November
21, 2007
It's been 2 days since learning that Nala has cancer of the urethra, that has
also spread to her lungs. Day by day, I watch her closely, look into her eyes,
and try to listen, deeply, to what she us telling me.
When we left the hospital at Penn Vet, and took the promised walk through
campus, she nearly pulled me along as she trotted, alert and bright-eyed, even
chasing after a few squirrels. We walked down to College Green and she gave the
Button a good, long sniff, and we jogged around the big statue of Ben Franklin
in front of College Hall (She was unimpressed). As I told her of my student
days, she sniffed out their memories, as if she would conjure their forms from
muddy blades of grass or pavement corners. She struggled to pee, too, barely
pushing out half the amount she had struggled to relieve herself of before her
stay in the hospital. Her eyes pleaded for help, yet just as surely, she stood
up and was ready to take on the next whiff of passing students, pile of leaves,
or scampering squirrel. One of my few regrets in not having children was
to not have a daughter go to Penn.
Funny how the universe delivers on our wishes.
The ride home-- 2 hours in steady traffic-- was long and hard; the incessant
sniffing by Max, Goose and Gracie upon our arrival, slightly annoying. Still, I
believe she was happy to be home, with me and Lori, even her siblings, and just
too overwhelmed by the lingering effects of the anesthesia and diagnostic
procedures to take in the enormity of all that had happened. Yet we all
knew.
November 22
Thanksgiving
day had a really rough start. We took a long walk, which she joyfully
embraced, but still she continued to strain to pee and look at me with sad
eyes. Each beloved activity--red ball, red light, tennis ball-- with which we
strived to distract and engage her seemed only to illustrate how far she'd
declined, and as Lori and I found ourselves slipping into tears, I could feel
her slipping into depression.
As she lay on one of the big chairs in the study, I held her closely, and in my
mind gathered an inner council for guidance. The wise old woman was,
uncharacteristically, the first to speak. She told Nala she need not be
afraid; that we were strong enough to carry on, and that she need not hang onto
her body for me. She told her that our souls would forever be connected, that
she was an eternal spirit, and that although our bodies would die, our souls
would not die, because that which was never born, never dies. She told Nala
that she was knitting a beautiful set of wings, of pure white feathers, that
would help her fly over the rainbow to a place where she could run and play
with Molly and Luis and all the other beloved dogs who had traveled the path
before her. And she promised her that we would be there for her every step of
the way, holding her close in light and love. A little voice asked if Nana and
Grandpa could be there to greet her in my place, and the old one said yes. And
we all closed our eyes and breathed a ball of white light from our hearts, to
hold her and let her know that everything would be alright.
Nala got up from the chair and stretched, then asked to go outside and pee. Was
it just my imagining, or did she pee more than the couple of dribbles she had
hitherto managed to squeeze out? As the smells of the holiday feast began
filling the house, Nala brightened, eyes alight with anticipation. We observed
the preparations from her bed just off the kitchen, as Lori and her Mom
orchestrated the final touches. Soon guests began to arrive, and Nala perked up
even more. She ate her dinner without coaxing or even needing the threat of
Lucy stealing some morsels to cajole her into reluctantly eating. She asked to
go outside to pee, and then came in with a tennis ball to offer Erik (He
refused it). As the evening progressed, she begged for food and basked in
attention, and seemed to return to herself. We gave thanks for family, friends,
and for Nala sticking around to spend the day with us all. I don't think she's
ready to go yet, said Lori. I agreed. She seemed to be telling us she wanted to
stay.