Letting Lucy Go
I had hoped to keep her going for longer--another week, another month--but it wasn't to be. I drew some joy from being able to feed her this spring's fresh grass and to see her sitting out in the cat yard, taking in the evening sun. But those pleasures were transient. Perhaps it is a blessing that she went downhill so quickly, as it abbreviated her suffering, but twelve years seemed too brief a life for such a sweet cat.
Over the weekend, I could tell that the Metacam wasn't keeping the pain at bay. Lucy retreated to her spot behind the engine stand and by Sunday evening, she had stopped eating. I tempted her with her favorites and made sure she had her daily dose of pain medication, but she withdrew inside herself, responding only to my caresses, leaning her face against my hand and purring.
Hope is such a tenacious thing. All day Monday, my mind was running in circles. Was it too late to operate and see if Lucy's pain could be alleviated? I knew the answer but I hate admitting defeat. That's when I realized I was keeping her alive for my sake, not hers. The Monday night dose of Metacam didn't do much good--Lucy still turned her face away from any offerings of food. I kept wishing for one more good day, one more hour sitting in the sun...
Tuesday morning, Lucy was laying by the refrigerator, as if she had been on her way to the water fountain (even though there was a water dish near her bed) and just lost strength. I gave her another dose of pain medication then carried her to the pad by the fountain. After I called the vet clinic and left a message for Dots to call me, I sank down beside Lucy in the dim light, stroking her head until she purred, but even her purring sounded strained.
I had brought my first cup of coffee out into the shop with me, so I sat there, petting Lucy, sipping my coffee, and letting hot tears run down my cheeks. I kept rubbing her head and saying how sorry I was that she was hurting. I tried to ground myself and draw the pain from her, but instead of a drawing-out sensation when I touched her, I could feel an energy--like radiance--pushing against my skin--as if something inside her were longing to be freed.
I always knew there is a strong force for survival--something that keeps us hanging on through suffering and past all hope. But I hadn't realized there was this second force--not quite in opposition but perhaps complimentary. A spark of the eternal radiance that seeks to return to its source. Something that finally bursts free when we are sick or injured or worn out.
A fire inside Lucy was straining to go home. All that remained of her life was a long corridor of pain with that final brilliance waiting at the end. I couldn't change the inevitability of that path, but I could release her from the pain, shorten her path and let her go home.
My heart clocked the morning routine of the clinic and when the phone rang just after nine, I knew it would be Dots. I told her nothing was keeping the pain from Lucy any more and we needed to end her suffering.
"Come on in," Dots said.
I went upstairs, threw myself on the bed and had a good cry until a concerned feline contingent embarrassed me into getting up, dabbing my face and squaring my shoulders. I carried Lucy out of the house for the last time in my arms.
Afterwards, I drove out to Reid's Greenhouse and bought violas and pansies and marigolds in a state of numb grief. I went out back when I got home and decided on a spot--near Newt and Rosie--to lay Lucy to rest. I tried to dig but the ground was still frozen about six inches down. I scrapped away the topsoil to allow the ground to thaw, then spent an hour or so cleaning our little cemetery--re-marking the graves and clearing away fallen branches. I guess it was therapeutic but when I considered the lives that have touched ours and moved on, I felt a weird combination of love and loss.
I only broke down once, later in the day when I went out to feed the cats in the shop and noticed the gap in the ranks. I cried plenty for Lucy when she was alive and suffering. Now all that is left is grief.
And somewhere--in the eternal ether--Lucy is dancing in the light, home at last.
Over the weekend, I could tell that the Metacam wasn't keeping the pain at bay. Lucy retreated to her spot behind the engine stand and by Sunday evening, she had stopped eating. I tempted her with her favorites and made sure she had her daily dose of pain medication, but she withdrew inside herself, responding only to my caresses, leaning her face against my hand and purring.
Hope is such a tenacious thing. All day Monday, my mind was running in circles. Was it too late to operate and see if Lucy's pain could be alleviated? I knew the answer but I hate admitting defeat. That's when I realized I was keeping her alive for my sake, not hers. The Monday night dose of Metacam didn't do much good--Lucy still turned her face away from any offerings of food. I kept wishing for one more good day, one more hour sitting in the sun...
Tuesday morning, Lucy was laying by the refrigerator, as if she had been on her way to the water fountain (even though there was a water dish near her bed) and just lost strength. I gave her another dose of pain medication then carried her to the pad by the fountain. After I called the vet clinic and left a message for Dots to call me, I sank down beside Lucy in the dim light, stroking her head until she purred, but even her purring sounded strained.
I had brought my first cup of coffee out into the shop with me, so I sat there, petting Lucy, sipping my coffee, and letting hot tears run down my cheeks. I kept rubbing her head and saying how sorry I was that she was hurting. I tried to ground myself and draw the pain from her, but instead of a drawing-out sensation when I touched her, I could feel an energy--like radiance--pushing against my skin--as if something inside her were longing to be freed.
I always knew there is a strong force for survival--something that keeps us hanging on through suffering and past all hope. But I hadn't realized there was this second force--not quite in opposition but perhaps complimentary. A spark of the eternal radiance that seeks to return to its source. Something that finally bursts free when we are sick or injured or worn out.
A fire inside Lucy was straining to go home. All that remained of her life was a long corridor of pain with that final brilliance waiting at the end. I couldn't change the inevitability of that path, but I could release her from the pain, shorten her path and let her go home.
My heart clocked the morning routine of the clinic and when the phone rang just after nine, I knew it would be Dots. I told her nothing was keeping the pain from Lucy any more and we needed to end her suffering.
"Come on in," Dots said.
I went upstairs, threw myself on the bed and had a good cry until a concerned feline contingent embarrassed me into getting up, dabbing my face and squaring my shoulders. I carried Lucy out of the house for the last time in my arms.
Afterwards, I drove out to Reid's Greenhouse and bought violas and pansies and marigolds in a state of numb grief. I went out back when I got home and decided on a spot--near Newt and Rosie--to lay Lucy to rest. I tried to dig but the ground was still frozen about six inches down. I scrapped away the topsoil to allow the ground to thaw, then spent an hour or so cleaning our little cemetery--re-marking the graves and clearing away fallen branches. I guess it was therapeutic but when I considered the lives that have touched ours and moved on, I felt a weird combination of love and loss.
I only broke down once, later in the day when I went out to feed the cats in the shop and noticed the gap in the ranks. I cried plenty for Lucy when she was alive and suffering. Now all that is left is grief.
And somewhere--in the eternal ether--Lucy is dancing in the light, home at last.
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