An Italian Greyhound wearing a bright orange life jacket stands on the deck of a boat, gazing out at the water.

My View Buffalo News: Sometimes you have to accept that it’s time to say goodbye

A woman with curly hair holding a cup, sitting in a cozy space, wearing a colorful plaid shawl.

Daniel, our Italian Greyhound (IGGY), is 13 years old —and his body and he are trying to tell us something.  Just a few days ago, he showed moments when he had a bounce in his newly awkward gait. But mostly, Daniel is medicated because he is in pain.

Is it his time?

Is it his time? Sometimes we say yes. And then, as if he heard our conversation, he gives another wag and a prance — and we know that neither he nor we are ready.

Doctors

Could be a tumor or disc disease. Perhaps it is an autoimmune inflammatory condition. The questions spiral like a tornado – the answers remain few and silent.

Because of his age, size, and breed, anesthesia could be fatal. Surgical recovery — months of pain and restricted movement — would be intense. And if it is a tumor and not a disc, it’s terminal.

Is compassion not performing heroic measures for an uncertain and painful outcome?

Our other dogs let us know when it was time. Is Daniel telling us now, but are we unable or unwilling to hear his message?

I searched his eyes for an answer; he searched mine for a decision.

We Schedule an MRI

We arrive early for our 8 a.m. appointment with the veterinary neurologist, and I think we are going through with the complicated sedation and testing. As we sit with the veterinary neurology tech, Matt, my husband, Mitch, says, “I have one more question.”

“What is the best scenario?”

Matt hesitates and looks us in the eye. The best scenario, he explains, would be one small disc that needs repair. The surgery is extensive, and the recovery and post-op are intense. The more likely diagnosis is a tumor that may have spread. He reminds us that, due to Daniel’s age and breed, the procedures are very risky, and Daniel may not survive any of it.

Compassion

Matt’s compassion — as a dog owner, a professional, and simply a good guy  — guides his honest words. He leads us to a private room so that Mitch, I, and Daniel can make a decision.

Daniel
IS THAT WHY I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU?

Daniel has been in pain for weeks. The crate rest and meds have not worked. There are small windows where the meds are just right, so that I can lift him from his stroller for hugs, pets, and a visit to our lawn.

Daniel and Gus
GUS WILL MISS DANIEL, TOO

Mitch says it is ultimately up to me, but he thinks it is the moment to say goodbye. My head knows this is the right decision. My heart is shocked that it’s now.

Together, we decide that this is Daniel’s time. The doctors agree — our painful choice is a compassionate choice.

With my head resting on Daniel’s and Mitch’s and my hands on his body, the doctor inserts the life-ending injection. Daniel slowly quiets until he is completely still. I feel the minute life leaves his body.

Fly over the rainbow bridge, Daniel. Your pain is gone, and our pain is growing. You are at peace, and we are heartbroken, but we are also at peace.

A brown dog wearing a colorful bandana sits closely with a small Italian Greyhound on a leather couch, both looking towards the camera.
Daniel and his Vizsla brother Gus

 

For inspiring stories about Raising a Child with a Rare Chromosome Deletion, check out 3-time award-winning memoir,  Raising Jess: A Story of Hope!

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Calling All Book Clubs! 

Have you read Raising Jess: A Story of Hope? I’d love to join your book club for an engaging, heartfelt discussion.

We can talk about the real-life moments behind the pages, parenting a child with a rare chromosome deletion, the challenges and joys our family has faced, and the journey that inspired the book.

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