Seeing It Through

I just got done washing the last remnants of blood splatter off the walls and floors in my house. I haven’t wanted to clean it up TOO carefully for fear of jinxing three straight days without a murder scene in my house. But it was time to be a good steward of my home. 

How’s THAT for a dramatic starting paragraph? 

No one is dead yet. 

Actually that’s not true. My dad died on June 24, 2024 after a long battle with lung and heart issues. He would have been 83 on July 19. 

But he did not die in my house. Nor did he do any bleeding. But he without a doubt did NOT want to be at the hospital so the nurses were in a bit of jeopardy. 

His wife asked me to see if I could coax him into going. He was in terrible pain and not at a hundred percent mental capacity. Who is when they can’t breathe? And while I didn’t exactly trick him into going, I helped him with his decision based on pros and cons that didn’t involve actually dying in the hospital. I don’t have a fucking crystal ball. Had I known he was going to die six days later I might have taken him on a joy ride instead. 

He had been in and out of the hospital for a year. I don’t think any kind of deep healing happens in hospitals. Putting bandaids on bullet holes is more like what often happens. 

But this isn’t about my dad. 

This is about our yellow lab named Cooper. 

You can stop reading now. It’s okay. This post is more for me than it is for you. 

No one wants to read about sad dog stories. But I’m not really sure this will be sad. So do whatever you need to. 

Six week old sweet baby Cooper came to our home in the arms of our eldest son, who was moving back in with us for a bit (four years). He handed me this perfect ethereal being with needle sharp teeth and I literally felt my heart burst with what I understand now to be soul love: something so joyful it physically hurts.

Me to Duncan: My sole purpose in life is to love and take care of this dog. 

And so we let Duncan stay for a ‘little while’. Cooper stayed permanently.  

Puppy tax.  

Cooper is a saint. Except saints might not be shamelessly laser focussed on whatever food you happened to be eating, drooling and sad eyed, betting on fifty/fifty odds of someone sharing. Saints might not take a dip in the pool the second you turn your back, even after you clearly said “do NOT get in the pool”. And they definitely don’t have garbage parties the minute you leave your house unattended and unsealed. So maybe he just has a little Saint Bernard in him. 

His joy is simple: snacks, belly rubs, swims, chasing squeaky tennis balls (which are sadly banned from our house thanks to a tennis ball swallowing dog named Jet), peeing on top of  wherever Jet and Bella have already peed: alpha saint. 

Then more snacks. 

Simple dog life. 

Perfect life. 

Over a year ago, Cooper, who was then just over six years old by human standards, started getting bloody noses and some pretty violent sneezing that we at first thought was either allergies or an embedded piece of cheatgrass. It turned out to be a cancerous tumor in his left nasal cavity: nasal adenocarcinoma. Radiation could prolong his life up to two years but could also create other painful issues as a result. This along with the trauma from a ten day very expensive treatment outside the state and away from his home made us opt to not go that route and treat with NSAIDs from home. Without radiation, he was given 4-6 months, which was November 8, 2023. 

We decided to help Cooper live his best possible life until further notice. 

Isn’t that what we are all supposed to do for ourselves and assist others with? “…live this life until this life won’t let (us) live here anymore.” -THE best song by Big and Rich. 

He had a fantastic winter with almost no issues. We got serendipitous and felt justified in our decision: our love for Cooper was clearly healing him. 

He spent a month jumping for buoys in the pool with Bella before it started to get too hard for him to breathe when swimming competitively.  Now he just takes a dip whenever he wants and gets on the couches wet and gets a frozen two inch soup bone every single night (along with his two partners in crime) at exactly 5:30 pm.  

This July, he had a pretty horrifying hour-long sneezing attack that rendered me, my husband, our fifth born David and the walls, floors and back yard covered in blood. Filled with hopelessness, we brought him to the ER which was NOT the plan for his end of life. While waiting for the doctor to come talk to us, I had to take a minute to go to the bathroom and collect myself. I washed my face, blew my nose and whispered “Dad, you’re going to get another dog to love soon. Be ready!” before returning to the room.

The lovely Dr. Brown and her assistant checked all his vitals as we sat, shell shocked and teary eyed, thinking for sure this was it for the boy. Duncan showed up and Cooper, in his harness that was WAAAY too tight from all those soup bones, immediately trotted over to him, seeming to say “Dude: get me the HELL out of here!” Anyhow, the doctor deemed him healthy in every aspect save for the bloody-murder-scene-causing-cancerous-nose-tumor and gave him some epinephrine in his left nostril and prescribed a Chinese herb called Yunnan Baiyao that magically helps with both clotting AND circulation of the blood and sent us all home to live another day. 

A miracle. 

It is a challenging thing to not be selfish on either side of a terminal illness:  wishing it would just be over;  wishing it would never end. 

My dad was ready to go. He told us this well over a year ago. Most of his friends had died. All of his dogs went on before him. He could no longer do the things he loved to do: home improvement projects, golf, work, talk without coughing. The simple act of opening up a can with a can opener left him feeling frustrated and angry. 

I’m the bad guy who took him to the hospital for the last time. He might have died peacefully in his sleep if I’d just stayed out of it. But I thought they’d put another bandaid on his bullet hole: get his lungs drained and back home lickety split. 

He seemed just like the dad I knew when we were sitting in the ER that Tuesday waiting for the next step. 

Him (loudly): “A lot of the nurses here are really fat.” 

Me (whispering): “Ya know dad, some men and women find that sexy.” 

Him: “Hmmmph”. 

