on saying goodbye

written while streaming taylor swift and rolling my face with ice cubes

Mascara streaked down my face as I heard the word unfurl off the stranger’s tongue: “Euthanasia.”

“It’s all that I can do for her at this point,” the voice on the other end of the phone told me.

But she didn’t know my dog, who just days ago had dragged me around the block one more time, despite not eating.

That’s how I ended up talking to this emergency veterinarian in the first place.

My dog hadn’t eaten in five days, and that meant not being able to take her medications, either.

Nothing worked— not treats, not peanut butter, not cheese, not chicken broth.

By the way, she just celebrated her 13th birthday last week.

I sat with her on the kitchen floor after hanging up and started sobbing.

As she licked the tears from my cheeks, I told her over and over how loved she was.

I gave her belly rubs and scratched her ears as she threw up stomach bile all over the hardwoods.

I stared into her eyes, asking her if it was time. I willed her to give me some sort of response, but none came (naturally).

I tried to compose myself to call my parents, who are currently in Europe, and nearly choked on my words as I tried to tell them what the vet had just told me.

My boyfriend rushed home from work, where he held me and gave my sweet girl some belly rubs while insisting I call her normal vet for a second opinion.

I had been putting this part off. Now, I braced myself for the worst-case scenario: he’d agree.

Instead, he made room in his busy schedule and less than 30 minutes later we were flying down the interstate, pulling into his office.

I paused as we got out of the car.

What if I came here with a dog, and left with nothing but a collar?

Cue more tears.

Long story short, the vet ran labs and gave us two options: we could hospitalize her and try a new drug via IVs, or we could stop the treatment plan and ultimately, euthanize.

My little (almost 30-year-old) brother, Garland, and I immediately answered at the same time: do whatever it takes.

I’m so thankful that Garland was there beside me. I’m so grateful to Chuck for being there, too. Together, they even managed to make me laugh while the doctors took blood samples.

Also, I’m so thankful for my baby brother, Colin, who checked on me with texts all day and helped to calm my parents, where they were at dinner in Venice when I called with the initial panic attack.

But it was more than just that. They were there and ready to do whatever I needed to be okay. They were there as my support team and while the decision was ultimately mine to make, I never felt alone.

But now that I’m home in the quiet of the night, alone while my boyfriend sleeps a deep and well-deserved slumber, I can’t help but wonder if I’m just buying time for the inevitable.

How do we say goodbye to someone (a human or a pet) that we’ve loved for a large (or even small) chunk of our lives?

How do we make the decision, whether they’re a spouse or parent who is unable to, or are a beloved pet, that their time on Earth is over?

I wish I had an answer. I have already cried enough tears in the past 12 hours to fill jars and jars. I’ve begged Gracie, and God, for signs. But I’m coming up empty-handed.

All that I know is that even as I heard her moaning on the floor in pain, she still got up to come and lick my tears away.

All I know is that she is almost as stubborn as I am, and if I had to guess, she’s not done fighting yet.

All I know is that she’s still excited to meet new people on the elevator, and she’s still making me stop to smell the hydrangeas as she pulls me along on her walks.

As Chuck said yesterday, “It’s her world, we’re just living in it.”

This is the hardest decision I’ve faced in my lifetime, and I guess that for that I should be thankful. Goodbyes are a part of life, and they don’t get any easier.

But until the doctor tells me that she’s outlived her comfort and there is nothing we can do, we fight on.

And when that day does come, you better believe I’ll be holding her tight as she falls into a nap in my lap for one last time.