Chapter 14 Gayle's Death
These next chapters will be those that I couldn't deal with before.
Gayle was such a special dog that it's difficult to this day for me to think about that last year of her existence. The earlier years bring smiles to my face, but that last 9 months, after we learned she had lymphoma, were the closest to my having a family member die of cancer. I know it's nothing like having a person die of cancer ...just ask my stepchildren or Tom whose first wife succumbed to liver cancer. But neither of my parents died that way, and none of my siblings. Thank God, none of my children, and God Bless them with good health ...Please! That goes for all of my 14 grandchildren as well.
But, when Gayle had a growth under his chin, on his neck, I thought it was the same affliction as Jeanie, the collie my mother had when I was a kid. She had some kind of cyst that was removed. Simple. So we fearlessly took Gayle over to the Owego Vets, her vet ever since she was still a Guiding Eyes Puppy, to have her examined. They extracted a sample from the growth by needle, already knowing what it looked like. I forget if they told us right away, or if we had to wait until they called us with the bad news that it was lymphoma. We asked what the prognosis was when they told us what they thought it was, and they said there was no cure, and letting it take it's natural course, she could last a few weeks or up to about a month. I looked at our healthy yellow Lab, and couldn't believe this dog was even ill. We asked what could be done. They said there was no cure, but through chemotherapy she could probably live for another year at the most. It seemed like maybe the treatments would be worse than letting her die naturally, so we kind of opted for that at the vets office. Later that day, that time after supper when we watch the last of the news and maybe a game show on TV, and the dog usually tries to get our attention to play, Gayle did her funny dance of a few steps, and then rolled onto her back giving herself was wiggle-waggle back rub that somehow demonstrated "Happiness" in a way that words couldn't if we could have discussed her illness with her. This was a happy dog. This was a faithful dog. This was the dog of heroine like dimensions that I wrote about in picture books for my grandchildren. This was Millie's pal, and our best friend. I'd earned money that year before doing early Census 2000 work, and I could afford it, and I turned to Tom and said, "I'm going to help her to live as long as possible as long as she isn't suffering. She's family... She's worth it!"
Then we started treatments several times a week. I'd drive her back and forth to the Owego Vets, listening to the radio while she enjoyed the ride from the back seat. Millie sometimes accompanied us, and after she was left in the car, rather than go in the scary vet's waiting room, she decided she wanted to come in too. When she realized she wasn't going to be picked and prodded like the normal annual vet visit, she came out from under the chair in the waiting room, and enjoyed the scenery and the communication that wordlessly goes on between the varied animals on the scene.
Someone said through this course of treatments while we were waiting, "It's good to have two dogs. The older dog teaches the younger one, and the younger one helps us get through the grief when the older one dies." I always remembered that, and it was true. But, while Gayle was going through the treatments, she taught US how to face a fatal illness. She was always so glad to see the vet, Dr. Roberts. There came to be a relationship there between this friend of Gayle's she visited three, then two times a week. There didn't seem to be side effects to the chemotherapy, and Gayle just lapped up all the attention. While other dogs hovered between the legs of the chair where their owner's sat, Gayle sat forward and at ease. She knew she was in good and loving hands, whether home with us, or visiting her favorite vet. She was an inspiration. I thought how us humans are too aware of chemotherapy and probably have more side effects because of that. I know I'd be measuring the way I felt before and after. Gayle just enjoyed everything but the IV being inserted, but was more curious than flinching. The vet loved her too, as I guess she was the prime example of a good patient. Everyone who worked there knew Gayle's name better than mine, and those last nine months of Gayle's life, though poignant, were to me a lesson in what it is to be a hero. Gayle was my hero. She took her medicine like a champ. She was my good and faithful wonder dog for nine expensive month's which were worth that extra time ...And every single dollar.
It was that last trek to the vet's that haunted me for a long, long, time. We had already dug her grave in the woods between the main trail and the middle one. Though well into the woods, it was an almost rootless area, and I was lucky to find a good spot in which there were no big rocks impossible to remove. It was kind of eerie that she could be cavorting through the woods while I was digging her grave. Dogs have no perception of their own demise. They are alive; they are happy; they are miserable or sad; they are in the NOW. Though we can know things will get better when things CAN get better, I should be so lucky as to NOT know when they are only going to bet worse. I knew what this grave was for, and that her days were numbered. Though she acted happy most of the time, she was getting very lame... her bowel movements were diarrhea and she no longer had an appetite. I had to help her to her feet in the morning. She'd limp along the trail, as we'd walk to the lake... taking the lower path so she wouldn't have to climb the hill anymore. But when we got to the lake, she'd go in for her swim, and feel light and buoyant, like her young self again. She took a swim even on the day of the fateful appointment at the vets. The night before, I had my book club at the house, and they didn't know how sick Gayle was, and it bothered me afterwards when someone said, "Why did she have to be put down? She looked fine when I saw her." For a moment you doubt that you did the right thing... "Had I put her down too soon? ...Couldn't she have lasted a little longer? Maybe she would have died in her sleep." But our decision had to be made in a kind and rational manner. Gayle wasn't to be kept alive for us, but for her. This whole expensive treatment was for her, not us. If she was in any kind of agony, I couldn't have stood it, and she was as close to that point as she could get without our getting our emotions involved in keeping her alive because of our own fear of death.
