Thank you for all the sentiments. Grief is indeed an individual journey, and as a hospice chaplain I deal with it daily; but this time I am on the other side of the tears. I don't like change, and everything in my life has changed. All has been taken from me, except my life and health, down to the last part of my life I begged God to spare. I can only hope I emulate Job's initial response.
I've never kept a journal or diary until last year, when another area of my life, since removed, was quite the focus of my attention.
I wrote several things about her, this when I was called back to the hospital if I wished to see her again:
There was profound sorrow and sadness in her eyes in the emergency room kennel. She must have displayed her usual disdain for vets, as she had a big plasitc cone collar securely fastened around her neck. I laid down in the kennel with her, and drew long strokes along her coat. She allowed me to clean the vomit out of the inside of the cone, which the vet said she would not let them do. I got up and out of the kennel, sitting on the floor in front of it, getting out of the way so the vet could start disengaging her from all the tubes in her- all except one, which would be employed shortly.
To the vet's amazement, she summoned the last of her strength, stood up, and walked into my lap, settling in one last time. Two injections and two minutes later, I felt her body relax in my arms,.
I will leave my friends, for now, with one other very personal entry in my book. It is how I perceive the experience, and rather than try to talk me out of it, please just try to quietly understand:
I feel as if I have failed her, a poor steward of the life that was entrusted to me. I hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me. I was too cavalier with her care, and we have both paid a terrible price; it has cost her her life, and me- and me- my soulmate.
Mike
