(Note to medical copy editors: “euthanized” is considered the verb of choice when discussing veterinary matters, unlike laboratory matters.)
Olivia was 5 when Leia joined the household, and because the kittens were a girl and a boy, they were generally regarded as belonging to the same-sex child—Luke was Andrew’s and Leia was Olivia’s. Of course, both were everyone’s, and have been loved by all, but the focus of grief after Leia’s death has to be on Olivia.
The night they went to the vet to put Leia to sleep, Olivia stayed with her mother and the cat through the whole process. Elizabeth was very proud of how Olivia handled herself and stuck it out. Although she is only 16, Olivia is wise in many ways, and Elizabeth and I agreed that although this scene was very difficult, it was good that Olivia witness it, that she was old enough to understand and handle it.
(When I was 16, my dog Black Jack had to be put to sleep—I declined to go with my mother that night, and I’ve always regretted it. I should have been there.)
Last week, it was my turn. After several years of declining health, Bella had a stroke on Tuesday. I came home to find her able to stand if I gave her a boost, but unable to swallow or walk. I’m not sure she could see, although she seemed to know when I was next to her.
I called Bob, who rushed home, and the vet. I took Bella outside in the sunshine while we waited for Bob. I told her what a beautiful girl she was, how much I loved my Bella, and I radiated as much gratitude as I could. She was confused and upset, but I felt her respond with my presence and attention. I was able to say goodbye.
me and Bella waiting for Bob to come home
The vet was great. Bob was great. The end was easy and peaceful. I am confident that I did the right thing. I have known for a long time that this day was near, and I had thought a lot about whether I would know for sure that it was time for Bella to die. These events were so clear that I just felt grateful to her and the universe for not making me guess.
I don’t want to give the impression that I was unaffected. I cried—a lot. I cried the most when the final IV was going into her leg. That surprised me, that last rush of emotion. The loss of my Bella, of her presence, her (?) soul.
And I miss her.
But I am okay, and I will be okay.
* * *
Olivia is a good writer, and a month or two ago, she started a blog. Then after Leia died, she did not write any posts for a while (understandably). Last week, she wrote a short paragraph saying how her outlook had changed, that her sense of hope and her view of the future had changed, that she had struggled with the idea of letting go (of Leia, I infer).
This post surprised me. I knew she was grieving over Leia, obviously, but I had forgotten what it’s like to be 16. I had forgotten that at one time, my views of life and death were not so codified (my own code, not someone else’s, but a code nonetheless). I had forgotten that every experience is new, when you are that young. And although Olivia is a wise 16, she remains an adolescent who is just learning about the ups and downs of these earthly days.
And so I turn back to myself—my 44-year-old self, not the enshrouded, scared 16-year-old I once was—and wonder how Bella’s life and death have changed me.
But first I keep coming back to one important difference that divides these experiences. Bella was 16 and had lived a full life; she still had good days, but mostly she was in pain with arthritis and could not hear or see well. Her life was, truly, over. I had given her all I could.
Bella and Smokey
Leia was still young, so the pain of her death is compounded by the unfairness of disease and fate. When a grandmother in her 80s dies, it is sad but within the norm. When an aunt in her 40s dies (as my Aunt Sarah did), it is sadness exponentially wrenched by unfairness.
Bella has been my companion, my child, and my responsibility; I had the primary role in optimizing her life and death. I am at peace.
Olivia’s role in Leia’s life and death was circumscribed by her age and position—she was Leia’s playmate, not parent, and responsibility for Leia’s care was not primarily hers. Can she view Leia’s death as anything other than tragedy, the loss of a friend too soon? I know that she will think about these things for many years.
How do we reconcile the love we have for our pets with the knowledge that their lives are so short compared with ours?
As much as I sift these thoughts around and around, I can’t get beyond the trite truth: I do it by knowing that when I had the chance, I gave of my time and love to make Bella’s stay here better.
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