Tuesday, March 5, 2013
A Life Well Lived
My dear four-legged friend, Max, the Beagle, transitioned at about 9:10 this morning.
In the past year or so, with each health issue or injury, I've wondered, "Is this it?"
I didn't see this coming though. About a week ago, I returned from a trip. He was limping a little but still able to get around. Still eager to go for a walk, for a treat, for the next morsel of food.
On Sunday, still normal. We walked the neighborhood before I went to speak at a church service. Back at home, my pack and I rest together before I leave again for an appointment. In retrospect I noticed Max needed help with getting up on the couch and when I returned from my appointment, he laid on a dog bed instead of jumping up on the couch.
His appetite has been off for months. Since November Max has been taking thyroid medication which sent him into a second puppyhood, giving me relief and him a newer, softer coat. But where before his thyroid issues he would eat nearly everything I would give him (except peanut butter -- he never did like that!), he became a picky eater.
Renal issues accompanied the thyroid problems so he was supposed to (not "supposed") to eat a reduced protein diet. Not a chance of that, though. The choice between not eating and eating high protein was pretty easy. Each time he would sniff at even that recently, I would wonder...
On Monday morning, I get up as usual, walk down the back hallway, let Max and Emma outside. Shadow also runs down the hallway then waits at the door for his buddies to burst in and run him over as they all, heard-like, merge in the kitchen for a meal or a treat. Monday morning, I take Max and Emma of them for a short walk. It is clear that Max's hind legs aren't working the way they're supposed to. Once inside, he eats very little of the chicken and rice mix he's been getting on top of the dog food.
I'd planned to finally return to my yoga class after over a week's absence and waffled about going versus calling the vet. Max didn't seem to be in pain, but I call the vet's office to try to get a walk-in appointment. It is after 8:30am when I put Max in the car for a less-than 10 min. trip to the office.
Max whimpers and shakes while we wait nearly 2 hours to see the vet. The last time we'd been there was after Emma had taken a chunk out of his neck while I had left for a few hours in early January -- he had a staple to close the wound, so I can't imagine that was a pleasant experience for him. I'm sure he remembered.
Not finding a misplaced disc -- Beagles are prone to this -- the vet (Dr. C) lets me know that Max probably had degenerative disc disease. Although he didn't seem to be in pain, the vet prescribes a pain medication to help ease any discomfort. I'm not really clear what we talk about, but I know I ask her about what to do. She recommends monitoring Max and bringing him back in a few days. She gives me a hug before I leave. (Which, of COURSE made me cry even more. Kindness has a way of undoing me.)
Before I leave the vet's office, I make an appointment for Friday. I need some time to think, I guess. When it comes to most decisions, I imagine myself as one who can make them easily and effectively. But I have no clarity until later, when I reflect on what happened after we returned from the examination.
After I return home, I think, "I've got to let Donna know." Donna is a godsend-dogwalker-school psychologist who showed up too many years ago for me to remember. When I had both Tigger (who transitioned 5 years ago) and Max and two kitties, Shadow and Izzy. With my crazy work schedule, Donna comes by my house to feed and walk and love my animals while I'm away. She's also, when I've travelled, come by several times a day to take care of my pack.
My habit is to let the dogs outside -- "out the back" is the command -- after I step into the house and shed my bags. Max is often the first to the back door, even before I've started toward the hallway that leads to it. Emma bounds to the door, barking her excitement to finally be going out (even if she's done so just 20 minutes before). This time, though, Emma beats Max to the door because he is swaying, drunk-like because his hind legs aren't moving in synch. (Fond memory: Hiking with Max just a few feet in front of me. His legs have a glide to them I've never seen in another dog...)
Once on the back porch, Emma bounds down the steps. Max slowly and cautiously and with a little help, thumps down them. He sways and sits and struggles as he walks around the yard. I watch, helpless. The uneven tufts of grass interrupt what little momentum he has. It's when he falls as he's trying to poop that I hold him around his waist. I start sobbing.
I text Donna, "Max is having problems walking. His hind legs aren't cooperating. Just came back from the vet. He is on pain meds right now. Pls give him a 1/2 tab (they are already cut). He will need help getting down and up the stairs. If no improvement in 2 days I will need to decide..." It doesn't feel right to let her know through a text that we may have only one or two more days with Max.
Because I have this strong sense of obligation and responsibility toward people and work, I leave the house for a meeting at ODU. While I'm driving, I realize what has just happened at my house, in my back yard. My dear friend is incapacitated! I had to help him up on the couch, his favorite daytime spot, before I headed out.
