Hi Marian,
I have been thinking so much about you and Holly during the last few weeks
as I face the heartbreak of losing my golden girl. I know how hard it was
for you to lose Holly and I wonder how you go on after having a part of your
heart taken like this.
I am comforted by the fact that Ella has not suffered, that she’s been given
every chance and the best medical care in the world, and that when she goes
it will be surrounded by people that she loves–she has amazingly fallen in
love with her vet at Davis, and the many wonderful students who have cared
for her. So I’m trying to stay focused on the positive, and give her a
fabulous last week.
Hope you are doing well–
Cathy: thank you for writing me your letter. I deeply appreciate being
included in your grief with Ella. I am thinking what to say to you. It is
nearly 2 years since I lost my Holly girl, and only now am beginning to even
think about another dog. I would not hear of it for the first year. And
this was what everyone asked me…”when are you …..etc.” or “Are you
getting another?” I always said, no. There is NO REPLACEMENT. But what
I’m learning is that there are many places to put that love, and that the
pain will not be as acute when we surround ourselves with other animals to
love and care for. I surely wasn’t ready. I’m not sure I am now, but I
desperately want a dog in my life, and so I stop every single dog on the
street. It is clear I will find another doggie connection. HOw did I get
thru it you ask. I did a lot of memorials. I set up a memorial table(it’s
still here) with all of Holly’s things, photos spread out, candles, her
ashes in a cedar box, some angels, her blue scarf, her id, etc etc. And it
kept her energy in the room for me to go to. I talked about her a lot, but
only after a few weeks had gone by. At first, I didn’t answer the phone,
too painful. Then I took walks with other neighbors and their dogs. And I
cried at night. And I have an elderly diabetic cat who wets the floor, for
company, so was not alone, and gave me something to care for, and about.
Oh, and I wrote stories about Holly, and some experiences, both good and
bad. I’m still writing. I have what I think will be a book about our
journey together. She is always in my heart, forever.
Ella will always be with you, their energy stays around. I wish you were
closer, as I would go with you to help you through this process. Don’t go
alone, bring a loving friend to hold you, as you hold her. And let her go
as your final gift of love to her. Here’s some pieces I wrote.
www.yourpetloss.com/the-final-gift-of-love/
Please keep me informed of how you are. You are both blessed that you have a
vet that “gets it” and that she has a connection with. Holly did also, and
it was a great comfort.
My love to you and Ella.
Marian:
I’m reading your letter and your two attachments with tears streaming down
my face. I wish that I could express my love for Ella as eloquently as you
talk about your relationship with Holly. I just hope she feels it in the
times we are together.
Thank you so much for sharing your wisdom and your pain with me, and for
being there for me, even before I sent you this last email–I mean it when I
say that I’ve been thinking of you and Holly often, drawing strength from
the fact that you undestand this connection that, as you say, will never go
away.
It does help having other animals to care for and about. I have two rabbits
and one of them is also sick. I’m worried about how they’ll do when Ella is
gone, but we’ll have each other.
I’m thinking about raising a companion dog puppy. It would be a way for me
to have a dog in my life again right away, but without feeling as if I am
trying to replace Ella. Plus, I thought it would an appropriate tribute to
her lifetime of giving–to the patients, to the babies who loved her at my
child care program, and mostly to me. It would be a way for me to give the
gift of a dog through Ella’s memory to someone whose life would be
profoundly changed by it.
We’ll see–right now it’s more than I can bear to think about making it
through next Monday and beyond.
Thanks again so much, and I’ll keep you posted…
Cathy: I am happy that my letter and writing about Holly touched you. I
believe that only through sharing our pain can we truly connect on a deep
level. Don’t doubt for a minute that Ella knows exactly how you feel about
her; she smells your love, feels your energy, and is tuned into you. Be
strong for her, treat her normally; and make her death not a tragedy, but a
transition, a letting go, and truly a gift as you help her leave her body.
Her spirit will always be near you. This is the love we can return to them.
