I’m losing my best friend, slowly, one day at a time. She’s dying. I don’t know how long it’s going to take - I’ve thought we were close to the end several times now, and each time, she stays. She’s stayed so much longer than I ever dared to hope for. But now, every day is difficult. Every day is a lesson in patience, and a deepening of the practice of staying present for what feels like some of the hardest emotions of my life.
Sometimes I’m bone-tired, from being up way past midnight trying to sort out why she’s restless, what she needs. Night after night, starting around 10:00, I watch as she wriggles and writhes on the ground, using her front paws to try and rotate or turn over, despite a complete lack of control over her back legs and hips. I listen to her pant, from a thirst that seems insatiable at times, and the effort of moving her sore, tired body just a few inches. I watch her struggle to stand, to hobble over to the top of the stairs, to sit without collapsing while she waits for me to stop whatever I’m doing and come help. I pick her up by the handles of the harness she wears all the time these days, and carry her dead weight down the stairs. I lift her back end up as she walks, to reduce the effort. I let her pace around outside, looking for a spot to pee, continuing to hold her hips up while she does her business. I guide her back inside, and she lies down for a little while as I try to decide what to do - stay where we are, on the bottom of our 3-story condo, knowing she’ll cry if I leave her alone down there, or carry her back up the stairs to the main living area, knowing the entire cycle will repeat - maybe in twenty minutes, maybe in five.
We do this, over and over for hours, until she finally caves to her fatigue. Sometimes when we go outside, she does nothing. But I’ve learned that I have to take her anyway. She’s still in charge, this old girl. She may not have much mobility left, but she’s always known what she wants. But these days, I don’t know anymore. We used to be so in sync, and it’s the scariest and hardest thing in the world, not knowing what it is she needs to feel better, to relax and rest. I don’t know if she’s in pain, or if she’s restless (it’s both). I don’t know if she’s bored or lonely (probably both). I don’t know if she wants to be here anymore - but every time I feed her, she eats. Every time we go outside, she does her business. And every time I talk to her, she looks up at me, waiting for scritches. She still tries to come to me, to stay closeby.
When she needs something, and I don’t know what that something is, it feels like a failure. And as this drags on across the days and weeks and months, it’s hard to feel like a failure every single day. And on top of the guilt and frustration, I feel like my heart is breaking, but in the slowest slow motion of all time. I’m not ready to say goodbye, and I can’t tell if she is or not. Every instinct in my body tells me that she’ll let me know - but the anxiety is so thick, waiting for this inevitable horrible day that’s coming for us, and worrying that I’ll miss her signal.
And sometimes, I run out of patience. Two nights ago, I noticed I was speaking to her less sweetly and softly. In fact, I was curt with her. I raised my voice - to what end? It’s not her fault, and she can’t yell back. I was handling her less carefully - I set her down too roughly and she squealed in discomfort, which somehow only made me more angry - at myself, at her, at the situation, at the universe for creating these perfect animals to be our babies, our friends, our companions that will always die before we do - and at our own hand. Anger at having to be the one to decide which day will be her last. Anger turning to rage, as I stomped upstairs at 11:30pm and woke my partner, just so I could yell and cry and rage about the difficulty and unfairness of it all for a few moments. So I could let it out in a way that wouldn’t cause her any harm.
It’s hard to forgive myself for those moments, even though they’re rare, when I lose my temper. She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves nothing but the absolute best love and care I can give her. I know that I have to rest. I know that I have to take a break. Next weekend, we’re spending President’s Day weekend on Lummi Island with some friends, leaving my two dogs in the care of a wonderful friend who I trust. But I know I’ll worry about her. I’ll worry about our pet-sitter and feel guilty knowing that I’m asking her to take over for me when things are incredibly hard, when watching these dogs won’t be easy. I know that I’m paying her, and that it’s okay to ask for help - but it’s still hard. A part of me doesn’t want to miss a single day with her, but I can hear my body telling me, I have to take a break from what is essentially hospice care. I have to.
I don’t have a tidy ending or a deep thought to share at the end of these words today. I just knew I had to share them. I have to let them flow through me along with my breath, and I have to feel everything that I’m feeling. It’s easier to do that in the company of others who have loved and lost. If you have lost your best friend, or you are in the thick of the process, I see you. I feel your heartache so deeply, and I love you. Let’s try and trust that we deserve rest. Let’s try and trust that our beloved animals are going to let us know when it’s time. Let’s trust that the memories will stay with us forever, and never fade - that our friends never truly leave us, that we carry them forever in our hearts, and they stay right by our sides in spirit. That every time we breathe, we will breathe them in, even after they’re gone.
xo,