I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to know exactly how much time you have left to live. Generally people in this situation are only in that situation for seconds at most.
Those on a crashing plane, the time between the trigger being squeezed and the end, falling off the edge of something, or, with lower frequency, being woken up to say goodbye since you have some condition that is untreatable and with predictable results (I’m recalling various episodes of House here).
Oddly, that stirs up no emotion in me. If I were in that situation, well, I don’t know what I’d do, but there would be a point where I gave in an accepted it.
That is a completely different situation than what I’m currently dealing with, however. Right now I know that my little girl only has 29 hours left to live. Let’s be clear, “my little girl” refers to my dog. An American Akita named Uzuki Callie. A.K.A., “Zuki”, “Fuzzhead”, “Fuzzbutt”, “the girl” and, completely ironically, “Monster”. She just turned 7 less than 6 weeks ago. About 2 months before that she started limping which quickly worked into not using her right rear leg.
This was an additive pain-in-the-ass for the girl as she was also slowly losing her eyesight.
My primary vet diagnosed an ACL tear. We tried meds to lower the pain and help it heal. Once we realized that it wasn’t healing a surgeon was consulted for a TPL surgery to make her knee like-new. On the day of the surgery she was dropped off early in the morning and went through all of the pre-surgery process which include x-rays of the leg.
The surgeon called me personally around noon. I didn’t think anything of it when he started talking, but looking back this should have rung several bells. Surgeons have people for disseminating news. Well, for disseminating good news.
He let me know that Zuki had what was most likely an osteosarcoma. Cancer of the long bones. Common in larger breeds.
This hit me like a truck.
There was a contractor at my desk when I answered the call and he could tell by the expression on my face and general body language that it was time for me to be left alone. And he did.
In the following several days I got in touch with an oncologist in Portland that specialized in palliative radiation which isn’t as much for the cancer as it is for numbing the area. Based on the conversations that she and I had and the various test results we determined that since Zuki wouldn’t ever put pressure on the leg due to pain that the radiation treatment wasn’t effective enough. Instead I went back to the surgeon and had him lop the leg off.
Between scheduling the amputation and the actual surgery I was distraught. How do I tell a dog, one who adamantly refuses to learn English, that I’m having one of her basic appendages removed to make her feel better? Would she hate me forever? More importantly, would she actually feel better?
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| Wagging uncontrollably |
Within the next week we met with a local oncologist (we live in the “East side” of the Seattle area) and quickly began chemotherapy.
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| At the oncologist's office |
Zuki took the first session without any problem. She just wanted to go home and eat some cookies. The second session, 3 weeks later, made her more nauseous. I brought this up with the oncologist who prescribed additional anti-nausea meds. Zuki started eating again within 24 hours.
Three weeks from then, on a Monday, Zuki was dropped off for treatment 3. It was mentioned that she hadn’t been interested in food for several days and that she had started coughing and wheezing in the past couple of weeks. The oncologist was determined to figure out what was going on and get back by about noon.
I had just sat down to a staff meeting around 10am when my phone vibrated with the pattern assigned to my oncologist. I reached for my phone and noticed it was her. This rang every bell in my head. I excused myself from the meeting and answered.
“The chemo was ineffective…”,
“...her chest is like a snowglobe” and
“... there’s nothing else we can try.”
are the only real phrases I can remember from that conversation.
That was 2 days ago.
To be exact, 51 hours and 47 minutes ago. Those ~52 hours have felt like a year. I keep having to check and double check the times to make sure that I didn’t miss a few days. This is also 5 years 1 month and 28 days since her “big brother” Daed was diagnosed with a tumor in his spleen which had already ruptured. I was forced to put him to sleep the next day. That still haunts me to this day, due in some part to the way that the vet introduced herself to me. This was my regular veterinary practice, but different doctor. She walked into the exam room and literally started off with “So, when do you want to put him down”. I’ve never been back to that practice since that event.
Anyhow…
Here we are, 28 hours left. She hasn’t eaten in over a week.How do I tell the girl that she’s no longer going to be tomorrow evening? Does she know how much I love her? How can she possibly know that it’s either this or suffer horribly for maybe another week before the same outcome?
D-23 hours and 40 minutes.
