice cream and her eyes just lit up. It's not time. For today...right now, we are loving life.

travisray

Member Since:
13 March 2010

Offline

12 June 2017 - 6:58 pm

O.M.D. Thank you SO much for posting this. Sobs too here, the loss of my heart dog Rosa over 11 years ago felt again, like it was only yesterday. Such eloquence. She captures so much of our experience, I know all of us here who have lost a pet can relate to every word. And I hope that those who are facing loss will take comfort from this post as well 💔💔💔

linda8115

Schofield, WI

Member Since:
13 August 2015

Offline

12 June 2017 - 8:43 pm

Thank you Amy for posting this! Anyone who has ever had a dog they loved or love will see themselves in this and shed copious amounts of tears as they read these true words. So needed especially today for myself and I know others. Now go give that "pink princess" Izzy some extra loving.....and cuddles......and spoiling.....well....you get my drift.....