Be joyous for the time you had together. Cry later. Give her confidence
and joy now, so she will know it’s ok to leave you. I know your heart is
breaking. Be brave and have courage through this time….for Ella. Your
vet that she likes will help you. Wish her love and joy on her way.
You and she are both in my thoughts and prayers. I sent your note to Kc as
she cares for and loves every single PAC dog, despite not being in her
position anymore. The program is doing well. They don’t seem to need me
anymore, but I know I helped get it going in the beginning, and that was a
great joy. Sometimes they ask me to speak to a class, or patient relations
committee, or something, but no one has asked me to work with teams, which I
loved doing.
Thinking of you,
Marian,
I don’t know what to say. I think that Ella brought you to us, then and
now. First you got us started on our journey of working as a therapy team,
something that brought both of us great fulfillment. Now you are here for
this last, most important step in our journey together and with words of
wisdom like no one else could give me. I’m going to print off your email
and will read those words a hundred times before Monday, and afterwards as
well.
Cathy: thinking of you today, and know the sadness in your heart as you
helped Ella to leave her beautiful body and transition to spirit. YOur
courage and love are profound. My love,
Marian,
It was everything it should have been for Ella. On Saturday she got to go swimming one more time, and she was in all her glory–ears and tail high, eyes bright. On Saturday night she had ice cream for dessert and then on Sunday she ate a hamburger for breakfast.
On Sunday we were scheduled to check her potassium levels–they were too high and her vet thought we should euthanize Ella on Sun rather than run the risk of having her not make it through the night. She had warned me about this, so I was cognitively ready, if not quite emotionally there. We drove to Davis and even though it was a Sunday afternoon, Dr. Pomrantz had managed to assemble most of Ella’s “all-star team”, as I call them. I was so touched to see her doctors and students there with her, and of course Ella thought this was a party beyond her wildest dreams.
She died peacefully and gently in a grove of oak trees in the arboretum, surrounded by people who loved her and after one last roll in the grass. With her went my heart.
You were there with us. As we drove to Davis I read and re-read your emails, and I can’t tell you the strength that they gave me. You absolutely helped me frame this event in a way that made sense for Ella and gave me peace. Thank you.
In her endless selflessness Ella even gave me a final gift. I had been anxious about having my dad there–he was scheduled to arrive Sun evening and he is not that good with emotions, plus doesn’t understand my relationship with my pets. By leaving before he came into town, she spared me the need to manage him…and made his visit much easier than it might have been.
It’s unbearable being without her, although I have peace knowing that this was the right decision and the right time. Living without her is another matter altogether, but I guess it’s one day at a time.
Cathy: your letter made me cry; I still am crying. Your writing was eloquent, and deeply felt; You say you wish you could write about Ella the way I did about Holly, and you have. I have saved your letters about Ella in a word document called Cathy and Ella. They are beautiful. The description of her last day, last swim, last ice cream, last hamburger, last roll in the grass had me sobbing. “With her went my heart” Yes, Yes, Yes. After Holly died, someone said to me something about how this must pain my heart, and I responded saying “SHE WAS MY HEART” For people that don’t get it, they never will. But many who truly bond with their animals feel the same.
I cry for the loss to you. I do not cry for Ella. She is romping in the deep grasses and swimming in the steams of heaven. She is free. What a lucky dog to have had your love.
And it touches me deeply that my words and feelings helped you through this. What a gift you give to me in including me in this journey.
And the final gift. There is no doubt that she was taking care of you. There are no coincidences. I have been thinking for awhile for a title for the book I am writing about my journey with Holly. One title that keeps coming back to me is that one.
“THE FINAL GIFT”
Now you can cry, and mourn and give gratitudes for this exquisite experience. Amen.
Marian,
My friend also recently lost her beloved Golden, Kayla. I smile to think of what it must be like now in heaven with three princesses there–I’m sure that Holly, Kayla, and Ella are busy loving everyone (and keeping everyone on their toes).
