I have been repeating the following to myself routinely throughout the past days;
"There is nothing more precious than this day...."
I play this on a loop because my breath can't catch my fears for long enough.
Every moment of each recent day has been an egg-shelled goosestep frenzy. A holding of my breath as I cross my fingers and mutter a silent prayer for a reprieve,,, if only for another day. All the while knowing that my luck, and the mercy from above, is on short supply from an endless demand. Fate always wins. The house always calls its players home from rehearsal. I am not fooling anyone, surely not myself. The one who witnesses, awaits, and too often yields that fateful blow. No, surely I will not be provided mercy from deaths ever tightening grip.
I know this, and yet I, like everyone else, sit here pray-fully begging for another skipped turn.
Just one more hour, a sunrise, a day, perhaps the upcoming holiday, to be given with my dear boy.
His name is Charleston. He's 13. All grey faced and creaky. Bones jutting from a spine that used to propel him like an antelope. Stiff gaited and slow. He wags a slow paddle when you gleam a big "hello!" and whisper into his silken silvered ears, "I love you." He is still there. 100% mentally intact. Feeling all of his wants, his impatient protests, and the pull of a cancer that is slowly ingesting him from the inside. He moans and flops, and reminds me to beg harder. Plead more profoundly. And decide where that line is that I always propose to stop at. The veterinarians compass is full of tricks. Tools of the trade to barter with the invisible veil of fate calling him home.
Today was a night of sleepless worry. He did well yesterday. We enjoyed a full day at home, uninterrupted. Last night he paid the price for not sleeping the day away as is his usual when I work 12 hours. He tossed, turned, moaned, whimpered, and panted in small short blows to a chest that has been compressed by fluid from a tumor leaking inside his heart.
He sleeps at the foot of my bed. His dry, violent coughs jolt me out of half slumber to try to assuage the beast that rises and screams within his ribs. It was a night that brought an awakening that we couldn't do this another day. It was just too cruel to hear him pant so fast and furious and still not be able to catch a good breath.
When my husband awoke we talked about the logistics of putting him to sleep on his bed. In just a few moments he could be at peace. I could give him that. For all the pain it brought to me. I cried to my husband hating this part of my toolbox as much as I do. I truly despise this one last act. It is the most difficult thing I force myself to do.
Why do I euthanize my own?
It comes down to them. My beloved pets knowing that they left with me confessing the depth of my gratitude into their ears, their being. That I loved them beyond measure and I wouldn't let anyone else tell them for me at this last moment together. It makes me nauseous. Physically ill. I cannot eat, or drink, or let myself be forgiven for my failure.
I draw imaginary lines to not cross.
Today it was oxygen and thoracocentesis. I was not going to put him in a caged oxygen chamber, alone. Breathe better my boy, but do it surrounded by stainless steel and a plexiglass door fogged with panting pleas to be freed.
Chest tap. Drain the fluid compressing his lungs and let the air back in. Why when the tumor is just going to replace it? Maybe it will take days, or weeks (fingers crossed), but, it will come back.
Nope we were going to be grateful for our time together and say our goodbyes.
The cancer is in his heart, his bladder and his spleen. Nasty invasive fucker holed up in the heart. The one place I can't put my surgically gloved finger on and cut out. Tentacled, maniacal, bastard.
The sun came up. The windows filled with light. The puppies made their morning ritual jump up into our bed and kissed our hands. They wag and wiggle and nuzzle into the pillows. It is their subtle "good morning!" cadence. Charlie usually starts to stir after the puppies pop in. A long exaggerated guttery yawn. A shaking of his head and church bell collar charm cockatoo. He then stretches cat-like on the carpet and trots to the bedroom door for his chaperoned walk outside.
This morning, after a full night of fitful moans he did just this.
Walked outside, peed on the holly and trotted for his morning stroll.
He walked into the kitchen, sat on his bed, and ate the steak left over from last nights green-mile dinner.
I smiled a tear-choked nod to my husband and said,
"I'm calling the troops at the clinic and we are trying different meds and a chest tap."
And so goes the line. Nudged to the corner. Redefined in another day.
The words rattle in my subconscious. The pearls passed down from the weathered vets who taught me to live by these words;
"Let no patient die without the benefit of steroids, analgesics, and an appetite stimulant."
That was the recipe for todays reprieve. And a jigger of chest tap muddler.
and to the wise words of my fellow vet friend,, because it is true that we lose our "doctor brain" when it is our own pet, sedate for sleep. We all need it, and, that mercy comes without a guilty hangover.
For those who understand. For those who still grieve with loss. And for those pet parents who have walked down this road before. You are not alone. You gave a soul a life I know they are blessed and grateful to have had. Every dog should be as lucky as Charlie is. He was loved, he remains loved eternally. What more could one ask for?
Parting wisdom; Saying goodbye never gets easier. What does make it survivable is only knowing that there are lives ahead of me to take care of, and a sense of knowing I can add his footsteps to mine on the other side of this. My life is infinitely richer for having shared the last 13 plus with him.
I will miss you Charlie, everyday.
