Author: drmaryvet

It has been 3 days since I put my sweet dog Chloe to sleep. I have experienced a wide range of emotions since then – the most immediate:

Relief: (thank God that her suffering is at an end!)

Guilt:  (could I have done ANYTHING more? Could I have changed something in the past to prevent this?) Sadly, this quickly chips away at the feeling of relief

Numbness: (and no, I do NOT  mean “Comfortably Numb” as Pink Floyd describes), but disturbingly numb – almost detached from myself, shock (this can’t be real?) I am going to go home and she will be there, just like always, right?

Profound Sadness: A DEEP pain has finally crept into my heart and staked out a spot to set up camp….

These feelings are all too familiar when dealing with a major loss. It is very much part of the five stages of grief that Elizabeth Kuebler Ross so brilliantly documented many years ago when working with hospice patients and their families: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally, Acceptance.

For me, the deep sadness/depression is the scariest and worst emotion. I feel immediate anxiety that if I ALLOW myself to feel these feelings, that I will might be swallowed by them. That I will somehow pass “through the looking glass” and be unable to return to a normal life of the usual “ups and downs” – terrified that I will forever be bound to a life of deep sorrow and grief.

I am SO afraid that this sadness will overwhelm me. And so I do my best to shove it aside.

But every once in a while, there is NO escaping it and the tears come without mercy. For some reason (though this has happened many, many times) I forget that I have never, not once, actually gotten “stuck” in a state of irreversible sadness. In fact, when I do let the tears come forth (for as long and as hard as they do) – I tend to feel much better after. I feel lighter, and relieved. The very worst that comes from it is a stuffed nose and puffy eyes.

I write this for all of you who may feel “stuck” right now. Afraid, like me, that if you allow yourself to feel the pain, that it will suck you into perpetual darkness. So I would like to offer you a nudge, and the reassurance that it is GOOD for you to let it out. You won’t feel great, but you won’t spiral down into despair either.

Personally, I would take a stuffy nose any day over a broken heart.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” -Mathew 5:4

My animal rescue, Cherished Life, began in February of 2005 – the day I rescued Chloe and her puppies from the Humane Society. It was a tumultuous time in my life – I was newly wed, had just opened my own veterinary practice 6 months prior, my poor husband was forced back into a medical residency (which meant we suddenly had to rely on a salary from me – from a start up business) my very first dog (Maggie) died abruptly from an unknown illness, and the absolute worst of all –  my father was suddenly dying at home in New York.

While every aspect of my life seemed to be either in a fragile beginning or ending phase, the one constant I had was the love of my little dog “Haithin.” Yes – it is a very strange name. It was the best I could come up with in an effort to combine the phrase: “Have faith in.” Knowing this, my husband would lovingly refer to him as, “Fope.”

I desperately wanted/needed a permanent reminder to have faith in the tender mercy and love of God. But, it WAS an odd name and most people had to repeat it several times – usually with a very confused look, and so I quickly began to refer to him as “Doodle.” (Which was fitting too – he was a Shih-Poo and so very cute! My sweet little Doodle! Yes, it fit quite nicely:)

To back up just a moment: If you read my prior story, you know that I rescued Chloe JUST in time for her to give birth to five healthy, adorable little puppies. It was wonderful having the joy of new life in our home while so many other circumstances were incredibly uncertain and painful. The worst of which was my father’s health. He declined at an alarming rate, and he died on March 31st, 2005.

March 30, 2015 at 12pm:

It was an absolutely gorgeous, sunny and WARM day. I was driving with the sunroof open and distinctly remember the smell of the new spring air as I took a deep breath in. And through the very heavy exhale,  (the kind of sigh that releases a mountain of tension from your body) I was jolted back to reality by a phone call from my sister, telling me to get home – RIGHT NOW.

I drove to the airport in a sort of numb fog. I vaguely remember calling my husband to tell him what had happened and where I was going. He had JUST started the new residency program and sadly, could not leave to be with me. And so I continued my journey alone, showing up at the airport with nothing but my wallet, a thin sweater over a t-shirt,  jeans and sneakers.

