I read something this weekend that made me cry. Now, it's not that this is so very unusual. In the right mindset, even Spongebob Squarepants can make me verklempt. But this article got me in the gut, because it expressed precisely what I am feeling in this season of my life. Perfectly--the laughter and the tears.
It's a My Turn essay by Anna Quindlen, who is one of the Last Word columnists for Newsweek. I generally love her stuff, but she knocked this one right out of the park. If you are a dog lover, please read it here. If you are not a dog lover, don't bother, since you will not understand.
Quindlen is nursing a 15-year-old dog through what we assume are its last days. Her dog, Beau, is nearly blind and deaf, prone to long moments of forgetting who and where he is. (Yes, elderly dogs do that too, just like elderly people. Who knew?) She gives him his meds and cleans up his accidents and props him upright when his unreliable back legs start splaying out underneath him.
And for the last few years, that's precisely what we've been doing too. Our once-indefatigable cocker spaniel, Halilah, has been slowly failing for ages. First it was the heart problems, for which she takes daily medication; the vet told us last July that she was nearing the end. Our once-obese and gluttonous spaniel, who used to dig into the garbage at every opportunity, had lost a third of her body weight and had to be coaxed into eating. We were amazed that she made it to Cincinnati with us for the move. And then it was her kidneys, which the new Ohio vet told me in September were failing fast. And yet she hung on. We were astonished that she made it to Christmas. She got a reeeeally nice dog treat that day.
And then one horrible day in early March, I was in my office on the second floor and I could hear her wheezing in the kitchen. I rushed down to find that she'd gotten stuck under a chair and couldn't get out. She was in some respiratory distress. When I took her to the vet, the prognosis was grim: we were in hospice, with no more than two weeks to go. We needed "to make some decisions." We needed to say good-bye.
My dear, we're still good-byeing. That was six weeks ago. If Halilah weren't entirely deaf I would swear she heard the vet and decided right then and there to prove the doctor wrong. She began eating again the very next day. She's still thin as a rail, but happy to be here and in no apparent pain other than her perpetual stiffness.
If she makes it to July, it'll be her Sweet Sixteen. But for the last year, I've been grateful for each morning that I go downstairs and find her still breathing. It is enough. Each morning I dispense the meds and clean up the diarrhea, reassuring Halilah that she is still a good dog; I know she couldn't help it. I carry her up and down the stairs to go outside. I lay down a fresh bed for her by the back door. Her bed is made out of clean old towels, which carry a wallop of emotion in themselves. Just as Halilah was a new dog to us when we were first married, these were our wedding towels way back in 1991. (We received 14 sets. What can I say? I guess they ship well.) So I lay down the tattered, well-loved towels and I muse about the passage of time. I don't know where it's gone.
It all feels precious to me. Every bath, every haircut I give Halilah may be the last one, so I make sure to cuddle her extra close. She is not going to be with us much longer, despite all the times she has beaten the odds. Soon enough, she'll be off chasing squirrels where the best dogs go. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to bear it, the loss of this shadow who has been a constant and faithful companion all these years. But I'm going to be ever grateful for the love she has showered on our family. Making her comfortable in these latter days doesn't feel like much of a payback, to be honest, but it's what I can do.
