Athena

[This early edition post will take the place of the Monday, May 2 post.]

Yesterday, my daughter and I made the decision to put our dog Athena to rest. 

Over the last two months, a cancerous mast cell tumor had taken over her left lip. A further biopsy showed that the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes. Surgery was no longer a reasonable option and chemo came with too many side effects. Any treatment would not have likely prolonged her life much more. Instead, I decided, with the agreement of my daughter, that we would let her live out what time she had comfortable and well-loved at home. 

Sadly on Sunday, the tumor had become raw. It would bleed and ooze. Until recently, she hadn't shown any signs of even realizing it was on her face but in the last few days she had begun scratching at it and rubbing it on her bedding. It soon became all consuming for her. It was painful to witness her struggle to get comfortable. And yet she didn't show any signs of pain or lameness and she was still eating, drinking, and "going" as usual. I was confused as to what my next steps should be. I took some photos of the tumor from all angles and sent them to our vet.

I had plans to go to Delaware for an author's event at a bookstore followed by a weekend in New Jersey with my family celebrating my nephew's First Holy Communion. I spoke with the kennel owner a few days ago to go over Athena's meds and what to do in case of different scenarios. She was completely on board even assigning Athena to the staff area to sleep for the best possible comfort and safety. It seemed as if I would be going through with my plans secure in the knowledge that she was in good loving hands.

But I couldn't stand to watch her be miserable. Why was I trying to prolong her life if she was so upset and more importantly, why if the sole purpose of keeping her home without treatment was to give her the best final days? What was I doing this for? It became obvious I was doing this in an attempt to keep her a little longer, to stay off the ever present knowledge that these were her last days.

I called my daughter at college. I told her what was happening, recalling all the while the pain she went through when we had to put our last dog down. My daughter was only 10 at the time. Years later she told me how angry she was that I "did" that to our dog. She didn't remember the months of me setting the stage for eventually having to let our arthritic 13 year old furry girl go. I didn't want to make the same mistakes this time. This time was different though. Athena was sick. We were doing this for her. And with that in mind, logic prevailed and we made a plan. I would pick her up from school, she would stay home overnight, and we would go to the vet in the morning. 

I won't go through the details of the procedure. Anyone who has had to put their pet to rest knows what happens and what it feels like emotionally. Suffice to say, you are riddled with guilt and plagued with uncertainty even as the needle goes in. You don't want to have to do this but you know you have to do this. And it's heartbreaking. We stayed on afterwards, just weeping over her, our hands in her fur.

I took my daughter back to campus. It was her last day of classes before finals and she needed to be there.  She later texted me that being in class was a good distraction, and in the afternoon she won all three bouts she had in fencing. I suspect that was a product of working off some grief. It made me happy knowing that she would continue to mourn but she was working through it surrounded by friends in a place that doesn't hold the same memories of Athena. I on the other hand came home to an empty house.

Finding that balance between hyper organized controlled frenzy and sloth-like binge-viewing slob has always been a struggle for me but yesterday ticked it up a notch. I walked into the house and sobbed. Just sloppy weeping like no one was watching because no one was. I was alone. And I guess even though I live by myself, I was never really alone with Athena there. The silence was deafening. I wandered the house. Every room had something of her there. It was too painful to go in certain rooms. Instead I sat and binged hours of TV. Just distracting myself from the emptiness. Finding solace in meaningly comedies and celebrity trial coverage. But every time there was a break in programming, I was brought back to the reality that Athena wasn't there. She wasn't curled up behind me in her bed. She wasn't lying next to me on the rug. She wasn't sitting in the window. And it was a cold realization.

I made myself a task list. Something to feel that I had accomplished a shred of productivity in the day. I walked the house and collected her things. I tossed her bedding in the washer, bagged up her food, and gathered her toys and bones. The goal was not to erase her. The goal was to move forward. To feel as if she was there but in only the best ways and for me that somehow always comes back to cleaning. But I stopped short of vacuuming up her fur. As much as I have complained about the shedding over the years, I can't bring myself to vacuum just yet. It can wait a bit longer. I'm the only one who will mind after all. Instead, I went back to sobbing at random moments and watching mindless programming until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer and went to bed.

I woke up a bit later than usual and just laid there. There was no reason to get out of bed. No one needed to go out. No one was giving her one bark wake up call. I eventually got up by just telling myself I should. 

I came downstairs. There were no nails tapping on the floor in the excitement of my arrival. No one was stretching and shaking her head with a familiar jangle of her dog tags. There was only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the birds chirping outside. 

I went into the kitchen. There are no longer bowls on the floor for food and water. No one followed me in anticipation anyway. My little furry shadow, who followed me from room to room, attuned to my every movement and emotion was no longer there. And I cried again and again. My head hurts from crying. I'm dehydrated from all the tears. My heart aches. My throat is clenched. I wish I could pet her head and feel her velvet ears and kiss her nose.

It's a beautiful day outside but I can't bring myself to open the door. There is no one who will be sitting patiently for her leash to be clipped to her collar for a walk, tail wagging, eager to get outside. For me, outside just has too many reminders. As does inside. I'm trapped in my grief at the moment and the pain from wishing she didn't have to go like this. Wishing she could have gotten old like our last dog. She was still very much a puppy at eight years old.

For the time being I'm keeping the photos I sent to our vet, in my phone. I need the reminder that putting her to rest was the loving thing to do given how the cancer was eating away at her. I'm going to put her newly washed bed back in the window behind my desk. The space is too jarring bare. Once that's done I'll decide what's next. More crying no doubt. More emptiness. I miss her beyond measure. My sweet furry girl. We loved you from the first moment. We will love you forever.