3rd March 2008

Letting Go

Learning to let go is not an easy process, especially when love is involved.  I’ve had the luck or fate of loving my share of animals, and in this case a particular dog and cat.  Misha & Max, kitty cat brothers, were adopted 17 years ago.  Cody was adopted nearly 13 years ago, and Monroe, found by Cody, was adopted by all of us nearly five years ago.  All have been loved dearly, but more importantly they have given me so much in return.  In the past month, I’ve had to say goodbye to two of them. 

I have known for the better part of a year that I was on borrowed time with the older animals.  Misha and Max have suffered from a variety of ailments and incidents in the past two years, but they have hung in there under remarkable circumstances.  Cody, she knowingly suffered the most - although it is possible that Max and Misha also had/have cancer - the only difference with Cody is that I learned that she absolutely had cancer the night before she died.  Cody fought death as much as she fought to stay in this life, in this presence, in this space with me.  I did not have time to prepare her for death, as I learned about her massive tumor and metasticized tumors in her lungs the night before she was put to sleep.  While I’ve been fighting to determine the source of her illness (coughing, panting) since June 1, 2007, through surgery, xrays, multiple reputable institutions, Cody was fighting to live a normal life by my side.  Her love to stay alongside me could not have been more clear to me on the day she died, and in the actual minutes of her death.

Max fought to stay alive, but did not fight his death.  In fact, in the two weeks leading up to his death, his appointed hour, Max seemed to be more peaceful than ever.  I had made this “appointment” three times prior, but this time, I stuck with the “time”.  I knew nothing would change, that time would give only me the upper hand, basically resolving me to be more than selfish to keep my faithful companion.  Max would just simply stay alive for the benefit of me, and not him.   There were days at a time when Max suffered horribly, hiding behind various pieces of furniture, unable to eat, or when he tried to eat he would be unable to keep it down.  He cried, he was restless, and he came to me throughout the night.  I knew it was his time, although I dreaded it.  I treated him in respect until his time arrived, and treated him in respect throughout his death and cremation.

But I didn’t really have that time with Cody.  I wasn’t ready for “her time”, and in fact, felt robbed that I didn’t get to better prepare.  I was mad at God for not allowing me to prepare for Cody’s death, to know why she was sick, to learn what was wrong with her, to enable those numerous veterinarians to figure out how to help her.  All the money and medicine and prayer did not help figure out what was wrong with Cody until it was too late.  I had been given the option of a “scope”, for another $1500 or more, but this was after the one surgery where they had opened her up from head to toe.  As I picked her up from the crematorium today, I heard a song from Three Doors Down, called It’s Not My Time.  I wondered why I didn’t get a better heads up of Cody’s time.  But then I recalled last June 2007.  While they never figured out what was wrong, on one day in late June 2007, I had made the call to put Cody down. 

Four vets, and four phone calls later - there was not one doctor available to put Cody down.  I called a friend, Jay, and he had me to talk to a vet who was able to determine that Cody’s current problem was the food she had been prescribed.  She said that she suspected Cody had a mass too small to detect, that she needed I/D Low Residue food, that she needed to stay off of food for 24 hours, that it was not yet her time, not yet.  She was right.  It was not yet Cody’s time.  God, and that vet, and a friend of mine gave me another 9 months of Cody - to love, to stand beside me, to walk with me, to go to the office with me, to wag her tail at me. 

Perhaps God knew that both of us were inseparable and unable to walk away, and that I was unable to schedule such an “appointment” with Cody and her vet.  Perhaps we need logic to try to explain something we can’t easily accept.  I made the call nine months ago, trusted vets that I didn’t feel quite right about, but couldn’t bring myself to put her through surgery again, or allow myself to trust yet another surgeon that may be wrong.  I put Cody’s life in God’s hands, and wasn’t happy with the outcome.  But really, tonight, I remembered that I had nine more months, and I should be happy that I had almost another year with her. 

