We were here, in this place that we have come to know far too well. That day, at least for a little while, you were here with us. As we drove here, I remember thinking that each minute that passed brought me closer to a life without you. I hoped with everything I had that maybe there was something else that we could do, maybe there was a way to keep you with us for a little bit longer. Isn’t that a mommy’s job? To always believe and always hope that our babies will find a way to go on? On the other hand, as your mommy, I knew you better than anyone, so I could look into your eyes and know that this was it. That was one of the worst days of my life.
Today is a different kind of day, a better day. Your brother is doing well. His lungs are clear and your doctor is really happy with how he’s doing. He’s been chunking up a little bit, but the doctor doesn’t care. He says we should go ahead and spoil our guy while we can. Can you believe that?!? The one thing you waited your whole life to hear from a vet! I should have been happy, and of course in some ways I am, but mostly I just kept thinking of you. More than anything, I wanted to have this conversation about you. I wanted to hear how well you were doing and talk about metronomics and appointments to be scheduled far apart, and even to talk about what we should do 6 months from now.
I remember that when we got here that day and your dad went to check you in, I laid down next to you in the back of your car. I tried to memorize everything about you – the softness of your fur, the way your heart felt beating against me. I tried to tell you again, through my sobs, what I had told you your whole life: how wonderful and beautiful and special you are and how I love you so much it hurts. That was the last time we were alone together, just you and me.
Life without you is hard to get used to. The other day I came in the door and out of habit braced myself for your exuberant greeting. There is nothing better than coming home to your gigantic smile, your huge circular tail wag, and your squeaks of joy. I don’t know why, in that moment, I blocked out the fact that you wouldn’t be here, but when I realized it, I felt like I had been punched in the heart.
I know that you wouldn’t want me to be sad, but how can I not be when you aren’t here? I miss you all of the time. The thought of never again seeing that smile or cuddling up with you on the couch is unimaginable. I have tried to be brave, like you, but sometimes it is too much, and today was one of those days. I just had to break down and sob.
I love you, my beautiful beanie girl.
I wish I could take away the hurt that you are going through, but all I can say is I do understand and feel your loss. You need to grieve to heal, so cry when you need to. Cuddle with Holly Beans brother and tell him the story of Holly.
Aww Alex, there will be days like this. 7 weeks is not that long, and you have had to deal with Clyde’s diagnosis and treatment. One day there will be more smiles than tears- I promise. But for now you have to just move through the grief.
Karen and Spirit Maggie
Oh Alex, it is hard and you have to go back to the same place to help Clyde. It can’t be easy. Karen is right, 7 weeks is still not long. It’s been 14 weeks for me and I still have bad days but the good days are starting to be a little more frequent.
Holly was such a lucky dog to have you as her mom and you were very lucky to have known her love. Hold onto that. It does get better, but far too slowly.
Take care of yourself.
Karen and Spirit Magnum