Teaching Them to Mourn

“You will look back on this moment of your life as a sweet time of grieving. You'll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing...” ― Elizabeth Gilbert

Amos lay prostrate on the floor of the vet office, his legs splayed out from underneath his body in all directions, looking uncomfortable and cumbersome. His breathing was labored and his head rested on his right paw, his deep brown eyes like wet circles staring up at me. His face told the story of why we were here. As I looked into his eyes I could see a faraway pain and a weariness that I had never observed in him before. His eyes were what had always drawn me to Amos. His pupils were incredibly dark, and always wide like saucers, the edges of which were tinged in a hazelnut brown that glistened in the sunlight. If he looked at you sideways, small white triangles appeared at the edge of his eyeball and gave his face a humanistic characteristic that always made me laugh. His expressions were cartoonish and he always seemed like he was smiling, always happy to see you. That was not the case now. His face was thin, his eyes somewhat sunken and dimmed, his ears laying forward as he cowered on the blanket not making a sound even though I knew his pain must be excruciating.

For nearly a week Amos had been having trouble walking, stumbling on his evening walks around Devola and having difficulty managing stairs. He had been eating less and spending more time lying in his bed listlessly during the day. It was only over the past 48 hours that he had become unable to stand up under his own power. I found him lying on the hard floor of his heated dog building, alert and seemingly eager to see me, but unable to perform his typical “greeting pounce” that I had grown accustomed to. Amos’ quick deterioration had prompted us to take him in for a checkup to see if we could get him some medication for what seemed to be hip and joint pain. Unfortunately upon examination by the vet, Amos’ condition was found to be much more than simply getting old.

Hot tears streamed down my face as the vet explained the grim news of her exam. Amos had lost considerable muscle mass in his hips, shoulders, and back, while his stomach region seemed to stay the same size. On the scale he was only a few pounds heavier than when he was neutered seven years prior, a time when he was much younger and much smaller in stature. From all initial signs, Amos was fighting something internally, something that caused rapid, drastic physical changes that at this point were probably irreversible, and maybe impossible to combat.

I stared blankly into the distance as the vet’s voice sounded hollow and tinny in my ears. She suggested a blood test and I complied, barely noticing as she took the blood and walked out of the room to prepare the instruments for the test procedure. This scenario felt all-too familiar and a little too “real”, taking me back to that fateful day in April during Hazel’s diagnosis. I had sat in a cold hospital room staring blankly at a wall awaiting her test results as well, her limp exhausted body cuddled tightly in her mother’s arms as they tried to nap and await the news that would change our life forever.

I stroked Amos’ head and he looked up at me, his beautiful brown eyes eager, but tired, hurting. He nuzzled my hand and leaned heavily into my petting, focused on showing his humans love and compassion even as he lay dying in front of me. I reminisced about the first day I had found him, a young pup wandering in the woods alone, destined to be coyote food if I had left him. He was always long and gangly, with paws that seemed too big for his body and a long, galloping stride that reminded me more of a horse than a dog. I looked at him now, skinny, shaking with each breath, suffering. The pieces of my heart left after 10 months of fighting Hazel’s cancer continued to crumble as I realized I and he were going to lose this battle.

The vet came back in with a sullen look, shaking her head and nearly in tears. She knew us, knew our dogs, knew Hazel, and was so very compassionate for the gravity of the situation.

“I am so sorry. You guys don’t deserve this,” she said quietly. “The results are not good. His kidneys and liver are failing. He is likely fighting some type of blood disease or massive infection that stems from within his body.”

She took a breath and watched as I dropped my head, pausing before she continued, “The treatment we would need to give him is a high dose steroid…”

I chuckled through tears, “Ha, yeah. That likely requires high liver and kidney functions to process the level of chemicals in his system, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “With his current level of damage, the medicines we would give him would likely kill him in the process.”

And so there it was. The reality of what was happening came full circle and nearly smothered me in its heavy consequences. My youngest daughter had just spent 10 months fighting for her life against a blood disease that dismantled her immune system. It was treated with heavy doses of steroids that constantly assaulted her kidneys and liver with high concentrations of chemicals. We had just celebrated her transition to maintenance phase one day prior and had been able to breathe a tentative sigh of relief knowing that she would now suffer fewer surgeries, have fewer side effects, and less pain. Hazel was improving and by all accounts seemed healthy again. I thought things were getting better. I thought 2018 was going to be a better year. But now I was catapulted back into the same vicious cycle I had just left. One of my friends lay on the floor in front of me, part of my family for nearly a decade, and I was unable to help him, unable to save him from the monster that coursed through his veins. Momentarily I was overcome and unable to speak for fear of completely falling apart in front of the vet. She let me grieve as best I could before I spoke again.