The earliest flight to NY was not for several hours. I remember standing at the airline counter trying SO hard to fight back tears, and keep it together. The airline employee made it abundantly clear that I was NOT welcome, that I was a PROBLEM, because how DARE I NOT plan ahead like a good patron. I took a deep breath, and said  “Please, my father is dying and I need to get home as soon as possible.” Apparently, that was not even a good enough excuse for her. She did not even look me in the eye (and I’m not exaggerating at all) I received ZERO eye contact, in addition to one short, incomprehensible statement that she mumbled while shoving a boarding pass at me.

Now of course, who knows what was going on in her life at the time. Certainly, I should not let the rudeness of a complete stranger have such an effect on me. But sadly, I don’t remember feeling that utterly alone in my entire life. A warm smile would have meant the world to me (I try to remember this as I interact with people during my bad days). Thankfully, the rest of the trip went fairly smoothly and I reached the hospice within the next 4 hours.

At this point, I must make a confession – one that is very humbling, and only known by two people to this day – I had a secret dream in my heart (a fantasy) that my father would regain consciousness (if only for a moment), when he heard my voice. And I have no idea why, but I was absolutely certain that this would happen.

So, I walked into the hospice room, and saw my mom seated in a chair next to him. She was talking with her friend (and coworker) who sat beside her (ironically, my mom worked for an oncologist, and her friend was one of the nurses at the office). I hugged my mom and asked if I could have a few moments alone with my Dad. She graciously agreed and left me in the privacy of his small hospice room. I sat on the edge of his bed and stared in disbelief as I witnessed the absence of my father – while in the presence of his body. His blue eyes (my blue eyes) were staring straight ahead, and yet seeing nothing.

This is the part of the story when he was supposed to wake up and tell me he loved me. The moment that I was SO sure would happen! But there was nothing. I tried to hug him, and was yet again shocked and heartbroken – he was so cold and lifeless. I rested my head on his chest and tried to at least hear his heartbeat. It was slow and irregular.

And then the breakdown finally came – like a child, I cried, and I sobbed, and I begged, “Daddy please wake up! Please Please wake up! It’s me! It’s Mary! Daddy PLEASE wake up!” And the tears came with uncontrollable sobs. I shook with grief, lying against the shell of the man who was once my father. My STRONG, kind, fun and loving Dad.

And he never woke up.

He died 6 hours later.

And I was crushed.

My husband was eventually able to come to me and he brought me a suitcase full of clothes and supplies – a jacket and something to wear to the funeral. That day was unseasonably warm and like I said, I was only wearing a light shirt with jeans. When we left the hospice that afternoon, it had grown dark and cold outside. I took the sweater from the closet that my Dad wore on his way IN to the facility. It is a very old, very warn, and very ugly grey zip down sweater. It has black zig zags across the bottom that remind me of Charlie Brown. And it remains to this day the most precious piece of clothing that I own.

Arrangements were made quickly, and after many viewings, the mass and the funeral,  I finally came home to Indiana.

The VERY first thing I did was pick up my little Doodle and hold him! And as I held him close to me, I prayed. I thanked God for my sweet little dog and the immense comfort he brought to me at this desperate time in my life.

I was also ecstatic to see Chloe again AND, all of her adorable babies – they had grown SO
much in just a few weeks time! It was good to be back home.

But little did I know things were not to remain calm for long – it was literally one week to the day after my father’s death, when my world was once again turned upside down and I was sent reeling down the darkest tunnel imaginable. I had been profusely thanking God in my prayers for the comfort He brought me through my little Doodle – He was SUCH a gift and a source of tremendous comfort in this desperate time of grief. And then, something so simple, letting him out in the yard, turned into tragedy.

My husband was sitting outside enjoying a cigar by the fire when I let Haithin out to potty at 9pm. I told him that I was letting Doodle out and to please watch him. I had NO idea that my husband had not heard me. And so when I came back expecting to see Doodle waiting by the door, I began to panic. I bolted outside and frantically searched the property.

I ran immediately to the front yard (since we lived on a very busy road) and it was not long before I spotted  a mini-van pulled to the side of the main road. I saw the figure of a woman silhouetted by a streetlamp, and I saw her lifting a small, limp little body off of the pavement. And I screamed, and screamed, “IS THAT my dog?!?!”