That day was planned. The doctor was going to meet us in the parking lot. We'd take her into the vet's to have her leg shaved, and then the overdose of anesthesia would be given her in the back of my car, on the blanket in which she would be wrapped when we'd bury her. Our beautiful dog. It would be all overwith... but not until we had her home and buried. It went like clockwork, except after she was pronounced dead she gave a final sigh, making us wonder if she'd awoken. The vet was still standing by the car with tears in his own eyes. He kind of jumped when Gayle sighed, tested her for signs again, but assured us that it was a lethal overdose, and her fight for life was over. Our fight to keep her alive was at an end. We drove home, talking about everything else so we wouldn't have to pull over if our tears were blurring our sight. We talked about stupid things... turned up the radio... talked over the loud radio... somehow getting home, then carrying that dead weight that seemed twice as heavy as ever before to her final resting place. It was over.
That night was the longest ever. I couldn't sleep, and found out how boring TV was in the wee small hours of the morning, but needed it on to distract me from my horrible grief. The next day I was on this computer letting everyone who was a part of Gayle's life know that her fight with her disease was over, and there wasn't a dry eye on the other end of my messages. I got beautiful messages back from friends and family, and will never forget how wonderful people could be when it was only a pet, not a family member...and they knew better, and were there for us.
I thought of putting a gravestone on the grave. It bothered me every time I walked by the grave. For some strange reason I couldn't stand the thought that my lovely Lab was buried there each time I passed that spot. At that time, because of my feelings, I decided for sure that I want to be cremated... and any other dog that dies is going to be cremated. I didn't need her ashes, but it just bothered me having her there. I can't explain it... I just felt it for years, and now, 11 years later, I'm more used to the fact, and I have trouble finding the spot where she was buried. We've lost two dogs since, and we had them cremated. Their ashes are not with us, but we know they are in Heaven. ...With Gayle.
These next chapters will be those that I couldn't deal with before.
Gayle was such a special dog that it's difficult to this day for me to think about that last year of her existence. The earlier years bring smiles to my face, but that last 9 months, after we learned she had lymphoma, were the closest to my having a family member die of cancer. I know it's nothing like having a person die of cancer ...just ask my stepchildren or Tom whose first wife succumbed to liver cancer. But neither of my parents died that way, and none of my siblings. Thank God, none of my children, and God Bless them with good health ...Please! That goes for all of my 14 grandchildren as well.
But, when Gayle had a growth under his chin, on his neck, I thought it was the same affliction as Jeanie, the collie my mother had when I was a kid. She had some kind of cyst that was removed. Simple. So we fearlessly took Gayle over to the Owego Vets, her vet ever since she was still a Guiding Eyes Puppy, to have her examined. They extracted a sample from the growth by needle, already knowing what it looked like. I forget if they told us right away, or if we had to wait until they called us with the bad news that it was lymphoma. We asked what the prognosis was when they told us what they thought it was, and they said there was no cure, and letting it take it's natural course, she could last a few weeks or up to about a month. I looked at our healthy yellow Lab, and couldn't believe this dog was even ill. We asked what could be done. They said there was no cure, but through chemotherapy she could probably live for another year at the most. It seemed like maybe the treatments would be worse than letting her die naturally, so we kind of opted for that at the vets office. Later that day, that time after supper when we watch the last of the news and maybe a game show on TV, and the dog usually tries to get our attention to play, Gayle did her funny dance of a few steps, and then rolled onto her back giving herself was wiggle-waggle back rub that somehow demonstrated "Happiness" in a way that words couldn't if we could have discussed her illness with her. This was a happy dog. This was a faithful dog. This was the dog of heroine like dimensions that I wrote about in picture books for my grandchildren. This was Millie's pal, and our best friend. I'd earned money that year before doing early Census 2000 work, and I could afford it, and I turned to Tom and said, "I'm going to help her to live as long as possible as long as she isn't suffering. She's family... She's worth it!"
Then we started treatments several times a week. I'd drive her back and forth to the Owego Vets, listening to the radio while she enjoyed the ride from the back seat. Millie sometimes accompanied us, and after she was left in the car, rather than go in the scary vet's waiting room, she decided she wanted to come in too. When she realized she wasn't going to be picked and prodded like the normal annual vet visit, she came out from under the chair in the waiting room, and enjoyed the scenery and the communication that wordlessly goes on between the varied animals on the scene.
