Saying Goodbye: A Portrait of Grief
Thursday night, July 23, 2010, at 11:15 p.m., in the company of friends and family, I said good-bye to the longest-term live-in companion I have known. Cradling my beautiful Persian cat, Murphy, in my lap, I made the difficult decision to let him pass from this realm to the next.
The week leading up to his passing was exhausting for both of us. I took him to the vet—I think it was on Monday—where I awaited a diagnosis. He had lost a lot of weight, and his appetite, and the blood work confirmed what I feared most: chronic renal failure.
A plan for intervention, a staving off of the progression of the disease, was laid out. I would need to give him subcutaneous fluids daily to keep him hydrated. That, and a plethora of meds—powdered, pills, capsules, and an awful liquid antibiotic that made him foam at the mouth when administered.
The stress of the impending pharmaceutical arsenal I was charged with managing and my absolute sorrow over his declining health had me caught in a suspended state. I was equal parts sad, angry, numb, and zombified. Keeping up with my client load while all this was happening was a task akin to backstroking through quicksand. Or at least I imagine that’s what backstroking through quicksand would be like: slow, cumbersome, and panic-making.
As the week, and my fatigue, wore on, The Mu (as he was known by most) got worse. My amazing neighbor and friend, Heather, a talented veterinarian, admitted him to the 24-hour hospital where she worked. Under the care of two skilled vets and some really great techs, Mu was loved, monitored, and medicated. He stayed for two days, with a third day recommended until it was apparent that my wallet, and his newly discovered heart problem, would make that a futile proposition.
So I brought him home. We sat in the sun on the porch. He drank nearly non-stop from various water bowls placed all over the house and garden, and, when he wasn’t drinking water, he slept. I fretted, watched him, and loved him the best I could. He didn’t seem to be in pain, just worn out. It was clear that I’d have to make one of the toughest decisions of my life—to decide when to let him go.
On that Thursday night, with my friends, my mom, and my vet gathered at my house, over wine and pizza and tears, we spent a few hours with The Mu before I told Heather that I was ready. Ready to love him enough to say good-bye. It was tough, and lovely, and heartbreaking—all the stuff of life in one moment. He just closed his eyes and was gone.
I realize some people dismiss the grief over the loss of a pet as somehow less than the grief over other losses—namely the loss of a human. Perhaps this is so, but I chose not to weigh or measure such things (as if one really could anyway). All I know is I lost a wonderful being who enriched my life, gave me unconditional love, stepped lightly through the garden to chase butterflies, and slept on my head like a furry black Russian hat—and that’s a list of qualities that’s hard to top.
(This is for all of those who have loved and lost a pet. With thanks to my friends and family, as always, for their support)
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