If I Love You, I Will Take Care of You
I can’t count the number of deep breaths I took during the last week of my baby
Odyss’s time on this earth. Or how often I felt that invisible punch to my gut. Or
how much I wavered on the edge of denial—this can’t be happening now, not yet,
can’t we have a few more days?
There had been so very many days we were given since the first cancer
diagnosis (transitional cell carcinoma, incurable). July 7, 2024.
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22 months and 15 days
My routine came to be centered on Odyss’s well-being, and I loved that. We were
so happy riding together to our veterinary appointments. Those hours in the car,
listening to favorite music, with the windows down when weather allowed, Odyss
breathing the fresh air as he lounged on the back seat with his water bowl next to
him. Many treats, the occasional pup cup, “Thunder Road” turned up loud …
He loved cars. He loved the vet. He had no side effects from his chemo and his
vet team cooed over him and admired his outfits and gave him treats galore.
What’s not to love?
At home, we’d made every accommodation for his mobility and incontinence
issues. If I love you, I will take care of you when you can’t do for yourself
anymore. I’ll lift you up (with a Help ‘Em Up harness) and buy plenty o’ belly bands and IKEA throw rugs and Nature’s Miracle and laundry detergent. It is an honor.
Everyone in our home—my husband, Tony, and our healthy girl, Miss Pearl, and Odyss—understood that completely. Some friends and neighbors and family didn’t. I got a little judgy pushback—questions about his quality of life and jabs about the inconvenience of cleaning up after him. That put distance between me and the critics and I’m not sure that I’ll ever get closer again to those people.
But I had joy keeping my boy happy and loved and that’s all that matters to me.
When the end is near
The decline in Odyss’s last two months was first sneaky, then more evident.
Despite getting laser treatments that had previously helped with his mobility, his
movement was clearly painful. Then he told Pearl to stop wrestling with him.
Then he stopped wiggling on his back and grunting like a gremlin. And he slept
so much.
On Monday, May 18, I felt this radioactive ache inside as I watched him sleep the
day away. And I told Tony that it was time for The Talk. Then I scheduled a 1-on-1
with a PLC support specialist—so comforting… What I most wanted was not to hang on
too long until he’d be in great pain.
I’ve been through this before. I called my trusted hospice vet, who’d helped me
say goodbye to 3 of my 5 previous dogs. (The others had to depart this world at
the vet’s office.)
They were amazing, as always. They helped make the arrangements as smooth
and painless as possible. And then we were able to reschedule to a day earlier
than I’d originally planned—because Odyss just stopped standing and eating.
Making goodbye as beautiful as all the years before
We all love music. We made a sweet playlist of classical CDs—Chopin, acoustic
guitar, Jessye Norman, Yo Yo Ma’s Goat Rodeo. I read a picture book aloud for
Odyss (Galunker, about a misunderstood pit bull who found happiness and
acceptance). We took turns petting him and cuddling him. He absolutely loved
my yoga mat and he laid there soaking in the affection. When the vet arrived, we
decided Odyss could stay right there on the mat. It was where he belonged.
Odyss sweetly rolled over and managed to get up to walk to the seated vet and
smile at here and greet her. He gladly accepted her treats. (Yes, for a split
second I thought ‘his appetite is back!’ Then I came to my senses.)
The vet loved our boy. Of course. She let us spend as much time as we needed
on our final words and kisses. She spoke to him so gently. Then she
administered first the sedative, and then the medication to stop his heart.
“He is at peace now… ”
Tony took Pearl for a walk to decompress and the doctor let me be alone with
Odyss. I took off his cuddly soft muscle tee and his Tiger Toes socks that had
helped him stand in the last month. I wanted him to be totally comfortable for this
last vet appointment, but we were keeping these beautiful mementoes.
The doctor wrapped Odyss in a pretty blanket and she and I carried him down
the stairs to her van. It had flowers and electric candles in it and it was very
sweet. Tony and Pearl returned and we waved goodbye as the van pulled away.
What now?
We packed Pearl into our car and drove to a forest preserve where the four of us
used to walk together for hours when Odyss still had good mobility. He was so
awed as he navigated over tree roots and through little creeks—he was a pibble
Boy Scout, so proud of his brave little self!
It’s been 3 weeks now, and I cry about the smallest things. Like washing all the
IKEA rugs—but I can’t bring myself to pack them away. Or catching myself calling
him first for meals—because he was slower and he needed more time to get to
the kitchen.
Pearl is sad, too. She misses her boyfriend and clings closer than ever to us.
We’re planning fun things for her, you can be sure.
I’ll never stop missing him. At the same time, I’m so grateful that the universe
gifted this previous abuse survivor and gentle soul to me. I think caring for him is
the greatest achievement of my life. I love you, Odysseus.
“Goodnight, sweet prince. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
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