Our Hardest Goodbye

Dear Layla,

August 21, 2020 will forever be a day I remember. It’s the day we lost you and had to say one of our hardest goodbyes. I cried and cried as I drove you to and from the vet that afternoon, with Jack (aka Dad) in the back seat gently yelling your name to come back to us.

While I remember all the wonderful joy you brought us, as well as some frustration, right now I want you to know that for three days, Dad and I fought with all our being to make you feel better. These were some of the hardest days, but we were a united front caring for you and making decisions for your health. Dad was your companion and primary caregiver. I was the support. This is the story.

Wednesday, August 19, Dad asked me to check your breathing because he thought you were wheezing and breathing heavily. I agreed and we called our family vet, Dr. Stratman, right away. We took you in immediately but were given the green light to take you home with just a small respiratory infection. If things got worse, we were to bring you back.

By Wednesday night we noticed your left lip was drooping. We didn’t know why but it was slightly concerning, so we packed you up again and took you to the emergency vet just down the street. That, Layla, was one of the longest nights and where I really saw myself spring into mom mode. Thanks to COVID, we weren’t allowed to come in with you, so we were sent home to wait for an update. Updates came from the on call vet, Dr. Hays, all evening and into the early morning.

Your face was paralyzed on the left side. Your eye wasn’t closing anymore. You threw up. They did blood work and a chest xray. There was a small, very small, nodule on your lung. We opted for a lymph node aspirate. We waited. I laid awake in bed, not so patiently, waiting for each new phone call. Dad doesn’t know this, but I spent a lot of time that night thinking about what could be wrong. I thought about taking two of our family dogs to the same emergency vet and having to put them down. I told myself I was mentally preparing for that, but who can ever really do that. Dad and I finally went to sleep around 3am and were woken up to a call just after 7am to come pick you up.

We set up your favorite (and by favorite, I mean the only blanket I let you lay on) red blanket in the living room, with your bed on top. One of your favorite people, Jack’s dad, came to visit and check on you. Dad stayed with you all day while we both tried to get some work done.

By Thursday, August 20, afternoon, Dad noticed you were trying to drink constantly, but the water bowl wasn’t losing any water. You also had denied all food, which for you was extremely unusual. You could always eat and didn’t care if it was dog food, a hamburger, cheese or an envelope from the mail. It all went down so easily.

We rushed back to the emergency vet around 2pm. We left you again and I cried. We waited at home for more updates. All they told us was you were fine. It was normal to have trouble eating and drinking with a paralyzed face. Wait for the lymph node aspirate results. Mama bear mode came out and I got short with the new doctor on call. We picked you back up.

Our favorite doctor, Dr. Hays, called us around 9pm to check in. She offered us canned food, so I went back to pick it up. The night before Dad and I had made fun of someone coming to pick up their dog who was wearing her see-through pajamas and slippers. We commented as we watched her get out of her car to greet her pup that the least she could do was put on real clothes. And then, here I was, 24 hours later, in my pajamas without a bra on, desperately trying to get food for you to eat. We wanted anything to make you better and I was humbled by the circumstances.

Thursday was a rough night. You and Dad slept in the living room. We barricaded you in so there wasn’t a risk that you fell down the stairs. Well, like always, you defied the rules and managed to jump over the ottoman blocking your way. Cutely disobedient until the end.

Friday, August 21, I woke up to you tip tapping around the house but your left side was getting weaker. Your head was tilting to the side and you still couldn’t eat or drink. Dad drove you back to our family vet and you stayed for the day. That afternoon we got a call and were told that we had two options: 1. you could stay at the vet all weekend, they would place an IV and monitor you or 2. we could pick you up to be at home with us and come back on Monday. Either way, we just needed to wait to hear the results of the lymph node aspirate. We came to pick you up.

As you walked out, the nurse was supporting your left side. You had grown so weak through the day and become so paralyzed that your left side nearly didn’t function. Dad gently placed you in the car and as I got in the driver’s seat, I looked back at you two and asked Dad if we were making the right choice. We drove home crying.

We gingerly brought you upstairs and placed you on your bed in the living room. It was clear things weren’t getting better and you were suffering. I got down beside you and told you loud and clear, but through tears, that you would always be our first child, no matter what. Dad called the family vet back and with just a glace at each other, we both knew what was best. As Dad spoke to the vet and told him our decision to bring you back we both wept.

The ride back was painful. Dad was calling to you as your eyes rolled back and at every stop, I would reach back to stoke your ears or paw. Tears continued streaming.

You made it to the office and had the pleasure of saying goodbye to Dad’s parents and brother who met us. We were comforted by Dr. Stratman who told us you probably had a large tumor and we were making the right choice. We found out days after we said goodbye that you had lymphoma, but no mater what, August 21 was never going to be easy. We all told you repeatedly that you were loved and perfect and the best dog ever. We said our hardest goodbyes.

I’ll save all the things I loved about you and all the ways you drove me crazy for another post, but for now, I desperately miss the sound of your nails on our hardwood floor. I miss your bark when something strange goes by the front of the house. I miss having to tell you to stop drinking water. I miss making you sit before pouring food in your bowl. I miss petting your soft ears as you walked by my desk while I am working from home. I miss telling you it’s time for bed.

The house is empty without you. You’ve been around longer than Jack and I have been together and I can’t thank you enough for welcoming me into our little family. I will never be able to repay you for that. Life feels lost without.

We love you and miss you like crazy, sweet girl.

Love,
Your mom