…the Monday morning after…

Its been a tough weekend…

Late Friday afternoon, G. left work early to go home to prepare for an event planned in her honour for that evening… and discovered that our very sick dog (lymphosarcoma) had gotten very much worse. (I had walked him that morning and noticed that he was taking way too much time to trot through the same distances that we had done together for years. He was also having obvious trouble ‘lifting his leg’. I didn’t mention this to G., not wanting to distress her and add an additional concern to what was scheduled to be a horrendous day for her.) When she phoned me in near hysterics, I immediately called the vet and asked that she call G. at home to discuss where we were.

The ‘time’ had come, and I knew it. I’d been expecting it since we got the diagnosis four weeks ago. But still, for piece of mind, G. needed to verify it. The vet, sweet lady that she is, laid the groundwork for the difficult conversation that I would have to have with G. when I managed to navigate the public transit system to get home.

Its amazing how slow the buses are on a Friday afternoon when you absolutely must get somewhere… but that also gives one time to reflect, to think, to start making plans and planning the things that need to be said.

Its also pretty amazing how the ‘self preservation’ reflex kicks in when you’re dealing with tough subjects like this one. Its actually taken me eight days to get back to finishing this post… eight days, not all of which were filled with other more important things. There were the times when I thought about what I would write here, and then turned away from the keyboard, quite deliberately…

So, the Friday evening started with a long, weepy discussion about the ‘right thing to do’… and whether or not that time had come.

Our youngest daughter was called… and she came. And we all went off to a party to celebrate G.’s latest accomplishments. But it was all pretty flat. Its amazing what understated joy there is in the pets we love… and the knowing that losing one kinda sucks the joy right out of it all.

Both G. and K. decided that they would build beds on the floor and sleep with Elijah. But Elijah didn’t sleep. He was so wracked with pain that he wimpered and whined most of the night. And we knew that the decision we had made was the right one.

Why is it so hard to make the same decision for people who are in unbelievable, unrelievable pain?

There will be more on this… its just too late to continue. And I’m sitting in a strange hotel room, in barely familiar city, missing my wife… and my dog.

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