When I arrived home today Zuki got up to greet me and wagged, nearly perfectly. I’m instantly wondering if tomorrow is too soon to end it all. Almost as quickly as she got up, though, she turns around and starts drinking. She can’t get enough water right now.
Once she settles back down I lay beside her and pet her. While I stroke her super-soft fur she gently wheezes. Half-way down her back I can feel a large lump. It wasn’t there yesterday. I did notice a hard lump on her leg yesterday.
My concerns about timing are seeming to be more and more selfish. If it wasn’t for the bronchodialator and heavy pain medication, she wouldn’t be able to breath or move. She’s deteriorating even with them.
What the hell is wrong with my eyes? I can’t possibly have any saline left. W. T. F.
I’m agnostic. I believe that there is more to this universe than we can currently discern. If there is a heaven, I know that Daed and Kodi are there and I know that Zuki has soft, comfy pillow being set next to Daed’s right now.
Anyone who knows me and has spent any time with me outside of the office knows Zuki.
The girl developed a pretty nasty case of separation anxiety once Daed passed. Being pack animals, dogs need an alpha. When it comes to pack order, Zuki had absolutely no inclination towards being the alpha. That was Daed’s job. When Zuki was alone she believed that someone had to fill that role and that terrifies her.
We had also moved the same year which shifted her location and the set of people that she normally sees. The only constant was me. So I needed to figure out how to keep constant care for her.
Zuki was kennel trained and had no problem with it, originally… I left her in her crate, went to work and came home to find her bleeding on her paws and snout. She ripped the kennel open and got out.
That’s when we started going to day camp. Everyone there loves her and she loves everyone there.
She also came with me to many social events. Zuki is very familiar with Elizabeth’s condo from many events there and recently Elizabeth’s parent’s house. She’s shed upon Bob and Ellen’s floors and peed in Dan and Grace’s yard. She’s gone nuts on beaches in Tofino, BC and the Oregon coast and been hiking inland Oregon and Washington.
I have never been snowshoeing, but Zuki has with Debbie and Laura. Well, she didn’t need the snowshoes.
Debbie has been amazing. For the past 3 years she’s put up with me and loved on Zuki. Taking care of the girl while I’m away or even at home in every way. Meals, transportation to daycamp in almost all cases and from in some cases, transportation to her various doctors and lots more. Without her, life for Zuki and I would have been much more difficult and dark.
Zuki also spends most Friday’s at a close friend’s house. Megan helped me raise Daed and has watched both Daed and Zuki for me many times. I have been lucky enough to know two of her Akita’s. Kodi “honey-bear”, who also helped raise Daed and taught him to be the sweet boy that he was and is currently with him (on her well-deserved, reserved, soft, comfy pillow) and Megan’s current mush-bear, Ko.
-- D-22 hours and 45 minutes.
The countdown isn’t being added to be flippant. It’s there to remind that, regardless of the lighter moments, this is still about the untimely and painfully planned demise of one of the sweetest dogs to ever have existed.
When Daed passed it was sudden. He has been more tired than usual for a week or two then very quickly couldn’t move more than a few feet before laying down and ended up having to be put down. His death was also like being hit by a truck. I understand that this is a played out analogy, but when these events cause every muscle to tighten, breathing to stop, dizziness, faintness and massive, generalized pain, it’s accurate.
Even in that time of serious, personal distress and darkness I had the significant and sweet light of Zuki to help me through. And how I do repay that? Do extinguish that light .
I know. I know. This is the most humane thing to do. She’s suffering. She’s barely the shell of the amazingly sweet girl that she used to be. Breathing is a chore. Eating is unthinkable. She turns her head to cookies, bacon, peanut butter, ham, roast beef, everything.
Even in her minimal state Zuki is sweet and welcoming to all affection.
I love this girl and this is why I’m going to spare her the indignity of her body failing her spirit.
Again with the infernal saline drip.
W.
T.
F.
I just wish I had more time with her. Seeing her always brightens my day, regardless of how good it was to begin with.
-- D-9 hours and 40 minutes
We both slept last night. She always sleeps right now. There’s not a whole lot else she can do. I “slept” on the couch so she didn’t have to go through the pain of being carried up the stairs to the bedroom. My “sleep” was, at best, light. Every sound Zuki makes, everytime she moves I’d wake up and check on her and, if she was still awake, I’d pet her some more. We’ve been doing this since Monday.