He died instantly – his head was crushed and covered in blood. I must have been in shock because I have no memory of walking back to the house. I just remember the look of horror on my husband’s face as he registered what just occurred. I’m sure I was covered in blood, completely disheveled and holding something that was barely recognizable. I walked inside the back door and collapsed on the floor.

And then – I cried, and I cried, and I wailed, and I sobbed uncontrollably.

My whole body shook and I remember involuntary screams coming out, “My Doodle! Not my Doodle! Please! Please God not my Doodle!!”

My husband was paralyzed with fear – he had NO idea what to do for me. How to comfort me?

To this day I still don’t know how she did it, but my sweet rescue dog Chloe somehow managed to turn the doorknob in the room where I kept her and her puppies. She very quietly, very calmly, came to my side and sat next to me. She then laid her head on my shoulder and sighed. Only then was I able to release Doodle’s broken little body from my tight grasp, and I put my arms around her. My sweet Chloe let me hold her, she let me cry – she let me sob into her neck for as long as I needed. Her patience was extraordinary – it was truly a gift. She just sat there – calmly, quietly, nuzzling me with her head in the crook of my neck, for what felt like hours.

It was at that moment that I knew she and I were bonded for life. To say she was special is to call the Mona Lisa “a nice little scribble.” And I had the privilege of loving her, and being loved by her for the last 12 years.

Today I mourn for HER life. I held HER body in my arms, and I wept for the loss of my precious little girl.

There was no one to hold me the way she did 12 years ago. And yet, I still find myself giving thanks to God once again, because I know this is not the end. I cannot explain to you how I know, but I do. Not unlike how Chloe knew I needed her on that tragic night, nearly 12 years ago.

I have complete faith that one day I will rejoice in reunion with my father, my little Doodle, and my darling sweet Chloe once again.

My prayer tonight: May you find true peace in the knowledge that all of your lost loved ones are still very much alive. For those of you reading this in a time of grief, I hope I can offer comfort to you with the faith that you WILL see them once again.  May you too find the comfort that I have been blessed with. It really is there – be willing to embrace it, and it is yours.

As I write this, my darling Chloe is in the hospital, alone, receiving supportive care for a type of cancer for which there is no cure. And the onslaught of the “what if’s,” the “maybes” and the “if onlys” come to assault me in the still of the night – which is now, 1am March 3, 2017. The asault and the accusations are relentless and I fight to find the calm, still and gentle voice of God – to hear what He has to say in this. For just like everyone’s beloved pet, there is a story that is untold and often privy only to the heart of the person who’s life has been deeply intertwined, impacted, and ultimately made different because of the animal who entered their life – for however many years, months, weeks or days.

And so to do any justice to Chloe’s story, and what she has inspired, I must go back many years to where it all began. It is not a pretty story. It is a heart-breaking one that continues to this day. But it is without question one worth telling.

Out of veterinary school, and head first into the real world

I had just finished my fairly brutal internship after reaching my doctorate of veterinary medicine in 2002. I had high hopes of the future and big plans to create a clinic where every pet and person was known, loved, and cared for like my own family. As I waited for this dream to come to fruition, I decided to volunteer for a local humane society. The ultimate irony was this – there was nothing in my career path that changed me more deeply than this rather small volunteering experience. I learned very quickly to improve my efficiency in surgery (mostly spays and neuters) because there was ALWAYS another patient waiting on the surgery table behind me to get to as soon as possible. Two operating tables in one large room. I, the veterinary surgeon would stand in between these tables and as I was sewing up my last patient, I felt the pressure to hurry up so I could begin the next surgery on the table just behind me. No time to use the restroom, chug a drink of water, or eat a quick snack (and then deal with friends/family later demanding to know why I did not answer my phone.)

And that is how the day would go – operating on one animal, turning around and beginning the process on the next. It was exhausting, but their was a part of me that also found it exhilarating – I WAS making a difference!

