SWEET OLD GIRL

A very sweet old lady I knew died last Saturday.

The date was pre-arranged.  She had her family around her and she was happy (if a little bit tired) after a spectacular sunny day spent with her favorite people in her favorite place.  The place they would sprinkle her ashes when she was gone.

She had many of the ailments associated with her age group: Cataracts, hearing loss, arthritis, lowered stamina. Their normalcy did not lessen their difficulty or her suffering.  It was fairly certain that she had cancer although it was never officially diagnosed because, at her age, chemo and radiation were out of the question.  Really – why go through that at 84?  That would only add to her suffering. She needed help getting around and incontinence was beginning to rear its ugly head.  The only thing ahead of her – and it was probably looming close – was more pain and emergency intervention. 

And so, on Friday night, her family threw her a going away party.  30 people attended throughout the course of the night and many more sent regrets and condolences and love.  There was food and drink and laughter and tears and hugging and philosophical talk of death and passing and life.  The guest of honor basked in the limelight and visibly perked up from all the attention. 

The next day was spent sitting on the beach, smelling the salty sweet air and water.  Her family spared no kisses, no hugs, no tears.  The sunshine was clouded only by the knowledge that time was running out, by their resignation to the dreaded moment when the medication would be administered that would cause her heart to stop and end her life on this earth.  Knowing that this was the last time they would be together in this way made everything sharper, clearer, brighter.  And so, so bittersweet. 

Surrounded by her family who by then could not control the tears, the doctor explained the procedure and what to expect.  They placed their hands on their beloved and cooed loving words to her as the doctor administered the first injection, a sedative, which caused her to relax in a way they had not seen in many years.  She was still conscious and so at this point, the family said goodbye. 

The second medication was an anesthetic that rendered her unconscious.  And then finally, when the family was ready and had taken a deep breath, the final injection – a barbiturate that stopped her heart.  Three, four breaths later, she was gone.  Surrounded by love.  Peaceful, pain free, soul free. 

It was a beautiful death and one which this family will never look back on with regret.

This family is my family.  This old lady was our dog.  She was 12.  And she was the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.  Our little Zen Buddha dog.  Our spirit guide.  And, as hard as it was, it was equally right.

I cried for days afterward – still do - and when I apologized to my daughters for my lack of strength, one of them wisely told me, “Mom.  This IS strength.  Having done something that was so hard, but that you knew was right, is strength.  Your tears prove that you were strong, moving ahead at a time when it would have been easy to say, ‘no, I can’t let her go yet.’”

Such wisdom from a young woman. 

My other daughter reminded us that just before the injections began, Lovey came in turn to each one of us, seated in a semi-circle around her bed, and nuzzled us, face to face.  It was as though she was saying, “It’s okay. I’m fine and thank you for doing this.”  Probably not – she may have been asking what the heck they are going to do to her THIS time.  But we each had a last one-on-one before she lay down on her bed and extended her leg.

The wisdom and insight of my other daughter added more beauty to the experience.

Our animals play a huge role in our lives. They become extensions of ourselves because of the emotions and reactions we assign to them. We assume the finest qualities in them because they inspire the best in us.  They seem to understand us better than anyone else and they help us connect with our best and truest self.  They love us without taking anything.  They say so much more in their silence than we do with all our words.  They teach us every day about love and acceptance and trust and forgiveness and honesty and living in the moment.  They take nothing and leave everything when they die.  Not material things, but the most important things.

And so, when they die, a part of us dies and that is one reason the grief is so deep.

To honor the memory of our beloved pet, we are trying to be happy, not to mourn for too long, to accept what has happened and to encourage others who are on the cusp to do the right thing.

Easier said than done.  But harder not to do it. For the suffering creature you are responsible for, this is the last and greatest act of love.  And the magnitude of your grief will be proof of that.

As my good friend, Joni once said,  “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”