About Whatever Comes Up
For months I have been contemplating a blog. I intend to share thoughts about everyday life experience. My life skills coach training continues to nurture my interest in personal problem solving with a focus on a healthy relationship with the self, the family, and the community. I also expect to be exploring dimensions of friendship, love, hope and caretaking. This blog will be about getting through the unexpected and other hard stuff. Laughter might be evoked, and perhaps tears. There may be more questions than answers and that’s okay because grappling with ambiguity can be a great entry to making new meaning and creating alternate stories to live by. This, I learned from narrative research and thirty-six years of teaching college students. As this blog takes shape, it is my wish that a community of contemplation evolves. Let’s see what happens.
One
Beloved Black Labs: Grief and Loss
If you’ve been following me on Instagram or read my memoir, Dance into the Light (2023, Blue Denim Press), you’ll know of my two beloved black labs, Winnie and Zachary. Both precious critters have walked with me through my husband’s cancer journey, the loss of my mother, my youngest sister’s death by suicide, and, my father’s departure.
Last December, Winnie and Zachary were in treatment for an unknown respiratory issue. We suspected kennel cough, then blastomycosis. It wasn’t either. On our return home from an evening out, Winnie’s cough had worsened to the point she was having difficulty breathing. We drove south to the Huronia Veterinary Emergency Clinic in Barrie.
Winnie died on December 10, 2023. Had her cancer from three years earlier not returned with a vengeance, her immune system might have been strong enough to fight the unknown bacterial virus. Jack nor I had seen this one coming and needless to say, we were in shock that our vibrant and athletic Winnie was taken from us so suddenly.
After she died, Zachary was emotionally flat. When he returned to the cottage after walks, he wandered from room to room. Winnie, his litter-mate sister, was his life-long friend and Zachary’s sorrowful eyes told me that he misses her as much as we do.
After Winnie left us, Zachary’s cough worsened. When his lungs were X-rayed, they appeared almost as cloudy as Winnie’s. The radiology report indicated bacterial pneumonia. Three rounds of antibiotics were prescribed and by mid-January, Zachary’s cough subsided.
But then, he started to have difficulty walking. A side effect from the medication? We weren’t sure. Another round of X-rays showed arthritic knees and hinted at a bulge on his vertebrae. Soon after MRI images indicated an inoperable cancerous tumour on his spine. On the same evening of this finding, Dr. Kilbourn, Head Veterinarian of Neurology at Animal Health Partners Emergency Hospital in Toronto, spoke to us about humane euthanasia.
Jack, more than me, was determined not to have our final goodbyes in the Toronto animal hospital. Empathizing, Dr. Kilbourn prescribed Prednisone and counselled us to continue Gabapentin and the opiate, Tramadol. Zachary was fitted for a harness which made it easier for us to help him move around the cottage.
Beverley Brewer
Wednesday
January 31, 2024
Seconds after parking my car outside the grocery store, I answered a call from Bracebridge Animal Hospital. Dr. Langley wanted to check on Zachary. My report was glowing. I told her about the brace and how it was helping. His appetite was good, I said, and I shared that he got up on the couch, which in my mind suggested he was feeling better.
Seems I had forgotten Zachary does not have a curable illness. When I mentioned to Dr. Langley about his increased energy––likely because of Prednisone––she cautioned me, not to take him too far. She said, it would “be helpful if you had a sled or a gurney.” I had a sled.
She also said the tumour could burst. I think she said his vertebrae could crack. Alarm ran through my body. Tears washed away denial. How did I manage not to absorb the severity of his condition?
I wondered if our conversation was the hardest part of a veterinarian’s job. A sobbing woman on the other end of the phone. How difficult is that?
Our DVM’s professional knowledge embedded in calmness, made it possible to hear what she had to say. At her weekend conference, she had heard about something that might help Zach. She’d been thinking about him. But then, on her return she saw the MRI. “The tumour on Zachary’s spine is definitive.” I had a hunch the doctor was holding back emotion. I appreciated when she got personal. To fully absorb her message, I paraphrased–– “So you’re telling me that if Zachary were your dog, you would not wait any longer.” Her response: “I would let him go.”
I heard compassion. “If you wait and something bursts, it will be very painful for Zach and incredibly stressful for you. You need to be ready.” As a result of a tender conversation with Dr. Sigetich earlier, details about a service that facilitates saying goodbye at home had been sent to me, but I hadn’t yet opened the email.
I put my intentions to make potato-leek soup on hold and drove back to the cottage where Jack and I sobbed about having to do the right thing for our precious Zachary.
Thursday
February 1, 2024
It was a roller coaster of emotion. When pain management worked, and dear Zachary ate a fulsome breakfast and perked up at the rustle of a wrapper or the promise of the bacon-fat pan, it was hard to fathom the end of his life.
Hours later of the same day, Zach gave us a different message: Tired. Sad. He’s panting and he’s resisting the med that I hid in a pill pocket. Gently, I gave him the Tram, and anticipated its effect. When I did, it felt like it took too long.
I opened the email and made the call: Tomorrow, Friday, a vet-tech/hospice worker will arrive to facilitate Zachary’s departure. I yearned for grace and simplicity. Anyone who has loved a pet––cat, dog, bunny or anything else furry or not––will know there’s no easy way to say goodbye.