And then one day all of those high hopes came crashing down. I turned to the table behind me to begin the next surgery, and to my utter horror I quickly realized that I was expected to perform a spay on an extremely pregnant (and by that I mean she could have gone into labor at any moment leading up to the surgery) Rottweiller. I was expected to spay her. And I was urged to move on because of course there were more surgeries to be done. I asked, I begged, I pleaded, but the answer was the same, “we don’t need more puppies.” And so I willed myself forward, forcing my hands to stop shaking, and began the procedure. I decided that I needed a huge mental shift and FAST if I was to survive this. I MUST be preoccupied with the mom, and make my efforts about her – making sure she was safe, and that she would come out of this experience alive, well and ready for a forever home. I vividly remember clamping the arteries – the blood supply to the babies, and I felt the tears stream down my face and drip into my surgical mask. “Focus on momma, focus on momma” I urged myself on. And when I had done my duty, I passed over an enormous uterus filled with many many viable puppies to the technician. I forced myself to concentrate back to mom, but I could NOT block out what was happening in my peripheral vision. The technicians drew up several syringes full of euthanasia solution. And, one by one, they killed her puppies.

I was physically ill, (literally) but again I was now absolutely determined to get momma through this horror and get her on the road to recovery – and ultimately adoption. With immense relief, I finally  placed the last skin suture. The other vet took pity on me and said she would cover the remaining surgeries. I was so grateful. I sat in the cage with momma and waited until she was completely recovered before I left.

I walked to my car with a broken heart. I endured eight years of intense schooling, sacrificed SO much, so that I could HELP animals. And here I was walking to my car having just killed that poor dog’s entire litter of babies. I felt like a monster.

I don’t believe I slept more than a few hours that night and at the first light I drove straight to the humane society. I was not scheduled to be there, but I HAD to make sure momma was ok. I looked through the recovery cages and did not see her. I looked through the various kennels, and still no sign of her. Finally I grabbed one of the techs and asked her where momma was – I desperately wanted to check on her.

And as though my heart could not sink any lower, I was informed that she was euthanized – WHAT?!  I was told that they took x-rays of her hips (larger breeds are more prone to hip problems) and they decided that her hips looked bad enough that it was best to euthanize her. And through clenched teeth and a great deal of self restraint, I asked “and why could we not have done this BEFORE putting her through such a major surgery?” Well, as it turned out, the babies were in the way of getting a good x-ray of her hips, so there was no way to tell until AFTER they were removed.

Before I continue the story I must offer a little more background info. The internship that I had just completed included a rather intense training with a highly renowned and greatly respected board certified surgeon. One of the big take away points was that you NEVER make a prognosis for a dogs quality of life based on an x-ray alone. So now, we will never know if that beautiful dog could have lived a full, rich and wonderful life.

To say I was disgusted is the most modest description. I was forced to perform a very high risk procedure on a full-term large breed dog. All of her puppies were killed. And for what? to eventually kill her with the excuse of “bad hips?”

This will haunt me for the rest of my life. But it was also the moment of a great awakening.  After MUCH MUCH effort, I finally convinced the board of directors that they should consider an alternative when made available – and yes, that alternative was me. And THAT is how “Cherished Life” began. They agreed that I could take animals that were at term pregnancy, but ONLY I was allowed to do this since they knew I would spay/neuter all puppies/kittens prior to adoption.

Not 24 hours after I received the green light, I was messaged by an employee that they had the first female for me to take but I MUST hurry! When I got to the kennel I understood why – there was a large sign on her run that said “EMERGENCY SPAY.” I watched at least a dozen employees/volunteers walk past this dog – and she remained at the far corner of the run hunched in fear. The SECOND I came towards her cage, she leapt up and came right to me. I put a slip lead on her and she bolted me out the door! I took her to my car and helped her in (she weighed about as much in puppies as she did her own body weight). She rested her head on me, and I knew that she was waiting for me to take her home.

Somehow, she knew she was safe with me.

I drove her straight to my clinic which was about an hour away. Within the next 30 minutes, her first baby was born on the floor of my car. By the time I got to my clinic, there were three newborns to bring inside with her. I put her in my office, dimmed the lights and set up a nesting area. It was not too much longer that the last two pups were born.

She is my Chloe. My dear sweet sweet girl that I rescued exactly 12 years ago. And now, her life is coming to an end.