The Rollercoaster

Today was a good day.

And maybe that is what makes tonight so hard.

Willow ate. She played with her ball—a lot. She wanted to be outside. She was engaged with us and interested in the world around her. There were moments when I could almost convince myself that maybe we were okay. Maybe we had turned a corner. Maybe we had more time than I feared.

But as the day went on, I could see the light begin to leave her eyes.

Maybe she overdid it. Maybe she was simply exhausted from enjoying a good day. Maybe tomorrow will be better again.

There are so many maybes when you love an animal who is sick.

She refused her cookie. She started isolating herself in another room. Then, as she was walking up the stairs, she lost control of her bowels.

It wasn’t the mess that broke my heart.

It was her face.

I could see what looked like embarrassment, confusion, maybe even a loss of dignity. I know I may be putting human emotions onto her, but after loving a dog for so long, you know their expressions. You know when something feels different.

So I took her into the shower and washed her off. My third shower of the day.

I cleaned everything up, got her tucked in and settled, and hoped she could finally rest.

But she couldn’t.

She was restless and hypersalivating. I could see how exhausted she was, but putting her head down didn’t seem comfortable. She couldn’t quite settle into her own body.

And then suddenly she was off the couch, making a beeline for the door.

We didn’t make it.

At the bottom of the stairs she lost control again, this time all over my feet.

We eventually got outside. I cleaned her up. Cleaned everything else up.

Another load of laundry.

Shower number four for me.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I found myself asking the question that I have heard from so many families over the years:

What am I supposed to do?

Tonight, the best solution I could come up with was to set up camp downstairs.

The door to the deck is open. I’ve created a little barricaded pathway between the couch and the door, with a carpet of disposable pads covering the floor. I’m sleeping on the couch so she isn’t alone and so that, hopefully, when she needs to go again, she can make it outside in time.

It’s not elegant.

It’s not really a solution.

It’s just what we are doing tonight.

And perhaps this is the part of caring for a seriously ill pet that is so difficult to explain until you are living it.

The good moments are still genuinely good.

Today wasn’t a lie because tonight is hard. Willow really did play with her ball. She really did want to be outside. I really did see pieces of my girl today.

And tonight is real, too.

That’s the rollercoaster.

A good day can make you hopeful. A bad night can make you question everything. And sometimes they happen within hours of each other.

As a veterinarian who spends so much of my life helping families navigate end-of-life decisions, I wish that gave me some special ability to see my own dog’s path clearly.

It doesn’t.

Tonight I’m not her veterinarian.

I’m just her person.

I’m the one doing laundry in the middle of the night. I’m the one watching every expression on her face. I’m the one wondering whether today was a gift, whether tonight is a warning, and what tomorrow will bring.

I don’t know what the solution is.

So tonight, the solution is puppy pads.

An open door.

A couch.

And making sure that when Willow looks up, she knows I’m still right here.