Blessing The Bridge

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."

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.

Word From the Other Side

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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