Someone said through this course of treatments while we were waiting, "It's good to have two dogs. The older dog teaches the younger one, and the younger one helps us get through the grief when the older one dies." I always remembered that, and it was true. But, while Gayle was going through the treatments, she taught US how to face a fatal illness. She was always so glad to see the vet, Dr. Roberts. There came to be a relationship there between this friend of Gayle's she visited three, then two times a week. There didn't seem to be side effects to the chemotherapy, and Gayle just lapped up all the attention. While other dogs hovered between the legs of the chair where their owner's sat, Gayle sat forward and at ease. She knew she was in good and loving hands, whether home with us, or visiting her favorite vet. She was an inspiration. I thought how us humans are too aware of chemotherapy and probably have more side effects because of that. I know I'd be measuring the way I felt before and after. Gayle just enjoyed everything but the IV being inserted, but was more curious than flinching. The vet loved her too, as I guess she was the prime example of a good patient. Everyone who worked there knew Gayle's name better than mine, and those last nine months of Gayle's life, though poignant, were to me a lesson in what it is to be a hero. Gayle was my hero. She took her medicine like a champ. She was my good and faithful wonder dog for nine expensive month's which were worth that extra time ...And every single dollar.
It was that last trek to the vet's that haunted me for a long, long, time. We had already dug her grave in the woods between the main trail and the middle one. Though well into the woods, it was an almost rootless area, and I was lucky to find a good spot in which there were no big rocks impossible to remove. It was kind of eerie that she could be cavorting through the woods while I was digging her grave. Dogs have no perception of their own demise. They are alive; they are happy; they are miserable or sad; they are in the NOW. Though we can know things will get better when things CAN get better, I should be so lucky as to NOT know when they are only going to bet worse. I knew what this grave was for, and that her days were numbered. Though she acted happy most of the time, she was getting very lame... her bowel movements were diarrhea and she no longer had an appetite. I had to help her to her feet in the morning. She'd limp along the trail, as we'd walk to the lake... taking the lower path so she wouldn't have to climb the hill anymore. But when we got to the lake, she'd go in for her swim, and feel light and buoyant, like her young self again. She took a swim even on the day of the fateful appointment at the vets. The night before, I had my book club at the house, and they didn't know how sick Gayle was, and it bothered me afterwards when someone said, "Why did she have to be put down? She looked fine when I saw her." For a moment you doubt that you did the right thing... "Had I put her down too soon? ...Couldn't she have lasted a little longer? Maybe she would have died in her sleep." But our decision had to be made in a kind and rational manner. Gayle wasn't to be kept alive for us, but for her. This whole expensive treatment was for her, not us. If she was in any kind of agony, I couldn't have stood it, and she was as close to that point as she could get without our getting our emotions involved in keeping her alive because of our own fear of death.
That day was planned. The doctor was going to meet us in the parking lot. We'd take her into the vet's to have her leg shaved, and then the overdose of anesthesia would be given her in the back of my car, on the blanket in which she would be wrapped when we'd bury her. Our beautiful dog. It would be all overwith... but not until we had her home and buried. It went like clockwork, except after she was pronounced dead she gave a final sigh, making us wonder if she'd awoken. The vet was still standing by the car with tears in his own eyes. He kind of jumped when Gayle sighed, tested her for signs again, but assured us that it was a lethal overdose, and her fight for life was over. Our fight to keep her alive was at an end. We drove home, talking about everything else so we wouldn't have to pull over if our tears were blurring our sight. We talked about stupid things... turned up the radio... talked over the loud radio... somehow getting home, then carrying that dead weight that seemed twice as heavy as ever before to her final resting place. It was over.
That night was the longest ever. I couldn't sleep, and found out how boring TV was in the wee small hours of the morning, but needed it on to distract me from my horrible grief. The next day I was on this computer letting everyone who was a part of Gayle's life know that her fight with her disease was over, and there wasn't a dry eye on the other end of my messages. I got beautiful messages back from friends and family, and will never forget how wonderful people could be when it was only a pet, not a family member...and they knew better, and were there for us.
I thought of putting a gravestone on the grave. It bothered me every time I walked by the grave. For some strange reason I couldn't stand the thought that my lovely Lab was buried there each time I passed that spot. At that time, because of my feelings, I decided for sure that I want to be cremated... and any other dog that dies is going to be cremated. I didn't need her ashes, but it just bothered me having her there. I can't explain it... I just felt it for years, and now, 11 years later, I'm more used to the fact, and I have trouble finding the spot where she was buried. We've lost two dogs since, and we had them cremated. Their ashes are not with us, but we know they are in Heaven. ...With Gayle.
posted by Cranberry Jo @ 5/29/2008 03:39:00 PM
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