(no subject)
There's room for infinite happiness and infinite sorrow in the world. The price of love is the threat of loss. If you're smart, you give in, and you love as much as you can, as deeply as you can. You build relationships and friendships, and you relish in every damned minute of it. When the end comes (it always comes), it's having those positives that keep the inevitable negatives in balance. Love, and loss. Give, and take.
Our dog, Jager, is dying. I love her, and we're loosing her. She's part of our family, one of the building blocks of our life together. She's always been a part of us, and she always will be.
In November, she nearly died from this disease-- hemolytic anemia. She's only six and a half, and it literally happened overnight. She was touch-and-go for 48 hours, and the vet's gave her a 20% chance to live. She made a miraculous recovery, even after a blood transfusion, and her red blood cell count had dropped below 13% (normal is 50-60%).
We bought time, I guess, but it was good time. She's been happy and playful, we've been camping and traveled cross-country, she was able to catch more mice, climb more trees, dig more holes. Good, fundamental dog-things.
Yesterday she was here, at home. We'd come back home after seeing the emergency vet, since while she was anemic, her blood count was still high. We were waiting for her fever to break. That would be a sign the medication could be working, that maybe we caught it in time--that maybe catching it earlier this time would actually mean something. We all lay in bed--myself, Ket, Jager, and Jager's sister, Porter--just waiting, hoping. I didn't want to admit this was the last time we'd all be together, under this roof. I didn't want the spell to break, the moment of whole-ness to end. But eventually it was over. Her fever wasn't dropping, and we took her to the ICU. It hurts so much to think she will never come home again. She'll never be here as I type, curled up under my feet.
We've been in to see her every few hours. We haven't really slept since Friday. Her red blood cell count has been steadily dropping since Friday morning. She's down to 14%. They will do another blood test in an hour, and if it's lower, they will attempt to give her a transfusion to buy her time for the steroids to take effect.
She still has a wag for us when we come in. She'll lick your face, and try to offer her paw when you ask.
I hate this horrible, interminable waiting, with its waves of sorrow followed by stretches of numb emptiness. I want her to get better, and I want her to come home. I want to feel whole again, and safe, and not like we're walking along the edge of a vast and bottomless hole.
I know time heals everything, and eventually we'll all be okay again...but that's empty comfort when she's still here, when thin hope cuts you like a razor, and all you can do is wait.
I needed to write something, to get some of this on the outside, instead of in my guts. Hope, you are a painful, cruel thing sometimes, but I'm glad I still have a little of you.
We're going back to see her, now.
Our dog, Jager, is dying. I love her, and we're loosing her. She's part of our family, one of the building blocks of our life together. She's always been a part of us, and she always will be.
In November, she nearly died from this disease-- hemolytic anemia. She's only six and a half, and it literally happened overnight. She was touch-and-go for 48 hours, and the vet's gave her a 20% chance to live. She made a miraculous recovery, even after a blood transfusion, and her red blood cell count had dropped below 13% (normal is 50-60%).
We bought time, I guess, but it was good time. She's been happy and playful, we've been camping and traveled cross-country, she was able to catch more mice, climb more trees, dig more holes. Good, fundamental dog-things.
Yesterday she was here, at home. We'd come back home after seeing the emergency vet, since while she was anemic, her blood count was still high. We were waiting for her fever to break. That would be a sign the medication could be working, that maybe we caught it in time--that maybe catching it earlier this time would actually mean something. We all lay in bed--myself, Ket, Jager, and Jager's sister, Porter--just waiting, hoping. I didn't want to admit this was the last time we'd all be together, under this roof. I didn't want the spell to break, the moment of whole-ness to end. But eventually it was over. Her fever wasn't dropping, and we took her to the ICU. It hurts so much to think she will never come home again. She'll never be here as I type, curled up under my feet.
We've been in to see her every few hours. We haven't really slept since Friday. Her red blood cell count has been steadily dropping since Friday morning. She's down to 14%. They will do another blood test in an hour, and if it's lower, they will attempt to give her a transfusion to buy her time for the steroids to take effect.
She still has a wag for us when we come in. She'll lick your face, and try to offer her paw when you ask.
I hate this horrible, interminable waiting, with its waves of sorrow followed by stretches of numb emptiness. I want her to get better, and I want her to come home. I want to feel whole again, and safe, and not like we're walking along the edge of a vast and bottomless hole.
I know time heals everything, and eventually we'll all be okay again...but that's empty comfort when she's still here, when thin hope cuts you like a razor, and all you can do is wait.
I needed to write something, to get some of this on the outside, instead of in my guts. Hope, you are a painful, cruel thing sometimes, but I'm glad I still have a little of you.
We're going back to see her, now.