March 17th
The pain may fade, but the memory won’t.
Around March 10, 2023, my friend, M, and I took Lexi (my Maltese) to the emergency vet. She was fourteen, and too old for surgery. The abscess on her chest was oozing brown stuff, and we couldn’t get it to stop. The emergency vet was packed, and after some triage, it was decided that we could either wait six hours for an antibiotic, or we could take her home to see her regular vet the next day. I was willing to wait, but cooler heads prevailed, so we waited until the next day to see her vet.
The next day, her vet, Dr. B, checked Lexi and prescribed an antibiotic. She was concerned about the abscess rupturing internally. We got Lexi the antibiotic, and after a couple of days, the abscess stopped oozing. I called Dr. B to let her know, and she was relieved. It looked like Lexi was in the clear, until she wasn’t.
March 17, 2023
It seemed like a normal Friday; I woke up, my friend walked Lexi, and I got myself a cup of coffee while waiting for them to return home. It was only a couple of minutes later when my friend brought Lexi back in. He said she was lethargic. I wasn’t concerned; Lexi was sometimes lethargic when she took a combination of antibiotics and the hydrocodone she needed for her collapsing trachea.
I prepared her food and set the dish down for her to eat, but she didn’t show any interest. She was a picky eater and stubborn about it; the behavior wasn’t unusual, and she would eat all of her food at dinnertime.
This morning was different; she refused to get out of her bed. She’d lift her head, but it seemed like she couldn’t keep it up. I picked up Lexi’s bowl, and it was then that I noticed Lexi hadn’t drunk anything. I was concerned, so I called Dr. B’s office before they closed at noon. There was no answer, so I left a voicemail and waited for a callback. 20 minutes elapsed, which was unusual since the vet’s staff were quite diligent. I called back and left another voicemail. Another 20 minutes elapsed, and no callback. M and I noticed that it was 11:15 A.M., 45 minutes before the vet closed. We decided to take her over to Dr. B’s without an appointment or callback.
The drive over was quiet. I kept looking at Lexi and thinking, “This is it. She stopped eating and drinking; she can barely hold her head up. I can’t believe it’s ending like this.” Panic washed over me at the thought; how was I supposed to live without her? She was my emotional support animal (ESA), and I couldn’t lose her.
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After the longest 10 minutes of my life, we arrived and burst into Dr. B’s office. I immediately said, “There’s something wrong with Lexi. I called, but there was no answer, so we brought her over before you close.” My hands were shaking, my voice panicked. The front desk clerk looked confused and glanced at the phone. At that point, Dr. B opened the door to the back and told us that she’d see Lexi. We went back and got ourselves situated in the room; Dr. B entered shortly. She examined Lexi and said that it looked like the abscess ruptured internally, and it was slowly poisoning Lexi’s blood. Dr. B told me, “I can give her a stronger antibiotic and pain medication so you can make a decision over the weekend…” Her voice trailed off, and my stomach sank.
This was it. It was really happening. Suddenly, clarity washed over me. My hands stopped shaking, and I stopped panicking. I told Dr. B, “It’s time to let her go.” Dr. B nodded, confirming my decision. She explained that Lexi would receive two shots: a sedative at first, and then the second one to stop her heart after the sedative kicked in. With tears running down my face, I said, “I don’t want to do this.” Dr. B nodded sympathetically and said, “I know.” We discussed final arrangements and the options I had. I decided to have Lexi’s ashes spread in the funeral home’s “Scattered Garden.”
The vet tech, A, and Dr. B left the room briefly and returned with a blanket and the sedative. Dr. B warned that the shot had to go into muscle and it would hurt. A held Lexi while the shot was administered; Lexi yelped and nipped at A, which was surprising since Lexi rarely nipped. After A let her go, Lexi jetted toward me for reassurance. I picked her up and held her in my arms while we waited for the sedative to render her unconscious. I held her in my arms; I hummed softly, running my fingers through her hair. I talked to her about how much I was going to miss her, how it would be alright, and to sleep.
I don’t know how long I held her for; it felt like not enough time. Dr. B came in to check on Lexi’s level of sedation. After pinching Lexi’s paw with no reaction, it was time. Dr. B and A gently laid her on the table, covered her with the blanket, and administered the final shot. I told Lexi, “I’m sorry, but I did my best,” and Dr. B said, “More than most.”
I remember they tried to tuck Lexi’s tongue back in her mouth, but it wouldn’t stay. Lexi had only one tooth left in the front of her mouth, so it wasn’t unusual for her tongue to loll while she slept.
After telling M and me to take all the time we needed, they left the room. M tried putting Lexi’s tongue back into her mouth; I wondered why everyone was obsessed with that detail. After a couple of minutes, I looked down at her and then back up at M and said, “It’s not Lexi anymore. She’s gone.” I composed myself and left the room; A held the door to the lobby open for us. It was apparent that she’d been crying and still had tears in her eyes. I broke down again.
I cried most of the way home. I’d given up my baby girl, and it broke my heart. That night, I dreamt that I was holding her again; running my fingers through her soft hair and telling her how much I loved her. When I woke up, I still felt the sensation of running my fingers in her cool and soft hair.
The vet’s office sent a sympathy card and included prints of her nose and paw. This small gesture made tears well up in my eyes, but it was appreciated. Even though it’s been three years, I still have the sympathy card and the prints.
Every breath, every day, every week was hellish for a while. I had to learn to breathe again, exist without her. It’s been three years, and I’m still learning how to breathe, how to exist without her.
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