Dr. Pomrantz called me last night to say that while the autopsy results wouldn’t be available for about 6 weeks (they had requested the autopsy), her preliminary exam showed that Ella’s kidneys had shrunk to the point where recovery wouldn’t have been possible (this was a recent development, since her biopsy). Also, she had a clot forming in her dialysis catheter, which would soon have resulted in complications from the dialysis itself, and probably a termination of the treatment because of it. This information really helped me–I have peace knowing that we said good-bye to Ella at exactly the right moment, not too soon (from a medical point of view) and not too late. Even though I knew intellectually that I had to put aside any doubt or wondering whether I had done the right thing, I couldn’t completely ignore the lingering thought of what if…maybe…this helps me know, at least, that I hadn’t taken away her chances too soon and, just as importantly, that I hadn’t pushed her too far. It was supposed to be all about Ella, and I think it was. Of course, I miss her beyond imagination. Every time the wind blows the dog door my heart stops. The moment I wake up, even if it’s in the middle of the night, my first thought is Ella. I think I can physically feel her. The other morning I had a dream that she came up to me in the street, and she was healthy and strong and happy, the bandages gone, so I know this is how she is now.
I look forward to hearing about the progress on your book. I love the title. In the meantime, we’ll keep in touch, and thank you again for everything–no words can express my gratitute.
Cathy:
Yes, I like that image of the 3 goldens in heaven. I also appreciate the
info you got from the autopsy, because I too had lingering doubts and fears
and nightmares that I had acted too soon, because I felt there was pain.
And I couldn’t stand that. But it wasn’t the cancer in her abdomen that
killed her, she had advanced and painful arthritis in her legs, that started
at age 5, and by 8 she was lame, which is why I had to stop her working, she
was limping and always in pain. Then the cancer in her spleen appeared, and
was removed and she seemed better with the great holistic vet who did
acupuncture and made an energetic positive connection with her and we kept
her going for 8 months, even romping on the beach; the cancer reappeared
when I brought her in to have her legs examined and ultrasounded, etc. as
she stopped walking on front legs and hopped on back legs by then; the
pictures showed cancer cells again in her abdomen, but it hadn’t reached any
vital organs yet, and there might have been some more time. We tried
desperately to relieve the pain from very advanced arthritis, morphine
patches after trying cortisone injections, hospitalization, home again. I
spent the last month sleeping on the floor on her comforter with her so I
could keep the heating pad on her legs, and was giving her codein. Finally,
the panting and the pain, and the sleepless nights, and her pain got to me.
At 5 AM, I had gone back to bed, and she came and stood at my bed staring at
me. I looked at her and said,”ok, I will help you.” I brought her in that
day for Dr. Farber to release her. My internist agreed it was only a short
time before the cancer would have taken over, but Dr. Farber, who ADORED HER
LIKE HIS OWN, wasn’t so sure, wanted me to talk to the surgeon about the
possibility that the extreme pain in her legs may have been bone cancer that
had spread since she didn’t respond to any of the meds or pain killers for
arthritis. And so I did that morning, and the surgeon convinced me it was
time. We did not put her thru a biopsy of bone, and I did not do an
autopsy. But as I read your letter, I now again, and still, and always
wonder if I made the right call. My guilt is that I was exhausted and felt
that neither one of us could take anymore. She was still smiling, she was
still eating. She said a loving goodbye to every single staff member at the
hospital. My friend went with me and bought her a peanut butter candy bar,
and I started to object…Holly had a special diet due to IBD, and she
laughed at me. “You’re afraid of diarreah?” she said. And I knew I had
not yet accepted this. She actually got 2 candy bars. But I always
wondered and would have liked something more substantive. I think probably
everyone feels that way. It’s a terrible decision to make; to take the one
we love the most in the world away from us.
Yes, i too would hear her padding down the hall, even hear her breathing.
It’s nearly 2 years and I still feel strange when I come in the front door and she isn’t there to greet me.