Trying to Process Shock, Loss, and Grief
I didn’t see it coming and the shock that I feel is one full of confusion and sadness. Saturday night, our 11-year-old Chocolate Labrador, Lily, jumped off the couch for her late walk, but her eyes were unclear, her head was unsteady, and her breathing seemed shallow. We think she may have experienced a seizure. When your chronically hungry lab turns down an offering of a treat or a hunk of cheese, your warning sign has been activated. Lily was a canine vacuum, so when she turned down anything close to being edible, there is an emergency pending.
Thinking that you are flexible and easy-going can be dramatically different until, you are challenged. Life has a way of sneaking in unexpected setbacks that knock your feet out from under you. We recently experienced the challenge after picking up the flu, following almost a month-long trek through the southeast. This strain of the flu knocked us on our butts, hard. It lasted far longer than we had expected. Our loyal lab, Lily, helped us mend and kept us company, the whole time. She was our nurse and companion through the coughing fits. She wanted to make everything okay. She was selfless!
Angela and I were in crisis mode. We rushed Lily to the 24-hour emergency veterinary clinic. It was early on Sunday morning. Tired and scared is a bad combination, especially when you are worried about the fate of someone you love.
Lily was an exceptional dog, with great intelligence, and a stubbornness for chewing sticks and sometimes eating them. We just assumed that a stick had lodged somewhere, causing her discomfort or a blockage of some kind. Other than this new development, Lily had shown excellent health and vigor for a dog of her age. She looked spry and active and never missed a meal or a treat.
Lily was a sensitive and caring dog. At first encounter when you met Lily you would see her lip raise and her teeth would come out—some saw a snarl, but if you knew her and her nature, you saw her smile. She greeted everyone with her welcoming smile. Her smile brought so much joy to so many, especially us.
It was close to midnight on Sunday morning at the emergency vet, when Lily tried to smile at her doctor but was only able to make a partial lip raise. She really tried. Her tail wagged and she searched for a greeting, but the energy just wasn’t there.
Our emergency vet was a young man in his early thirties. He was a very gentle and accommodating doctor who bonded immediately with the ailing Lily and her anxious parents. We explained our situation to the doctor. He told us he would scan Lily to check her insides for any possible cause for her discomfort.
Ten minutes after he had left the room, he returned with devastating news that she was bleeding in her heart due to a cancerous tumor. Her options were not fair to her and we were left with no choice but to give her a peaceful sendoff. We would not be taking her home again. It happened so fast and at around 1:00 AM in the morning.
Trying to comprehend the situation and the sheer rapid pace of information and decisions that were being flung our way took all our concentration and strength. Our energy was drained, and our emotions were overwhelmed. We were not prepared for what the universe was doing to Lily and us and the speed with which it was happening. Lily was gone by 4:15 AM. All that I can say is it was a peaceful death. She didn’t suffer.
Dealing with the death of those who are close to us doesn’t get any easier with age. We are still in shock. The pain may dissipate over time, but it will never go away entirely. There are at least half a dozen places in the world that I don’t want to go– one of the top places is the emergency vet in the very early morning /late night hours, or at all.
We are so grateful for the emergency vets’ efficiency, compassion, patience, and kindness. He made a very tough situation much easier when it could have been even more difficult. As hard as losing Lily has been, we see a positive in the wonderful care that she received and the tenderness that we all were shown. There was no way to prepare for this shocking experience but together we will support each other to get through this difficult time.
We miss her so much!
Posted on March 12, 2020, in A Soft Voice book, Education, Health, mind body spirit, Philosophy, self care, Uncategorized, Wellness and tagged a soft voice in a noisy world, blog, book, books, Chocolate Lab, death of my dog, Disease, doctors, dogs, dreams, education, Health, hurt, illness, Karl Robb, Lily, loss, medicine, news, pain, positive thinking, stress, support, wellness. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.
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