Last days of Sweet Potater Pie

Tater is getting ready to die. He's been having trouble walking. Which is not fatal. Except that as of tonight he can't seem to get up at all, and when he falls it isn't like an easy fall, the kind where he gently sits down and then carefully gets back up, but the horror-show kind of fall where he can't catch his breath, and his legs are all at weird angles, and he struggles and is distressed and in pain. Just now he sort of staggered into the kitchen and threw up his meds, then fell over and peed uncontrollably. He clearly wanted to go outside, so I helped him with that, and once he got there he went to a corner of the yard and tried to throw up some more, even though his stomach was already empty. I carried him back into the house and now he's lying on the floor in the living room. He seems more comfortable there than in his bed so I'll probably bring out some pillows and blankets and sleep out there with him tonight.

I know he's very old and frail, and that I did not cause this. But maybe I overdid it with him earlier. After work tonight I took him back to the creek, knowing how much he loves it there and wanting to share it with him one last time. Now I'm thinking maybe that was selfish and foolish. We only stayed about 15 minutes and I carried him there and back, and he seemed like he was loving it at the time. But now he's completely exhausted and out of it and I'm realizing that even if he doesn't die tonight, he will die soon. Maybe even this weekend.

Or maybe he just got worn out, and will feel better after some rest. I hope so. Still, we're in the home stretch and we both know it.

I had really wanted him to be here for his 14th birthday, on June 1. But if he doesn't get a lot better in the next few days, I guess we will have to celebrate it without him.

It's horrid to think of killing someone you love, just because you have to go to work and don't want him to die alone and possibly in pain before you can get back home to be with him again. I'm taking the day off tomorrow, and S. already has Friday off, and then there's the weekend.

As it happens, S. is away on business tonight, so this is the first time in over a year that I've been home alone overnight with both dogs. Probably just as well, as he's having an even harder time with this than I am, and his absence is allowing me to let the reality sink in a little bit before I have to let him know about this latest change.

Isn't it strange how we never quite believe that anyone will really die? Even after it's happened, I often find it hard to believe it's actually true. How can someone just disappear like that?

Or appear, for that matter? My little sister's first baby is 27 weeks old (only one of those weeks outside of my sister) and struggling to stay alive. They say her chances of surviving with no problems are better now than they've ever been for a baby born that early, and she does seem to be doing really well, considering. Something to be grateful for.

Counting this new little one, I have 19 nieces and nephews. And Tater has been alive longer than all but one of them. My relationship with this sweet dog is the longest intimate relationship I've ever had with anyone outside my immediate family.

I wonder how it will be for Bea. She's never lived in a house without at least one other dog.

I am grateful that my lackadaisical spiritual practice has prepared me somewhat for getting through this with, I hope, a minimum of suffering. I was realizing as I was crying just now that I was Just Crying, without any resistance at all to the emotions I was feeling. Yes, I was (am) in pain, but it's OK because I know that it's just pain. It comes and goes. There's a lot of peace in surrendering to what is, even if I really don't like what's happening. Certain people in my life spend a lot of time fighting against reality, or arguing with the past, and that's been instructive for me too, in the sense that I have an up-close opportunity to see how that approach works. Hint: It doesn't. The results are the exact opposite of what I want for my own life.

And speaking of practice, my good old journaling practice has come through in the crunch for me again too, even though I seem to have set it aside for the most part, at least for now. Looking back, I have gone through times when I wrote a lot less, or not at all. It's good to know it's still here for me when I want it, and doesn't hold a grudge for all the good times I've been having without it.

I feel better.

Except I just re-read everything I wrote, and it was like hearing it again for the very first time: He's going to die. He's lying in his bed right this minute living out one of the last days of his life.

It just never feels real.

Then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.