As I drive to Norfolk, I call the vet's office again and arrange to bring Max in on Tuesday. I cancel all my meetings except for the one I'm going to and one more. I'm not fully present at either. I call friends as I'm driving home. Jan offers to keep me company and bring me dinner. I'm grateful to have both.
Once home, I compose an email to friends and family:
Hi,
I curl up with Max. Emma and Shadow join us. Our pack...
Donna is the first to visit, responding to my message, "Pls swing by. I would like to talk for a few min. Max is really in bad shape." She cries as she sees how his legs aren't working. "He was fine on Saturday!" she says.
I know. I know. Who could have predicted this?
Jan brings tomato soup and mac & cheese. Comfort food. Oh, and wine and chocolate, "for medicinal purposes." (THANK YOU!) We both cry and remember Max as a puppy, as an adult. Before she leaves, she sings a beautiful prayer to Max. I am sobbing by the time she finishes. (And again now as I write this.)
I'm exhausted when I fall into bed. For years, especially in winter months, Max has slept not just ON the bed, but UNDER the covers. I help him up. This time, he whimpers. Something hurts in this motion. He nestles at the side of the bed and I curl around him, crying. This is the last time I will be able to snuggle with him. I cry myself to sleep. Twice Max wakes up and somehow jumps off the bed. Emma has become the sentential, warning me when Max is on the move. I'm a light sleeper, so I'm up and off the bed, trailing Max down the hall to the back door, on the porch, down the steps and into the grass. (Fond memory: When it rains or snows, Max keeps his back paws on the last step, stretching his front legs into the yard, then pees. He turns quickly and races back up the stairs. He simply hates getting wet!)
This email comes after I have gone to sleep:
Oh Suzan.
What a terrible day for you, but also sweet. I remember your Max when he was just a pup, when his ears were bigger than his body. Of course at that time we had no idea what would come of the suggestion, "Use your words, Max." He's been a fellow who felt no compunction about making his right-now needs and desires very clear! And all those bay-barks to say, "Isn't this (anticipation of baby food supper, visiting dogs running around the house, sitting for treats, people coming to the door) so very exciting?!" I love telling dog-people the story of Evil Genius Max the Beagle who rang the back door bells and then beat you to your breakfast! In so many ways, Suzan, he has had you well trained. It is hard to believe he's 13+. I have enjoyed his humor and admired his tenacity for all these years. May he rest in peace.
Love, Mollie
I laugh as I remember the life, the incident. He actually stole my breakfast twice in one week before I caught on and started pushing my plate back from the edge of the table when I got up.
Our normal wake-up time is as the sun rises -- about 6:20 these days -- so I'm awake by then with Emma sitting at my face, wiggling with excitement that it's a whole new day, ready for any adventure. Shadow is meowing, HUNGRY for breakfast. This is all so normal, then I remember...
I have counted the number of times I've let the dogs out the back in the past day. No more than usual, but each time I'm hit with a wave of grief. This morning it is the last time I will see Max in this environment. He seems exhausted by the effort of keeping his body in alignment and moving. His front legs are now also wobbly with the strain of pulling his torso and hind legs. If I pick him up to help, he wriggles and grunts, sending me the message, "Don't."
Breakfast, then Max drunk-walks to the dog bed close to the kitchen. Even though I cry very easily, I am not the sloppy, huggy type. I haven't picked Max up to hold him and cry into his coat. Only once did I curl up with him on the small couch in my room. He was uncomfortable, so I moved away.
The drive to the vet is only 10 minutes, but I sob and sob and sob. I can't get out of the car. Max doesn't want to either. He knows where we are.
Although we have an 8:30 appointment and I arrive precisely on time (not my usual habit!), it's not until close to 9 that I see the vet. She is kind and compassionate and tells me she supports my decision. Which of course makes me cry.
After the sedative, after the medication, after Dr. C leaves the examination room, I am left with my heart aching with sorrow and grief.
In a recent interview, Jack Kornfield, Ph.D., states:
Max was a good dog.
What a life well lived. I already miss him and I also know that my life will unfold itself exactly as it needs to.
In a Wabi Sabi way,
Suzan
In the past year or so, with each health issue or injury, I've wondered, "Is this it?"
I didn't see this coming though. About a week ago, I returned from a trip. He was limping a little but still able to get around. Still eager to go for a walk, for a treat, for the next morsel of food.
On Sunday, still normal. We walked the neighborhood before I went to speak at a church service. Back at home, my pack and I rest together before I leave again for an appointment. In retrospect I noticed Max needed help with getting up on the couch and when I returned from my appointment, he laid on a dog bed instead of jumping up on the couch.
