It's been a week since we lost our beloved Maggie, our mixed miniature Schnauzer (mixed with what, we don't know). She had been with us for fifteen and a half years, ever since she was a puppy.
For the past several months, Maggie had been exhibiting signs of kidney failure. Back and forth with the vet, sometimes her blood levels that indicated kidney function were closer to normal; other times they exhibited signs of failing kidneys. Before we went to Texas a couple of weeks ago, her blood levels were back to showing kidney failure. Coming back home on Memorial Day, we knew that the road ahead was going to be a rough one, with trying to move Maggie who had chronic stomach problems to a special food designed for dogs with kidney problems. We knew what the inevitable result would be; we hoped to stave it off a little while longer.
We just never knew that we wouldn't even have the opportunity.
Tuesday morning, less than ten hours since we'd been home, Maggie started vomiting, and she collapsed twice. After struggling with what might happen, I told the girls to say good-bye to Maggie before they went to school. The next hour and a half, Maggie grew steadily worse. After one particular bad episode of vomiting and collapse, I called Chris and had him meet me at the vet's. I didn't think we were going to make our 3:15 p.m. appointment.
After Dr. Skipton examined Maggie, I could tell right away, before he even said, "It's time," that there was no hope. I waited for Chris, and when he got there, the rest of the process was pretty quick.
My husband and I have never lost a pet before. We both left home and went off to college before our childhood pets died. Our children certainly haven't experienced that particular loss either.
After the girls got home, we tried to explain and provide comfort to them. Kathryn had a thought. "I want to write a letter to Maggie, but I know she can't read it. What can I do with it?" I thought that a letter was a great idea. We could build a fire in our fire pit, and Kathryn could throw the letter in. I thought that might be a ritual we could all participate in. We could all write messages of love and wonderful memories of Maggie and throw them in the fire. That's what we did Friday night to celebrate Maggie and give some sort of bookend to this grief.
All of this at the same time I was launching Write Well U. How strange to be overcome one minute with grief and the next minute with excitement over my new venture.
This last weekend was a good opportunity to try to adjust. It was our first weekend home since our trip, and just that in and of itself was a necessary breather. Then with all of these emotions going through me... I needed a weekend as a transition and as a bookend of a different sort.
Now back into a regular week, I find myself feeling as if time is moving through sludge. Can it be a whole week since that happened? The sympathy card from our vet came on Friday - and that seems like forever ago. I still keep expecting to see Maggie lying on her bed when I walk from my office to my kitchen. She isn't there. I look for her when we come home. She isn't there. Writing this, I'm crying because I miss her so much. She isn't here.
I know it will get better, and I know time heals. It's all part of the process. It's just hard.
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