The Hardest Day

Zelda was the princess of personality!

On my way home from the post office this afternoon, I passed the veterinarian's office at the corner of the highway. A horse trailer was parked at the side of the road. As I approached, I could see three men at the back, looking at the still body of a horse lying on the floor of the trailer. All three men were crying, one wiping his eyes with a large handkerchief. Clearly, they'd had to put down, or were unable to save, this beautiful animal.

For the rest of the drive home, I was blinking back tears. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was sobbing. My heart ached for those men and their loss, but I realized my extreme reaction had been triggered by memories of our own family's loss. Ironically, it happened exactly a year and two days ago, and it still hurts like a fresh wound.

Life is hard. It's meant to be that way. Opportunities to learn and grow through life's challenges abound. Sometimes, though, our experiences are downright traumatic, leaving scars that change us forever. I've had three events in my lifetime that represent truly traumatic episodes in my memories: losing my first child to miscarriage; being assaulted by my second husband; and, a year ago, watching my son's heartbreak as he made the most wrenching decision of his young life.

I hope it's been long enough to share this. It still hurts to remember, but maybe it's time.

Princess Zelda at home.

Friday, February 9, 2018, started out quietly, with no expectation of what was to come. Dylan and Jake's one-year-old cat, Zelda (aka, their "princess"), had been sick for three days, throwing up a lot and refusing to eat or drink. Her usual high levels of energy had crashed. By Thursday evening, though, she'd perked up a bit and eaten a few bites, so they were hopeful it had been no more than  a difficult hairball finally ready to pass. Nonetheless, the guys decided to follow through with a veterinarian appointment the next morning, just to be sure she was okay.

Both Dylan and Jake had to work that day, so Dylan asked if I could take Zelda to her 9:30 appointment. Again, we didn't anticipate more than a check-up, maybe some pills or some fluids for her dehydration, maybe updating her shots. Sarah didn't have to be at work until the afternoon, so she volunteered to go along with me. Dylan dropped Zelda off at my house on his way to work, so she spent a quiet hour with me while I got ready to go. She was calmer than her usual manic self, but she wasn't obviously sick or uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, the vet discovered that Zelda had ingested something that had passed through her stomach and into the small intestine, where it remained lodged, blocking all movement through her digestive system. She was severely dehydrated and her abdomen was painful. The only course of action was surgery to removed the blockage, which the vet guessed was some type of small cloth. The vet explained that young cats often eat odd items. Dylan confirmed that they had to keep odds and ends out of reach or Zelda would try to swallow them. (They figured later that it was likely a dryer sheet, which they tried to keep from her since she'd tried to eat one before.)

Zelda spends her final moments in Dylan's arms.

February 9, 2018

I kept Dylan informed via text throughout the exam. Then, after seeing the x-rays and hearing the vet's conclusions, we spoke on the phone. Dylan was devastated to learn that the surgery would cost, at minimum, more than $1,800, and possibly closer to $5,000 if there were complications. There just wasn't enough money in their budget to cover such a large bill. I suggested that he go ahead and take his lunch hour early and come to the vet's office. Such a major decision should not be made over the phone.

Dylan joined us at 11:00. Thankfully, he was given the rest of the day off to deal with this personal turmoil. Over the next almost-two hours, the three of us (Dylan, Sarah, and myself) explored every possible option as Dylan struggled to decide the best course. He consulted with Jake by phone as each possible pathway presented itself. The vet checked a fund set aside for such situations, but it had recently been depleted by someone else with modest means and a pet needing surgery. She also referred him to another vet clinic that handled "budget" surgeries, but they'd already closed for the weekend and Dylan hated to think of Zelda suffering an additional three days, which she might not even survive.

Preparing a place for burial.

I've rarely seen my sons cry. After all, it's usually not considered "manly" to express sadness in this manner. However, the gravity of this decision brought my youngest to his knees emotionally. He expressed how hard it was to have to choose to end the life of one still so young and otherwise healthy, so full of energy and possibilities. My own heart broke at the thought of having to put this sweet kitten "to sleep," and both Sarah and I cried a river of our own tears as Dylan struggled with a decision that no one should ever have to make. But the thing that wrung the most pain from my heart was seeing the agony that contorted my baby's face and forced tears down his cheeks as he faced the reality of an unfair choice.

When it became clear that there was only one possible outcome for this situation, I was proud that Dylan insisted he must be with Zelda in her final moments, no matter how difficult it might become. I hate to admit this, but I've always been too cowardly to do what he did. I've always convinced someone else to be with our pets at the end. This time, though, Sarah and I knew we had to stay, for Dylan's sake, to offer whatever support we could lend.

Zelda's funeral was well-attended by many who loved her. There were tears.

It was bittersweet to watch Zelda in Dylan's arms, seeing her loved and happy, not knowing it was a heart-wrenching goodbye for him. And then she was gone, a peaceful moment when Dylan said he felt her spirit leave her tiny body. And then he cried and cried. The only other time I ever saw anyone sob that hard was the morning I lost my first baby, and I was the one doing the crying. It felt like the pain would never end. I'm sure Dylan felt the same.

They released Zelda to us, safe in a sturdy little box. Our backyard has seen many pet funerals over the twenty-five years we've lived here, but none more difficult than the little gathering and memories shared as we laid Zelda to rest. 

Sleep well, little Princess. We will see you again someday. Until then, you'll be loved and remembered forever.

Rest in peace, little Princess.