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March 10, 2017

The Day You Went Away


The night had been tough. I had managed to finally fall really asleep after drifting in and out of consciousness all night and turning about uneasily to the sound of your cries. Getting up to check every time they got more intense. Mum was there with you all night on the living room floor. Knowing you I know that this was enough and both of us hovering would have probably only made you more nervous and scared. But I also deluded myself into thinking that you were going to get better. That you would quiet down eventually, get some good rest and be fine the next day. I should have known then that this was not going to be. It is amazing how we could watch you so closely, aware of every twitch and yet fall for our hope. I guess we were so focused on the details, we missed the bigger picture. Yes you still had good days. But taking your walks had become mostly a chore for you. Good play sessions had gotten farther and farther between and ever shorter as well. You were often restless at night. We wrote that of to senility or grumpy old age, because that is what we wanted to believe I guess, but you might have been more uncomfortable than we thought. Maybe I should have done more to comfort you then. I often didn't really know what to do; what you needed me to do and I felt so helpless.

Not as helpless as today though. As mum woke me up to come and sit with you while she got ready for work. We still thought it might just have been a bad reaction to the medication you got to get you to rest last night. We still thought you would get back to normal again. The normal we had slowly gotten accustomed to in the previous months at least. You kept your pain medication down. That was a small success. I hope it has at least taken the edge of a little bit.

I was so tired I almost fell asleep cuddled up next to you. But not quite. You were still rather vehemently crying out for mum at this point. But it wasn't long before you quieted down. And still we told ourselves this was a good thing. That you were finally getting some rest and could get better. But you didn't go to sleep and your breathing was still so laboured. You were apathetic. Did not take water anymore. And I slowly started to panic. I still did not want to accept. I wanted to call the doctor. Dad was a little ahead of me. And we fought. He went to talk to the doctor anyway. They told us to wait but be prepared. We did not wait long. Mum came home and I guess that was when we knew what would happen.

Then our friend came. She encouraged us to call the doctor again and insist they come over. Maybe they could at least get some fluids and nourishment into your system. Maybe that would get you back from the brink. They agreed. And I foolishly got my hopes up again. What a relieve when they finally walked in the door. Not a minute too soon since you had just peed yourself. The relieve, however, was to be short lived. They seemed a little caught off guard by your condition. They had seen you only the day before with some nausea and stomach ache but otherwise fine. Except your nausea meant you could not keep your pain medication down. I never would have guessed that you would get this bad without it. But you did. And the shot of pain medication in the evening must have been too little to late.

Anyway, the doctor took your vitals and listened to your heart for an unnervingly long time. She gave you some fluids. And then it all happened very fast. It seemed like the fluids gave you just enough energy to go. I called my sister. She was already on her way. Only thirty minutes away. Thirty minutes too far. I had hoped that she would make it. However she is going to keep you in her heart the way you were in life untainted by that last painful moment when you looked at mum and said goodbye. And now you are gone.

And yet you still linger. In the pictures on the wall, in your favourite places, in all of your things strewn across the house, in your routines we are so accustomed to. An your grave outside in the garden. I hope it is not as dismal a place as I imagine it to be when my eyes wander away from the movie we are watching to search you out as they are so used to doing and I remember that you are out there in the cold now. I wish the day had been warmer. Intellectually I know you don't feel it anymore and yet it feels so wrong for you to be out there in the cold while we are sitting here in the warmth of the house with the little candle we lit for you.

I shiver. The cardigan, the cherry pit pillow, the blanked and the scarf all together can not keep me warm tonight. I am exhausted. Every part of my body hurts. A mirror for my feelings I guess. It is late. The day of your death is gone a little over an hour ago. I should get some sleep. But I am afraid of what it will bring. Or what awakening will bring. So I am procrastinating by getting this of my chest. I know this is not the most flattering portrayal. I should probably write about all the good you did, what you achieved, the amazing life you had before this awful day. And I will eventually. Maybe I will even make you the hero of some stories. An idea I have been playing with for a while. I remember it came to me during one of our walks. I also remember the baffled look you gave me when I collected some of your fur to make felted figures from. I thought this was going to make a great grief project. I will do all this eventually. I will make more positive portrayals of your presence here on earth and in my life. But not tonight. Tonight I have to remember that you suffered in the end. That it was time for you to go. That I should not be selfish and wish your ordeal prolonged. That my suffering means that you can be peaceful again.

In Loving Memory of Chester von den Hoflinden

17th June 2003 - 10th March 2017

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