Several
days ago I mentioned that Abbie had her last Chemo treatment this last
Friday. Although this is not the hardest
road I have ever traveled, it’s pretty close, something you can never
experience and I thought I understood, but really didn’t. Nearly 6 years ago, I was contacted by a
person who had just lost their Border Collie.
I never met him but remember the words he said. “I knew you would
understand” and that’s why he called. I
remember the conversation well and it was sad to hear the pain he was in and my
heart broke for him and his dog. I hurt for him and invited him to share his story on our Rainbow Bridge web page which
he did. It is a wonderful story and told
from his heart. His dog lived a
wonderful life and was his companion till the end. He wrote… “She left us this week while curled
into my chest out in her backyard. The birds were singing, the squirrels were
chattering, she could hear all of the sounds that had made that place what it
meant to her.” His dog’s name was “Abby” and she died from the same disease my
Abbie has. Little did I know we were
traveling down that same road…
As
the days and weeks have gone by since Abbie was diagnosed, at first she was
eager to go with me and a ride in the car, not really knowing where she was
going but always finding out it wasn’t very pleasant in the end. Soon she didn’t like the car rides and would
lay on the back seat looking at me or put her chin on my shoulder as I drove
licking my face. As hard as I tried to
cheer her up, she would lick my face and give out a sigh. I knew she didn’t want to be in the car much
less go for her treatment and as the sessions were coming to an end, she wouldn’t walk to
the door at the clinic but looked at me as if saying “please” and once inside,
she would stand at the glass door and look outside and then back at me again
saying “please” again. The hardest part
of the whole trip was when the technician would take her leash and walk out
with her for her treatment. She always
stopped at the door, looking at me with her black eyes and pleading for me to
help her.
To
go through this is bittersweet for us.
Although we have extended her life, at times I feel I am losing the
closeness I once had because she sees “me” as the person who is making her
uncomfortable and giving her one of many pills she is on but she always sleeps
at my head in bed and comes to my lap when we sit. Many times, I have said to her “I’m trying to
save you, please understand” and hug her tight.
Just like our kids, we do these things to make their life better,
knowing the end may justify the means doesn’t means it any easier. I try to make their life better from
knowledge or experience but I also feel like a “slug” for doing it, knowing its
necessary, hopping they understand. In
Abbie’s case probably not because she can’t understand but I wish she
could, maybe someday she will.
At
least the Chemo is over but we’ll have several days of sickness and hopefully
she will recover and play, run and jump in the water with everyone. Something she misses so much and I always
said if we could have one summer to jump and play in the lake we have won. We love them so much it hurts…
Although
my Facebook time is limited by choice, I’m there is spirit, when this kind of things
happens to pets or family, priorities seem to change a little and in truth, I
don’t let many know how things are because I don’t want anyone to hurt or feel
like me, even if just reading about it.
As
Winston Churchill once said “Now this is not the end. It is not even the
beginning of the end. But it is,
perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Time
will tell… Ken
