Death in the Family
19 Mar 2020Today’s prompt: “A death in the family”
Maybe a year ago, if I saw this writing topic, I would’ve written something snarky about the storyline of that name in Batman, and what it says about humankind that when called upon to choose whether Jason Todd would live or die, that readers of the comic overwhelming called the 900 number to say Robin should die, and how probably it’s people like that who decided to murder you in a horrible manner. Let’s say they trapped you in a bear trap and drowned you in a giant vat of mayonnaise. That sounds about right.
But I’ve recently been through two deaths in my family. I’ve already written in this blog about the day my Grandma died. But last Friday, the day I euthanized my dog Sarah, I couldn’t bear to write about it.
In many ways, I still can’t. Not without crying, anyway.
We all knew my dog was getting older. That she was arthritic and usually couldn’t get up on her own any more. I was out one night with friends who had dog-sat for her before, and we did the math. Sarah was 18. One of my friends, Steve, offered that when the day came that Sarah had to be put down, he was willing to be there with me. Having a friend who will offer to do that for you, unasked? That’s how you know you’ve done something right with your life.
The very next week, Sarah was diagnosed with bone cancer.
With a younger dog, you’d amputate. With an older, arthritic dog, all you can really do is make them as comfortable as you can for as long as you can.
My vet and I kept an eye on her quality of life. We gave her painkillers and other medications. I took her to weekly vet visits. And I did what I could to celebrate her last days. I fed her special foods. Another friend, Nikki, even helped me make a peanut butter cake for her. But eventually, on one visit to the vet, when she tried to bite a vet technician who had accidentally touched a painful area, we realized she was in too much pain.
I spent another week with her building memories. Hanging out with her in the garden. Quilting together. Sharing cheeseburgers. And then I made the hardest phone call I’ve ever made in my life. I called an in-home euthanasia service.
A vet and her assistant came to my house. My friend Steve and my parents were there. The vet and vet tech lit a candle, talked through the whole process with me, sedated Sarah, and then gave her an overdose. Sarah was breathing hard near the end, or maybe that was me. And then the sedative hit, and her face completely relaxed. And then she was gone. It was so peaceful. And I just started sobbing. Steve and my parents held me.
While I paid the vet, my parents put a towel under Sarah’s body. My dad and I picked up the ends of the towel and carried the body to the trunk of my parents’ car so my folks could bury her in their pasture. Steve asked if I wanted him to do it, but I said no. I felt like I needed the finality somehow. On the way to the car, her front paw flopped out of the towel and I almost broke down again. But we made it. We laid Sarah in the trunk. I stroked her fur one last time and said goodbye.
I will never be able to hear “Sara” by Jefferson Starship again without tearing up. No time is a good time for goodbye.