We shared our news about Zachary with close friends. A supportive note came from Mexico. After his workday, our contractor slipped in to be alone with Zachary. My cousin and husband arrived after supper with an extra-large cookie in the shape of a bone. Everyone laughed at how quickly the cookie disappeared. From family and friends, we received warm condolences and other special words. We weren’t grieving alone.
Jack and I came to accept we had to let go. As we move forward we know the grief will be deep and real. Zachary’s death, like Winnie’s such a short time ago, will leave a huge hole in our lives. Our hearts ache while our brains help to find words to ease the pain. Mindful breathing will help to manage tough emotions. There will be no apologies for tears.
Friday
February 2, 2024
Overnight, I slept on the floor beside Zachary. Jack, who never did take off his boots, laid on the love seat. Us three were in the TV room, Zachary’s choice, perhaps because it is small and cozy.
At 2am, his panting got faster. Recalling the mass on my own spine and the pain it shot through my bones, I empathized with Zachary’s resistance to move. I gave him another Gabapentin and eventually he relaxed onto the cushy dog bed. We slept side by side.
Around 8am, with the use of the brace, I supported him to go outside. He didn’t like this. He has always been discrete. I get reminded of my aging parents and the adjustments everyone had to make to new daily patterns. Images of my father in his nursing home, with its lack of privacy, came to mind. I did my best never to intrude. To bring my dad joy, I took Winne or Zachary to see him. Their visits breathed life into the place and my dad was especially pleased to rub his large hand across their velvety heads.
After his bathroom break, Zachary licked up his breakfast––raw meat, steamed vegetables, fish oil and a sprinkle of beef antioxidant. I will miss the noisy clangs of this morning and dinnertime routine.
Anticipating the gut wrench that comes with the death of a loved one, Jack and I waited with our dear loyal friend. Both on the floor with him, neither of us could get close enough. Zachary nudged with his strong snout and reached out with his paw. We were connected.
When Emily, the hospice and vet tech worker from Hearts with Wings, arrived, curious Zachary lifted his head. She was with us for about two hours. Endless love filled tender moments. Emily had brought special treats for me to feed to Zachary––steak, jerk turkey, peanut butter, and the most special of all, which was an all-time first–– Belgium chocolate, and, a cream-filled Twinkie! Zachary was in his element that hinged on our sweet boy’s love of food.
To be bereaved, means we are deprived of something valuable. We’d already been deprived of Zachary’s full health. Jack and I were getting ready the best way we knew how. I anticipate that intense sorrow. There is no healthy escape, except to go with the feelings and remember to savour the mutual love behind the pain.
I was fortunate to grow up in a family with German Shepherds––Tippy, Nipper, Hobo, Bear, Kiley, and Jenny. Between Bear and Kiley, my parents adopted Ginger, the fat orange cat who my mother loved to spoil. The notion that a pet is a family member is alive and well in my psyche.
When I taught at Niagara College, a litter of kittens was carried into the classroom by a tearful young man. His aunt had threatened to drown them while he was away. I rescued two, and by the end of the day, all kittens were spoken for. Thankfully. My first two cats, Raspie and Cleo, were just shy of seventeen and eighteen years old when they died. I grieved deeply and healed over time. My next feline children were Buddy and Billie, rescued by Jack and I from the Toronto Humane Society. Handsome black-and-white Billie––a terrific mouser–– left us at age fourteen. Buddy lived on to be twenty-eight. I think full dental surgery had a lot to do with his long life. Gratitude. Chocolate lab, Major Mackenzie, was our first dog together. We learned so much from him. He left us at age thirteen and six months later, still missing him, we went looking for Winnie and Zachary. Never a dull moment and absolutely no regrets!
Each time a family member dies, human or not, life changes. When the above mentioned loved-ones departed, emptiness overtook the house. That’s how I feel now with the passing of Winnie and Zachary. I miss the clutter of their bowls and how vacant the floor is without their beds. With Winnie gone, and now Zachary too, the cottage holds a silence I am not ready for yet. I thought about putting on music, but the urge wasn’t strong enough. Since Zachary has been unwell, I have missed him jumping on the bed and taking more than his fair share of my pillow. Winnie, too. I’ll miss our walks. It will feel strange not to watch the clock for dinnertime and let-outs.
Saturday
February 3, 2024
Since yesterday, grief has come in waves and I expect more of it. With friends’ kind words, I become a puddle of tears. Since losing Zachary last night, I did not want to close my eyes because I wanted to delay the pain of waking to my new reality that he’s gone and he’s not coming back. Finality. To get me through, I picked up Leonard Cohen’s The Flame: Poems and Selections from Notebooks. I let myself fall into Cohen’s prose; some words funny, others dark. I read a short story in the Walrus about a father and his eight-year-old son who is dying of cancer. Grief and mourning. Both reading options were close to my bed, so in part their proximity had something to do with my choices. So did intuition. I knew I would be okay in the language of grief. In response to the loss of my beloved black labs, I need to be there right now. Not to be morose, but to be in a place where I am listening to myself. I am honouring my emotional needs. And I know this is only the beginning.
Struck by the touching language of grief.