His appetite has been off for months. Since November Max has been taking thyroid medication which sent him into a second puppyhood, giving me relief and him a newer, softer coat. But where before his thyroid issues he would eat nearly everything I would give him (except peanut butter -- he never did like that!), he became a picky eater.
Renal issues accompanied the thyroid problems so he was supposed to (not "supposed") to eat a reduced protein diet. Not a chance of that, though. The choice between not eating and eating high protein was pretty easy. Each time he would sniff at even that recently, I would wonder...
On Monday morning, I get up as usual, walk down the back hallway, let Max and Emma outside. Shadow also runs down the hallway then waits at the door for his buddies to burst in and run him over as they all, heard-like, merge in the kitchen for a meal or a treat. Monday morning, I take Max and Emma of them for a short walk. It is clear that Max's hind legs aren't working the way they're supposed to. Once inside, he eats very little of the chicken and rice mix he's been getting on top of the dog food.
I'd planned to finally return to my yoga class after over a week's absence and waffled about going versus calling the vet. Max didn't seem to be in pain, but I call the vet's office to try to get a walk-in appointment. It is after 8:30am when I put Max in the car for a less-than 10 min. trip to the office.
Max whimpers and shakes while we wait nearly 2 hours to see the vet. The last time we'd been there was after Emma had taken a chunk out of his neck while I had left for a few hours in early January -- he had a staple to close the wound, so I can't imagine that was a pleasant experience for him. I'm sure he remembered.
Not finding a misplaced disc -- Beagles are prone to this -- the vet (Dr. C) lets me know that Max probably had degenerative disc disease. Although he didn't seem to be in pain, the vet prescribes a pain medication to help ease any discomfort. I'm not really clear what we talk about, but I know I ask her about what to do. She recommends monitoring Max and bringing him back in a few days. She gives me a hug before I leave. (Which, of COURSE made me cry even more. Kindness has a way of undoing me.)
Before I leave the vet's office, I make an appointment for Friday. I need some time to think, I guess. When it comes to most decisions, I imagine myself as one who can make them easily and effectively. But I have no clarity until later, when I reflect on what happened after we returned from the examination.
After I return home, I think, "I've got to let Donna know." Donna is a godsend-dogwalker-school psychologist who showed up too many years ago for me to remember. When I had both Tigger (who transitioned 5 years ago) and Max and two kitties, Shadow and Izzy. With my crazy work schedule, Donna comes by my house to feed and walk and love my animals while I'm away. She's also, when I've travelled, come by several times a day to take care of my pack.
My habit is to let the dogs outside -- "out the back" is the command -- after I step into the house and shed my bags. Max is often the first to the back door, even before I've started toward the hallway that leads to it. Emma bounds to the door, barking her excitement to finally be going out (even if she's done so just 20 minutes before). This time, though, Emma beats Max to the door because he is swaying, drunk-like because his hind legs aren't moving in synch. (Fond memory: Hiking with Max just a few feet in front of me. His legs have a glide to them I've never seen in another dog...)
Once on the back porch, Emma bounds down the steps. Max slowly and cautiously and with a little help, thumps down them. He sways and sits and struggles as he walks around the yard. I watch, helpless. The uneven tufts of grass interrupt what little momentum he has. It's when he falls as he's trying to poop that I hold him around his waist. I start sobbing.
I text Donna, "Max is having problems walking. His hind legs aren't cooperating. Just came back from the vet. He is on pain meds right now. Pls give him a 1/2 tab (they are already cut). He will need help getting down and up the stairs. If no improvement in 2 days I will need to decide..." It doesn't feel right to let her know through a text that we may have only one or two more days with Max.
Because I have this strong sense of obligation and responsibility toward people and work, I leave the house for a meeting at ODU. While I'm driving, I realize what has just happened at my house, in my back yard. My dear friend is incapacitated! I had to help him up on the couch, his favorite daytime spot, before I headed out.
As I drive to Norfolk, I call the vet's office again and arrange to bring Max in on Tuesday. I cancel all my meetings except for the one I'm going to and one more. I'm not fully present at either. I call friends as I'm driving home. Jan offers to keep me company and bring me dinner. I'm grateful to have both.
Once home, I compose an email to friends and family:
Hi,
You're probably aware that Max's health has been declining. He's 13+ years old now (hard to believe!). Last fall, he was diagnosed with thyroid problems as well as renal issues. The thyroid medication gave him a new life -- he's had a bounce in his step, a soft coat and renewed energy.
Until this morning. When I got up, his hind legs were not working properly. He is unable to walk without wobbling and falling down. I took him to the vet to find out what's going on. It looks like he has degenerative disc disease which can't be treated with typical medications because of the renal issues. He's on a pain medication.