I can’t remember the last meal that she ate. The only sustenance that I know she’s had is 4 Kirkland Signature cookies on Sunday which, oddly, she will only eat at my shop. The girl still drinks water, but I’d imagine that’s to soothe her dry throat from the quick, shallow breathing.
Again and constantly I question the decision. Zuki got up and came with me to the shop today and wagged her fuzzy tail. Then I get a response back when she won’t eat anything at the shop and immediately plops down to rest from what I would imagine is fatigue brought on by low blood oxygenation.
Yes, I am one of the crazy dog people.
-- D-6 hours and 10 minutes
Continuing to attempt to distract myself with work while my girl fades away just a few feet to my right.
Food is still ignored and affection is barely tolerated, though that’s not preventing me from giving it. She’s breathing decently at the moment, but it’s still labored.
I’m an emotional mess now. I don’t want to see myself in 6 hours and 15 minutes.
In scheduling the final appointment for Zuki I spoke with Michelle at my veterinarian's office. We’ve spoken so many time over the past few months that she most likely knows me by voice. I felt bad for her as I could hear her emotion as I was breaking down on the phone.
-- D-4 hours
I can’t handle this. A girl this sweet should be allowed to live forever. Not just barely make it to 7.
-- D-90 minutes
We took our second to last ride and went to visit Megan and Ko. We loved on the girl as much as we could and she absorbed all of it. Ko, however, was a bit freaked out. Dogs have an amazing sense of smell and Zuki smelled sick. He stayed back and watched while being oddly somber.
-- D-10 minutes
Now taking our last ride together, ever. It seems to be raining in the driver seat. The girl is oblivious.
The one time that I drive this far below the speed limit and hope for red lights. This is one appointment for which I don’t want to be early or even on time.
We get into the parking lot and I take my time getting out of the truck. Raising the rear gate on the truck this is the first time Zuki wasn’t standing and ready to get out.
She knows now.
She was ready to Go right until this ride. I coax her into getting out. Newly found energy makes her pull me in any other direction than the front door. I finally convince her to go inside to an even more somber office. They’ve known we were coming in today and how I feel about the girl.
I find myself dealing with the administration of this extremely quickly. I think that, inherently, I want to “pull the bandage off” as quickly as possible. The worst possible bandage there is.
Zuki needs to be coerced into the back room. Once we’re back there I pick her up the way I always do and she yelps. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve heard her yelp. I’m not sure if I hurt her or if she was really fighting the now inevitable.
Now that the girl is on the table she’s panting, but settling. I think she knows that this is the best way. Here we are now 2 weeks without food, almost as much time without defecating. Barely breathing, barely drinking, barely living. Kim gets on the table with her and cradles her head. I’m petting her head and massaging her. Zuki loves having her remaining rear leg massaged.
Doc shaves her front paw and puts the alcohol on. This always strikes me as ironic, putting an infection preventative around the injection site of where you’re injecting a purposely lethal dose of chemicals.
Drawing the plunger back to get some blood into the syringe Doc is ready, I’m not, but I’m paralyzed. Pushing the plunger slowly back into the syringe pushes the life slowly out of my baby girl and her immense pain along with it. She was holding her head up when she got on the table and it slowly dropped with the injection.
She is gone. 11/29/2007 - 1/8/2015, barely 7 years old. Not nearly long enough.
I tried to hold it together since we arrived. That was pointless. I broke up walking in the door. Once she had passed we all loved on her a bit and Doc felt around. He found the same lumps that I did and a large mass in her gut. That confirmed my fears that she didn’t have much longer even without the injection.
I tried to stay, but I couldn’t. Everyone in the room was crying or teary. I needed to leave. I needed to get away from my fuzzy girl’s lifeless body.
-- D+21 hours
This is the first day without my girl. It’s very odd to wake up without her nearby. Close friends are trying console me understanding that I’m inconsolable.
Every distraction is being enthusiastically welcomed.
Note: This isn't finished yet. There's a limited amount I can do at any one time due to how it feels.