I’m pretty sure the last thing he ate was on Wednesday: a chocolate chip cookie icecream sandwich I found for him in the basement cafeteria.  He downed it in thirty seconds, said it was the best thing he’d ever eaten and promptly laid down in his bed and fell asleep. My job was done that day. 

I ended up drinking the milkshake I brought him on Friday.  After his wife called me and told me that the night before he’d threatened to call the police on the nurses for not letting him go home, I beat feet to the hospital to find him restrained and sedated, yet still thrashing, mumbling gobbledygook. 

Not wanting a milkshake. 

Clearly at the end game. 

I have told myself that when Cooper no longer begs for food, no longer stomps around at 5:30 pm (exactly) if I’m still working at my desk “Lady, I don’t have much more time here: give me my damn bone” that this will be the clear sign it’s time. Just because he can’t chase tennis balls like a glorious gazelle at the park, does not mean he doesn’t want to be here, experiencing his life. Who the hell am I to truly know when someone decides they’ve had enough? Who am I to rush it? Who am I to delay it? 

On Saturday my dad was even more restrained, having ripped his lung tubes out for the third time. I sat with him for a bit and when his nurses were trying to do some things for him I got up close to his face and looked him in the eyes and smiled. 

Me: Dad, you’re doing good. Everybody loves you and you are safe. 

Him (suddenly still, clear eyed, smiling back): I love your smile. 

Just as I said “I love your smile too” he looked past me at the ceiling with the most curious and focused look. He stared for the longest time and I just watched, mesmerized. He was clearly straddling earth and heaven, without a doubt ready to go join his buddies, his dogs, his parents and maybe make amends with my mom. Then he fell asleep and I’m not sure he ever fully woke up again. 

If I had not brought him to the hospital, I’d not have been able to see that glimpse of heaven in his eyes.  Selfish bad guy me wins in the end I guess. 

We had a good month with Cooper being on the ancient Chinese secret medicine before he started to bleed bad again. I’d known it wasn’t a cure. But I’d hoped it was. 

I called our regular dog doctor, Dr. Davis on Monday and we decided we would try one more thing, that we would both always wonder if we didn’t try prednisone. But we had to get him off his NSAID for seventy two hours, which meant he might have some pain so she prescribed some heavier pain meds for the waiting game. 

Waiting has never been an easy thing for me. That Tuesday morning I went for my routine swim, thinking it would calm me down. I came in after an hour all dripping and sniffling to find Grant in the kitchen. 

Me: I had a terrible swim. I almost drowned because I could not stop crying. I’m just so sad. There are so many things to be sad about. 

Grant: Speaking of sad, did you eat my leftover sushi? 

Me (briefly redirected):  Only two bites. I’m not sure where the rest went. 

My husband knows exactly how to slap me out of a schlump without actually slapping me. 

Humor is our love language. 

Cooper had a very bloody day that day and I finally gave him the “emergency red pill” (it’s a real thing) from the Chinese foil packet of herbal mystery and later that night layed down on his bed and held him for about an hour while he struggled a bit to breathe and whispered “Alright buddy, I hear you, I’ll call in the morning.” But then he finally just looked at me like “Do you mind? This is getting weird and I’m trying to sleep.” 

So I got back in my own bed. But my mind was literally in complete chaos: like this high speed chase movie playing at triple speed. Flashes of all the dogs and cats I have loved and not been able to save; flashes of my dad and mom, neither of whom I could save. Chaos, guilt, sadness, exhaustion. It went on for several hours until I heard a very clear, very loud, very distinct voice say: “Just see it through.” And all the noise and pictures and excessive emotions literally evaporated and I fell into a deep cleansing sleep. 

The next morning, Cooper was alert, ready to face the day,  not bleeding and ready for his morning treat and I knew that we were going to see the prednisone treatment through. And then we would see the next thing through. And then the next. 

A calm knowing enveloped me and I felt like myself again for the first time since my dad died. 

Dad  left us on that Monday. On Sunday the clairvoyant head nurse told me that death was not imminent for him and that I should be fine going out of town for a few days, a work event planned for months. His lungs were clearing out, the hospital band-aid firmly in place over the bullet hole, thanks to the soul sucking restraints. “He’ll be here when you get back.” 

But deep down I knew  that he was on his way out. I sat with him and rubbed his feet with lotion, played some old country western music on my phone, thinking of how he would play his guitar and sing Hank Williams songs to us girls. I thought of all the things I don’t know about my dad: a billion more things than I do know. That’s how it is with people, even the ones you love. But I know enough things about him that I could fill an entire book. I remembered right then that I have his guitar: the one my mother gave him for Christmas in 1969. It’s broken but maybe I’ll have it repaired and start playing. 

I whispered to him that it was okay if he wanted to go. 

I saw it through as far as I could that day. 

Then I left. 

And he did too. 

He was ready. I was not. Lucky for him it wasn’t up to me. 

It turns out I’m not in charge.

My role in this miraculous unfolding of creation is to see things through as best as I can and to give myself grace when I feel like I didn’t. 

Showing up, being there, dealing with the hard stuff as steadily as I bask in the easy stuff, that’s a perpetual challenge. 

But God has whispered “just see it through” into far greater ears than mine, so who am I to not listen and try? 

Cooper is on day three of his super-dog steroids and seems almost frisky, which was expected. And while I know we are at the end game with the boy, I’ve mostly got my emotional shit together now.  I’m here to see it through. 

“We are only the lightbulbs, our job is to stay plugged in.” 

-Desmond Tutu (1931-2021)