Cari amici,
My dog’s lifelong autoimmune disorder has numbered her days. We don’t know how many remain—what lucky, or unlucky, soul has such a crystal ball?—but I trust that Aria will tell us when it’s time.
Her long, gradual decline sped up two days after Christmas. We upped her meds, chased her symptoms. The same day that my sons left for their respective homes, Aria and I began a five-day sprint of two to six hours a day at the vet’s office, of fluids and subcutaneous meds to help her body rest and find a path to recovery. If she does recover it won’t be for long; she’s 15 in dog years, which for her size is the human equivalent of 90-something. Still, you want to grasp those moments, squeeze out every bit of life. If it’s worth living.
A week ago, she and I stood on frozen stone in the dark while snow snarled the streets and quilted the rooftops. She stared at nothing and refused to move. When we finally made it back inside, a towel slung under her belly to help her up the stairs, she would not eat. She did not sleep. She stared.
The vet and I agreed it was time.
But the next morning when we arrived at the ambulatorio for our dreaded appointment, she barked at the resident cats. She seemed perkier. Clear-eyed. We hesitated, conferred. Decided to try one more, absolutely last-ditch effort—massive IV steroids and a blood transfusion to treat an anemia that should have killed her.
More hours at the ambulatorio, watching the slow drip of blood, fluids, meds, time. Hours of existing in our own space, her head in my hands, my face in the fluff of her neck.
This is our fourth day staying home, of oral meds instead of IV. I feed her whatever she will eat—baby food, pieces of steak or pork chop, cooked carrots and apples. She’s fond of rosemary crackers, or, in a pinch, saltines.
Yesterday was a good day, which gave me hope. Today the pendulum has swung heavily in the other direction.
We wait. I watch. Her body is in charge. I trust she’ll tell me when it’s time, though what I wish for her is a gentle drifting away as she sleeps.
Tante belle cose. More when I can.
Cheryl
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