On being present, one dog at a time
Two and a half years ago my Mika woke up with her usual zest for breakfast, albeit a bit slow to move from the comforts of cuddles (she’s no fool). Everything was a “normal” work day. I got my bike ready to ride to the bus, and went back to give kisses and say my goodbyes to my girls. As I grasped Mika’s head in my hands to give her a smooch, I felt a soft pickled lemon along the right side of her neck. I immediately knew something was very wrong. I know every inch of her little freckled sun kissed mole tagged body. She was breathing fine, and had just eaten and drank, but she needed a doctor, without a doubt. I thought I could leave and ask my girlfriend at the time to take care of her..I had meetings and work and my girlfriend was working from home at the time..I went out the door and was riding, and then turned back. I knew a little dog needed her momma, just as I needed her, and I don’t think I really need much.
I went back to bed and laid with her for a bit, and then we made our way to the gauntlet of emergency vet services (oh, what they see on a day to day basis!!). I steadied myself as her advocate warrior, and tried to be patient in the trauma and intake process along with many other dog and cat parents facing various maladies with their loved family members. I didn’t know how big of an emergency this was. Emergency waiting rooms are an intense energetic experience. Some pets were losing their fight or facing the rainbow bridge in the hours we waited. Long story short — first vet notices the lump, and considers diagnoses. Allergic reaction to something? Maybe a bug bite? She then listens to her heart, and the sinister arrhythmia makes her beat known to the world. Perhaps the allergic reaction elevated the heart’s response? I’ll never know. I considered the small but telling symptoms that lead me to consider her heart condition had been developing for at least a year (one fainting episode that I thought was just an awkward boxer moment seemed innocuous at the time, running slower, etc.). The doctor listens and looks at me with all earnestness to say her recommendation is that we go immediately to a different emergency room with a heart specialist. We go to the heart specialist, wait a few more hours in another emergency waiting room, and the diagnosis rings true after EKG, etc. My Google searches for information on boxer heart conditions as I wait are inflammatory and futile (reminder to self — Googling for answers on terminal conditions, while enlightening, can add to my anxiety without an expert to interpret). Before the diagnosis, I knew my days were numbered with my boxer girl. At 11, she was already senior. That day she was given heart medication, set up for a holter monitor, and given six months to a year and a half to live. We’d come back for periodic checks. No more running, but we should go on with our life, and monitor for quality of life. We would adjust as the condition progressed.
We never really know when our loved humans or animals are going to leave us. Some of us think we have control. Some of us are very wrong. Animal parents know we sign up for years to a decade+ at most (if we’re lucky) with our unconditional lovebugs, and we know the barrel of pain we will face at the end as we navigate their joy, quality of life, and consider end of life decisions and care. We went on with life, albeit with a bit more punctuation on possible transitions.
When quarantine hit, I think my dogs thought they won the lottery. I had ended a romantic relationship in the fall of 2019, and my pack and I settled into our best pandemic life the following spring. I was grateful for their love and presence. Fast forward to January of 2021, and a new cancer diagnosis for Mika. Anal sac adenocarcinoma. The tumor was just starting to be visible but was already wrapped around her anus, and her oncologist thought it would be tricky to operate on even if she didn’t have heart disease. With advanced heart disease, it was just as possible that she would die on the operating table. We tried several months of chemo (palladia), but the tumor stopped responding a couple of months ago. I made the decision to move to palliative care. We had some home acupuncture visits, and I went deep into my anticipatory grief process. I had cowardly moments of hoping that she’d die in her sleep from her heart condition rather than face a prolonged wasting away as cancer eroded her organs and her energy.
This afternoon I am having an amazing human come to my home to help me help my Mika pass peacefully. That perhaps will be a story for another time, but I know this is the right thing to do. I have been preparing for this moment for years. I had lost one dog quickly and tragically in my adult life, but I had never had to face the knowing, the delicate negotiation of feeling my dog and needing to have the courage to help her move on peacefully. Mika had been collapsing in my arms for months, and in the past weeks multiple times a day. Still, we had moments of joy. I felt her will to live, to be present.
In the past months, weeks, I again went to Google for answers. I begrudgingly joined Facebook groups with people who had the same conditions with their pets. I was amazed at the kindness and knowledge that was shared with such empathy, speed, science, and for the most part very little judgement. We were all navigating our paths with our pets the best we could. I tried to find levity in the situation, considering whether I was like The Narrator in Fight Club. Was I going to find myself in the Facebook equivalent of a hug with Big Bob? I resented Facebook for what I felt had been a weakening of our democracy and a perpetuation of falsehoods, but in those groups I found kindred souls and comfort. I had been having some insomnia as Mika would wake me as she had syncopal episodes in the night. In truth, the grief and the utter lack of control over the situation, of knowing what was right, of having a clear answer and a clear path — well, it was a blanket of grief and uncertainty that I hadn’t experienced in my adult life.
I pondered if the world could be a better place if only humans could set down our politics and find science and faith in the unifying love of caring for our fur babies as we considered death and how to prepare for the end of life. I also went back to Google. Google, how do you assess quality of life? I searched in mostly futility for the answers, but I did find many words of comfort, nuggets of care and peace. It helped me prepare, and I was grateful to have this time to prepare. I had a perverted gratitude for the pandemic and the privelege I had of being able to spend these last months with Mika.
People said I would know it was time. Today I knew it was time, and I am showing up the best I can. Today a huge heart and energetic being will cross the rainbow bridge. If you believe in reincarnation, I hope you’re lucky enough to get to spend time with her. She was a one in a billion kind of love, and I’ll carry her in my heart for the rest of my days.
After one particularly bad morning a few months ago, this poem came to me. I now share it with you as an offering to all of your fur babies, and I hope you too can show up the best you can when you need to help your loved ones in their moments of transition.
Thank you, Mika. I love you.
Mika the Boxer
June 2021
Feeling your dog collapse
in your arms with a syncope
is like witnessing an inner earthquake,
the tremors that could end life,
or be a wake-up call
to the life you’re living.
In the moment,
all I can do is hold her,
and bear witness.
Tell her she’s loved,
and try not to cry out
that I’m not ready.
In those microseconds
of limbo suffering
The unknown
years pass and everything slows
As her body alternates between shaking
And stillness.
Her chest doesn’t move
her eyes open
Is this moment it?
A silent mantra.
Then realizations
Sometimes we’re not even ready for life let alone death.
Is she dead?
No she’s moving again.
Then still.
I wait. Go inward.
I want to be a better human
To be present for her
To be ready
When she is ready.
Small and large experiences can infect color the way we show up every day.
I consider the opposing forces
of love and fear.
This one, my senior dog love warrior
Keeps coming back
because I think she likes napping
with an eye on me.
Goddess knows I need the supervision sometimes,
And Mika holds nothing back.
She likes the victory laps,
The increasingly slower walks that we take together.
Yes, please smell that thing again.
I will wait.
She has a joy for the simple things
that I’m sometimes too busy
and wrapped up in work to appreciate.
This year of quarantine has been a gift
for her and me.
I initially thought the cancer diagnosis
on top of heart disease
would mean we had less time,
but if anything, I think it’s only punctuated the time we have.
Because there’s never enough time. There’s never enough life to live.
We never know when it’s going to be over. Wise people say the best thing we can do is show up.
This dog.
This goofy light of my life is my teacher.
I hope I get all the lessons she wants me to see
Before her heart can no longer
Contain that wild wise spirit
She snores next to me.
This moment, maybe tonight.
I will miss that snore
But for now, her snore is like an airplane
Taking off.
Reminding me to pay attention
From above and below.
To be here.
Now.