“I know my options here,” I said, “I don’t want him to suffer.” I looked at Amos as he turned his head toward my voice. I imagined what the treatment process would look like, the medications, the getting worse before he could get better, the sadness, the heartache.

“I’m just not sure I can do it again,” I whispered, almost to myself more than anyone else.

The vet, understanding my turmoil said I could take some time if I needed. But I didn’t. My decision was made and now was the time. I needed to end his pain. I called Elizabeth and told her. She and the kids showed up at the vet office within minutes. Each of my precious children had spent their entire lives knowing Amos as the gentle giant, their constant protector, and now were ill-prepared to say goodbye to him. My entire family filed into the small exam room and huddled around Amos like a wall of love, the entirety of his life’s work surrounding him as he lay motionless on the floor, save for his incessantly wagging tail and his expectant eyes looking up at us.

We were a mess, not a dry eye among us and with little dignity to be had as we each wept over our family pet. My kids each dealt with it in their own way, Gideon and Aurora sobbing loudly and uncontrollably, Paul only allowing single alligator tears to escape from the corners of his eyes as he petted Amos’ head one last time. Hazel, Amos’ newest friend and daily charge knelt down in front of his nose and stared deeply and earnestly into his face, their eyes locked for a moment of communication that only they could understand. Elizabeth and each of the kids said their goodbyes to Amos and then allowed their tears to spill anew as they hugged me and walked back out the door. Amos was “my” dog; this was to be my time with him.

We moved to another room connected to the lobby that was more private and had a small couch in it. The vet and her assistant placed the IV in Amos’ front paw and gave him a small amount of sedative to help him relax, then left he and I alone for a few minutes. I stroked his head and smoothed his ears, speaking to him softly and gently, “You are a good boy Amos. You always were. I’ll miss you buddy, but we will be ok. I’ll take care of them and we will be fine, ok? You can let us go.” His brown eyes burned a hole in my face, and somehow I knew that he understood.

The vet and her assistant returned, delivering the final medication that would mercifully stop Amos’ heart and allow him to rid himself of the pain he had been in over the past months. I was with him to the end, stroking his fur, crying, and offering what solace I could so he would not be afraid to face what was coming. It was over in an instant, the end to a long friendship and sense of dependency built on trust, a life having been snuffed out by disease, but memorialized by the happiness of being together.

While only a dog, Amos was still a life and one that meant a great deal to my family. We spent 10 years of our life with him. We graduated college, landed and left jobs, bought a house, and had babies that grew into children. We spent “life” with Amos, having saved him from certain death as a puppy in the woods and we all spent his last moments on earth by his side comforting him as he slipped away. I can only hope that I have the same fate someday, slipping into the arms of my savior as my loving family surrounds me and assures me they will be alright without me.

Elizabeth and I struggled with Amos’ diagnosis, but we struggled more so with how to break the news to our children. My kids have had to deal with more than their share of harsh realities this past year, and we were not excited to have to deal yet another devastating blow to their emotions. We could have kept it from them until after Amos was gone, we could have told them and not taken them in to see him, or we could have tried to hide his passing from them completely. But we didn’t and I am glad.

We brought our kids to say goodbye to Amos to allow them the opportunity to grieve, to teach them how to mourn loss, and to help them understand how to recover from heartbreak. Was it tough? Heck yes it was. For as much as I thought my heart was broken when I knew Amos couldn’t be saved, it broke all the more to watch my children wallow in their own anguish at the same realization. But when I saw them faltering, I grabbed them and hugged them tight, drying their tears and standing strong when they couldn’t.

My children will grow to know that sometimes life is a tragic medley of sad and joyous occasions, woven together in a melodic symphony spun together by time. The harsh realities of this world will catch up to my kids whether I want them to or not. They will see and feel pain, they will witness injustice, their hearts will be broken. My only job, the only one that matters anyway, is to make sure they are prepared to take these evils head on, guided by God’s light and shielded by his protection. I want my kids to see me hurt, I want them to see me struggle, because I also want them to see me triumph. Life is finite and it is ended by death. But new life is precious and something to be cherished. 

Last week as one flame that had burned bright in our life for 10 years was extinguished, a new one was lit. Like an ember blown into a ball of dry tinder, a tiny flame of hope was kindled. On the very night that my family was mourning the death of our longtime furry friend, we received word that a new cousin is to join us in 2018. And while this news did not totally eclipse the sting of Amos’ passing for my kids, it did bookend the life lesson of the cycle of life and death. Like the strong little warriors that they are, my kids dried their tears, picked up their broken hearts, and rejoiced.

Our daily walk as Christians is not easy, it is not simple, and sometimes it nearly breaks us. But our God knows when and how to provide the silver linings that we all yearn to find. He knows our hearts and our convictions, no matter how little we are. Today I will teach my children to mourn, because tomorrow I must teach them to lead.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18