It is in letting go that we learn to accept, but we tend to create scenarios that may or may not be accurate in order to come to peace with something.  For example, I didn’t have time to properly say Goodbye to Cody on Wednesday night or Thursday morning.  I tried to do a few things for her in her last hours, but it was hardly what I imagined.  I can be mad, I can question, I can wonder - perhaps I screwed up by not letting OSU scope her, despite the additional money.  Maybe the scope would have discovered the cancer.  Maybe that would have brought a diagnosis, and then I would have to determine whether or not she lived or died by suffering through chemo, surgery or who knows what else.  Instead, I chose to let nature take its course through less invasive means.  I was admittedly going into savings, credit cards, all to figure out what was wrong - but regardless of any rationale I use now, it won’t bring back my dog.

In my heart, I didn’t have enough time to say goodbye, but yet, Cody’s number was called on a few other occasions.  Each time prayer was answered, she survived, and Cody got a few more calendar dates added to her life.  Cody had been hit by a car, when another friend was walking her and she bolted out of her collar after getting spooked by something on the walk.  I saw my friend walking with a lifeless black mound of fur in his arms down the street - we rushed Cody at 100 plus miles an hour from Newark to Columbus Medvet.  I screamed for sure a few “F” words at my friend - and then prayed the entire way, out loud, on the floor of the truck, with Cody’s body placing her up-right - Cody was half-there, half-gone, blood coming out her nose.  By the time we made it to MedVet, and they examined, my dog was fine.  Seriously, fine.  I didn’t believe them.  I had seen Cody passed out - dead to the world - in somebody else’s arms - but yet, at this moment, she was walking around the med vet facility - just fine.  They said Cody had suffered a trauma, but there were no injuries.  I took her for acupuncture immediately to help with the “trauma”, but I knew God played a role in her survival.  Another six or seven years were added to Cody’s life, at least.  I can’t even remember when that happened.

Another day when Cody and I sat in a courtyard, minding our own business, enjoying the fresh air, two dogs ran up and attacked Cody, one of which was a German shepherd.  For some strange reason, right before this happened, I took Cody off her leash.  I’m not sure if that made things worse or not - but she had her leg ripped into by this German shepherd - a gaping hole bigger than a quarter.  They performed emergency surgery on her leg, and I sat with her in the surgery room as she came out of the anesthesia, praying she would make it.  Cody survived that too, although it took the “life” out of her for a few weeks.  That was several years ago as well.

She truly fought to stay alive on those two occasions, and in her quiet battle with lung cancer (no, I don’t smoke) for nine long months.  I got to live with her, like a normal person, instead of having to say goodbye to her - it was not yet her time - until last Thursday, February 28th.  I told her it was okay to let go, as she fought the medicine in her body, which would ultimately rob her of life.  Since then, off and on and most notably last night, I have cried hard, wailed, sobbed, teared up, and wistfully wished for her wagging tail, her endless petitions to go for a walk as recent as a short week ago, to have another treat, to have a french-fry, to have a quiet night WITHOUT that other dog, to be by the fan, to have an effortless breath - and so tonight, with her ashes home, and her journey complete - I say goodbye to the best friend ever - to the most loyal, compassionate, easy-going, glorious, pitch black chow who had the mane of a lion, the wisdom of an owl, the patience unlike I’ve ever experienced elsewhere, the smile of a happy child, the protection of a mother bear, and the love of none other than a wonderful dog -

If only saying goodbye was just a little less painful.

As a postscript, Cody, you should know that Lucky is actually not sleeping on your bed, and walks by it, and looks at it - but doesn’t try to sleep on it.  In fact, she’s not touched it since you died.  She just looks at the bed, as if you were there.  I’ve left your collar on the bed, out of respect, for now.  Lucky has also sneaked over to your water bowl, as if you were still in the room, as if she might get in trouble for drinking out of it.  I am choosing not to refill it, or allow her to use it, for now.  Monroe is crying upon occasion, and seems to want to stick up to Lucky now, knowing that you aren’t here to protect him from her antics.  We all miss you, without a doubt.  I admire your strength, your courage, your pain.  I will not forget you.  I continue to cry for you and can only hope I will meet you again -but until then - I can only hope you are free, you breathe effortlessly, you are not alone, and you are happy - and that you are “alive” in another life, that perhaps Max is there with you, and was with you as you departed this life.  Godspeed, Cody.

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