He stumbled around the back yard after I brought him home from the vet this morning. His hind legs were so weak that he couldn't hold himself up to poop. This is no way to live -- for him or for me.
I cancelled all my commitments for this afternoon so I could hang out and monitor him. Tomorrow I will be letting him go. We'll make the final trip to the vet in the morning. Wish us well...
Suzan
I curl up with Max. Emma and Shadow join us. Our pack...
Donna is the first to visit, responding to my message, "Pls swing by. I would like to talk for a few min. Max is really in bad shape." She cries as she sees how his legs aren't working. "He was fine on Saturday!" she says.
I know. I know. Who could have predicted this?
Jan brings tomato soup and mac & cheese. Comfort food. Oh, and wine and chocolate, "for medicinal purposes." (THANK YOU!) We both cry and remember Max as a puppy, as an adult. Before she leaves, she sings a beautiful prayer to Max. I am sobbing by the time she finishes. (And again now as I write this.)
I'm exhausted when I fall into bed. For years, especially in winter months, Max has slept not just ON the bed, but UNDER the covers. I help him up. This time, he whimpers. Something hurts in this motion. He nestles at the side of the bed and I curl around him, crying. This is the last time I will be able to snuggle with him. I cry myself to sleep. Twice Max wakes up and somehow jumps off the bed. Emma has become the sentential, warning me when Max is on the move. I'm a light sleeper, so I'm up and off the bed, trailing Max down the hall to the back door, on the porch, down the steps and into the grass. (Fond memory: When it rains or snows, Max keeps his back paws on the last step, stretching his front legs into the yard, then pees. He turns quickly and races back up the stairs. He simply hates getting wet!)
This email comes after I have gone to sleep:
Oh Suzan.
What a terrible day for you, but also sweet. I remember your Max when he was just a pup, when his ears were bigger than his body. Of course at that time we had no idea what would come of the suggestion, "Use your words, Max." He's been a fellow who felt no compunction about making his right-now needs and desires very clear! And all those bay-barks to say, "Isn't this (anticipation of baby food supper, visiting dogs running around the house, sitting for treats, people coming to the door) so very exciting?!" I love telling dog-people the story of Evil Genius Max the Beagle who rang the back door bells and then beat you to your breakfast! In so many ways, Suzan, he has had you well trained. It is hard to believe he's 13+. I have enjoyed his humor and admired his tenacity for all these years. May he rest in peace.
Love, Mollie
I laugh as I remember the life, the incident. He actually stole my breakfast twice in one week before I caught on and started pushing my plate back from the edge of the table when I got up.
Our normal wake-up time is as the sun rises -- about 6:20 these days -- so I'm awake by then with Emma sitting at my face, wiggling with excitement that it's a whole new day, ready for any adventure. Shadow is meowing, HUNGRY for breakfast. This is all so normal, then I remember...
I have counted the number of times I've let the dogs out the back in the past day. No more than usual, but each time I'm hit with a wave of grief. This morning it is the last time I will see Max in this environment. He seems exhausted by the effort of keeping his body in alignment and moving. His front legs are now also wobbly with the strain of pulling his torso and hind legs. If I pick him up to help, he wriggles and grunts, sending me the message, "Don't."
Breakfast, then Max drunk-walks to the dog bed close to the kitchen. Even though I cry very easily, I am not the sloppy, huggy type. I haven't picked Max up to hold him and cry into his coat. Only once did I curl up with him on the small couch in my room. He was uncomfortable, so I moved away.
The drive to the vet is only 10 minutes, but I sob and sob and sob. I can't get out of the car. Max doesn't want to either. He knows where we are.
Although we have an 8:30 appointment and I arrive precisely on time (not my usual habit!), it's not until close to 9 that I see the vet. She is kind and compassionate and tells me she supports my decision. Which of course makes me cry.
After the sedative, after the medication, after Dr. C leaves the examination room, I am left with my heart aching with sorrow and grief.
In a recent interview, Jack Kornfield, Ph.D., states:
Things change. We’re a river of change, and if we try to hold on, what we end up getting is rope burn. It’s a kind of recipe for suffering.
If instead, we accept the fact that everything changes and discover that we can float, that we can surf rather than try to stop the waves, then our life becomes more responsive. It becomes more of a dance and there’s a tremendous joy that comes in it.
There’s a certain grief and loss that must be honored and felt, but it’s not the end of this story, and it’s not who you really are. That’s a limited identity. You were that for a while. Now, you’re going to be something else and that’s the way life unfolds itself all the time.
Max was a good dog.
What a life well lived. I already miss him and I also know that my life will unfold itself exactly as it needs to.
In a Wabi Sabi way,
Suzan
