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How Do I Let Go!
| Luke
was the size of a six-month old kitten when he first appeared,
as if out of nowhere, on the front lawn. Obviously
abandoned, he was thin and his coat, matted and dull. I carried
him inside for a much-needed meal and a nap in a safe, blanket-lined
box. Now he was finally "home." |
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| At his first veterinary
visit, right after his arrival, his age was determined to
be six months, not six weeks. I assumed he had been severely
malnourished. Over the following months he continued to eat
ravenously, yet his coat was rough and dull, and he remained
too thin. Eventually, after several de-wormings, blood work
showed he was a juvenile diabetic - the most serious kind,
as he had been born without any pancreatic function. How he
had survived nearly a year without insulin was a miracle.
He was immediately started on a strict regime of daily insulin
shots and carefully timed meals to prevent highs and lows
in his blood-sugar levels. And, he began to improve. |
Luke gave me his name. I had
a list of kitten names: the soft, joyous, embracing kind for my
little gray-and-white prince. But the name "Luke" would not leave
my head. I heard it day and night, in my sleep, every time I looked
at him or held him. Finally, when I agreed to call him "Luke,"
my mind became blessedly quiet again. Already, he was letting
me know what he wanted.
Despite such a rocky beginning, health
wise, Luke did well, and thrived, for nearly seven years. Then,
without the typical warning signs I have come to sadly know, his
kidneys shut down. Still, his doctor thought there might be hope
if we gave him fluids twice a day, a process that usually brings
relief and comfort to an animal who is so severely dehydrated
from kidney disease. And, usually, animals do not mind the procedure.
But Luke did - dramatically so. For the first time in our mutually
loving, trusting relationship, Luke growled and scratched me every
time I would start giving him the fluids. Each session was a terrible
battle; he was in pain with it, avoided me afterwards, wanted
to be left alone. Finally, when a new blood test showed no progress
with the fluids, and further kidney failure, we stopped giving
them. I had already decided I no longer wanted to torture him
so.
For the next week, Luke refused all
food, so insulin injections had to be stopped. He became unbearably
thin and weak, yet would not let me clean him, swab his dry mouth
out with water, or even touch him. He was telling me as loudly
as he could that he wanted to be left alone. Obviously, it was
time for me to let go.
And when I did, and promised to leave
my sweet friend alone, he came out of the attic and settled in
the chair. As he could, he struggled to the water bowl or into
the litter box, always trying to do everything right. To stand
back and let him take his physical journey alone was unbearable
for me. At least I could put an end to his apparent suffering?
As is my practice, I went to prayer and meditation for direction,
and asked Luke's angel to be present with us both.
Then Luke began to have blood in
his mouth. My home veterinary book said it might be internal hemorrhaging
from dehydration. I never asked Luke's permission, simply stuffed
him, even as he struggled against me, into his carrier and rushed
him to the vet hospital to be euthanized. But at the animal hospital,
and on the table, he grabbed the carrier door with both paws and
shook it so hard to get back in, the doctor laughed, agreeing
with me that it was not yet time.
Back home again with my obstinate
friend, I sat quietly, spoke to him through my thoughts, asked
him to forgive me for not consulting him first. And for the next
four days, hard as it was, I let him be. On the fifth day, a Friday,
he could barely stand up; bladder and bowel control were gone,
and his eyes were sunken in. Again sitting quietly beside him,
I asked if he were ready, and although I did not recognize a strong
response, he no longer struggled or turned away from me. As he
looked at me squarely with tired eyes, I knew he was willing to
accept help in his release from a barely functioning body. The
trip to the vet hospital and the process of euthanasia was gentle,
easy, and peaceful.
Luke taught me so much: how and when
to honor what the animal wants and not to assume, by physical
appearances, that my friend is in need of euthanasia, without
consulting him or her first, and certainly, without good, reliable
veterinary advice. The animals, over the years, have taught me
again and again that the journey on the physical plane, from birth
through death, is a beautiful one, despite the inevitable "bumps"
one must endure along the way. Life is a blessing. Accepted and
honored as such for ourselves and those others who join us, all
the of the journey - the straight "roads" as well as the steep,
uphill struggles such as my incredibly brave Luke experienced,
will be a gift beyond compare.
How does one let go? Quiet your frantic,
grieving mind and heart with gentle breathing, ask for spiritual
guidance and assistance, speak mentally to your animal friend,
then listen or watch for a response. And that response may not
come back as words in your mind, but somehow, in perfect timing,
that response you need will be known to you. Trust - trust that
your animal companion has heard you and honors your request, and
trust your own heart to be open enough to receive the reply. And
then, honor that reply to the best of your ability. But if you
do not recognize a response, act as you feel is most appropriate
to the situation and do so only with love, not guilt or fear.
You will be so glad you did, and you can never, ever, be "wrong"
in your decision. |
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