Let me start with a firm statement as I don't want anyone to think otherwise. No, Chelsea was not my child and never would I compare it with losing a child. That almost happened to me once. It has happened to a couple of mamas who I love dearly. Watching them wake up each morning and face a new day, it amazes me the strength they find to do so. And you all know that this is my worst fear, which is once again bubbling up inside of me as we approach March 21st. Unless one experiences that, and I hope you never have to, one has no idea what that is even like. In no way am I saying or pretending that this compares.
But Chelsea was second to my girls (don't worry, Ryan accepted this fact years and years ago). Yes, she was a dog. But never was she ever "just a dog." And maybe you have to be a dog person to get it. Or maybe you had to know my relationship with Chelsea to get it. Or maybe you think I'm just crazy and don't get it. And that's okay too.
But I'm so overwhelmed with such sadness. A sadness that I feel in every bone, every muscle, every fiber of my being. An intense physical feeling to accompany the emotional feeling. Heartache may not really involve the heart, but my chest is heavy just the same. I (we) truly lost a family member, one that was so important to me and my daily life that brings me to tears just thinking about it.
I didn't want a puppy. Fifteen years ago, that sounded like a pain in the ass. Not to mention that I know I'm not good with the death of animals. Those shirts that say something like you can kill off any person in the movie, but please don't kill off the dog? That's me. I can't watch an animal dying, I can't read about an animal dying. I can't watch those stupid 10 minute commercials that the SPCA or whoever show on tv. I had to quit donating to the SPCA because even though I wrote multiple times and asked them to quit sending me the letters with the sad pet stories and pictures, they continued to do so. Heck, I even cried when Kennedy's hamster died (and we weren't on good terms with each other). When I was about ten, I watched a dog die at the vet. It wasn't my dog, but it traumatized me. To the point that I didn't step foot into a vet again until Chelsea was about 10 or 11, and I no longer trusted Ryan to get the information I needed about her health. I just don't like the thought of animals dying. Disclaimer: I have never watched a real person die but I'm sure it is no easier and most likely harder.
But I lost the puppy decision. Katie picked "her" puppy out. She was so stinking cute but I was happy for her to be Katie's puppy. Then I was sick. And Katie put her in bed with me to take a nap. And truly, that was all she wrote. She slept curled up to me every single night (minus some vacations) for the next 15 years. In the last few weeks, she had to sleep with her face on mine. She had to touch me, feel me breathing on her. I haven't slept since we said goodbye. Sharing your bed with someone for 15 years then all of the sudden that someone is gone...that's brutal.
Life wasn't all roses with her. She was little and got hurt a lot - people stepping on her, jumping off of furniture. She never learned the art of behaving during dinner. Until she lost her hearing, she barked. A lot. She was spoiled and couldn't handle being left alone overnight. Nor could she handle staying in a kennel so we had to constantly find house/dog sitters when we were leaving town. And good gravy, was she stubborn.
And then dementia hit, and that brought all kinds of issues - not sleeping well, getting lost in the house and yard, forgetting where to go potty, increasing episodes of dementia freak outs where she didn't know who I was, needing me to hold her, not being able to be left alone, and the list goes on. Although I have known people with dementia, I've been lucky enough that no one that I'm super close with has had to suffer the disease. But I lived with it daily and I can tell you that some days were hell. There were a number of nights where I sat on my bedroom floor crying at 3am, as she ran full speed into walls and furniture, trying to bite me if I tried to pick her up, not recognizing who I was. One night during the last week, I was sleeping with my back to her. When she couldn't find my face to lay on, she went into freak out mode, flying off the bed (she always waited for someone to put her down), she spent an hour running all over my room and bathroom, finally burying herself in the back of my closet before she finally recognized me and let me pick her up. For a year, we played the dementia game. Human meds helped for about 9 months, and then they could no longer slow the progression.
But it was time. We all knew it was time (at least those who had spent time with her recently). The night before, it was a difficult night. Carrying her up to bed one last time (she had not been able to walk up the stairs for a few years). One last night to snuggle (I didn't sleep). And I cried. Usually she didn't want to share my pillow until about midnight. But she climbed up on my pillow right away and put her face on mine. Then she spent about thirty minutes just kissing me. I like to think she knew, and she was telling me that it was okay. That she was ready, even if I wasn't.
Sadly, my amazing vet was out of town the weekend that Katie could be here, but we were able to find another vet who helped pets cross the Rainbow Bridge at home. Chelsea hated the vet and there was no way I could do this if that's where she had to say goodbye. So Saturday night, with the help of Peaceful Passings, we said goodbye. She gave all of us a kiss before her sedative. Then, I sat in my spot on the couch, the one she couldn't settle down until I was in, I held her in her favorite blankie. I snuggled her, I talked to her, I kissed her. She was surrounded by all of us as she took her last breaths. It was raw, it was emotional, there were many tears. But it was peaceful. And at least she was at peace, something she had not experienced truly for over a year.
Although I continue to second-guess my decision to give her peace, about 20 times a day right now, I probably held on longer than I should have. But she was such a big part of my life. Yes, she was my sleepmate and my pillow-sharer. But she was also my therapist. She was my blood pressure reducer (serious fact). She was my tear-catcher and my secret keeper (and I mean secrets that no one else on this earth knows). She helped me through some of the darkest days of my life. And she did the same for Kennedy. She literally and truly was my best friend. The only one who loved me unconditionally when I was unlovable. Coming home to her wagging tail and puppy kisses, that was happiness even on bad days. And suddenly all of that is gone.
Coming home from work on Monday, it was more than I could handle. So Kennedy and I sat in the car in the garage for awhile, while I cried and she comforted me. And finally we were brave enough to do it. No puppy on the couch. No kisses, no wagging tails. No having to find her a snack and take her out. No more welcoming committee, even though lately it was more just a look of gratitude that we came home and not so much welcoming. But still.
Kennedy wants a new dog now. Katie isn't sure how long I can make it without puppy love, knowing what a dog person I am. But for now, I'm mending a broken heart. I'm just so sad. I can't think about having to say goodbye again. And I'm waiting for Chelsea to send me the exact dog who needs me, who is in great need of the love that Chelsea knew.
I know it will get easier. And I'm sure one day I'm going to wake up and decide today is the day for a new pup. And hell, that could be tomorrow for all we know. But for now, I'm struggling. My heart is broken. I may be crazy, you may think she was just a dog. But I know better. She was my soulmate. And saying goodbye was the hardest thing I've ever had to do...
