Wednesday, October 6, 2004
There have been many difficult aspects surrounding my final decision yesterday...
...to euthanize The Big Girl but the most difficult by far has been dealing with my mother through the process of The Big Girl's illness and final, human engineered demise yesterday afternoon instead of having an esophageal feeding tube inserted.
As you know from the previous post, my mother has been having a difficult time with the concept of killing The Big Girl kindly. I thought I recalled, previous to our protracted discussion mentioned below, that she was not at all squeamish about putting pets down. I remember at least four of our family pets that were euthanized, one of which MFS and I handled. I don't recall my mother ever protesting these decisions, which were always necessary. I also assume she was one of the family members who made the decisions. I'm not clear enough, yet, of The Big Girl's death to spend time considering why the idea of euthanizing her was so hard for my mother to take that she reversed what I assume was a lifelong pact with euthanization. Monday night, however, when The Little Girl decided she could no longer tolerate The Big Girl's decline and I realized that separation in this small home, while protecting The Big Girl from attacks, did not protect her from the stress of The Little Girl's continually voiced antipathy and did not bode well for healing even with a feeding tube combined with everything else going on with The Big Girl and extra information I solicited from the vet about what we could expect if we chose to allow The Big Girl to die at home in her own time, I reversed my decision about the feeding tube insertion and decided it was time to put The Big Girl down. My mother wearily agreed.
Throughout Tuesday, prior to me taking The Big Girl in (and, finally, out), my mother could not remember from moment to moment that The Big Girl was very ill, that she had been undergoing (and usually fighting) intensive treatment both at home and during frequent vet visits during the last week and that I was taking her in to hasten her death that afternoon. She did remember that "something" was going on with The Big Girl, thus she spent the entire day up to the time I left peppering me with the same questions and repeatedly expressing shocked surprise and dismay about what was to happen to The Big Girl at 1500 yesterday afternoon. Whereas on Monday I finally tired of repeating everything to my mother, yesterday I felt an obligation to go over the facts, my decision, my reasons and the upcoming death drama each time she required the information. It was torturous.
Since The Big Girl's death, though, my mother has been undisturbed. I thought I'd need to remind her several times but this hasn't been the case. She not only remembers "what happened to The Big Girl" but is beginning to recall details of The Big Girl's almost two week health plight and is now at peace with my decision.
She is nowhere near as emotional about it as I am. I tend to grieve ahead of time. I have, for instance, throughout the last 10 years, already completed a large portion of grieving over my mother's death even though there is no indication that she will die any time soon. Most of my grieving over The Big Girl's death was done by the time a vein was found (most of The Big Girl's veins hadn't yet recovered from the IVs and shots during her hospital stay), the serum was injected and The Big Girl's pupils blew (yes, I attended the death). The only part of the grieving process left for me are the spasms of teary sadness I'm experiencing as the normal events of yesterday evening and today repeatedly bring forward the realization that The Big Girl, who was my shadow, is gone, she won't be growing into her eccentric old age in our home and how much I miss her. My mother, as tends to be characteristic of her and which characteristic she recovered by the time I returned from putting down The Big Girl, finds my convulsions of missing The Big Girl just this side of ludicrous. I'm grateful that she is handling the entire experience so well, but, frankly, I also wish there existed, within my household, an avenue through which I could express my feelings and exhaustion over the entire Big Girl ordeal and receive some informed sympathy. The lack of such is also very hard.
My mother is, however, a lively companion when it comes to remembering The Big Girl and talking about her, which I appreciate. Here's the best of these heart healing moments, excerpted from a very recently written e to MFASRF:
Last night my mother could not resist yet another "pet psychic" observation. "Do you suppose," she asked, "that The Big Girl is visiting us and talking to The Little Girl?"
I laughed. "If she is," I said, "I'll bet she's not giving up her self-appointed position as The Little Girl's malicious mentor. She's probably telling her, 'See? If you don't straighten up and become a half-way decent cat, this is what Gail's going to do to you!'"
My mother gasped. "You don't suppose that's what she believes, do you?"
"No," I said, "but that's what she'd like The Little Girl to believe. But don't worry. It was a major stress of The Big Girl's life that The Little Girl never believed anything she said."
My mother nodded and finally laughed. "You're right," she agreed. "She was a character, that's for sure."
As she remains.
Ah, endings. We've had too many sudden, traumatic endings in too short a period of time. I'm ready for some beginnings, some renewals. I hope my mother is, too.
As you know from the previous post, my mother has been having a difficult time with the concept of killing The Big Girl kindly. I thought I recalled, previous to our protracted discussion mentioned below, that she was not at all squeamish about putting pets down. I remember at least four of our family pets that were euthanized, one of which MFS and I handled. I don't recall my mother ever protesting these decisions, which were always necessary. I also assume she was one of the family members who made the decisions. I'm not clear enough, yet, of The Big Girl's death to spend time considering why the idea of euthanizing her was so hard for my mother to take that she reversed what I assume was a lifelong pact with euthanization. Monday night, however, when The Little Girl decided she could no longer tolerate The Big Girl's decline and I realized that separation in this small home, while protecting The Big Girl from attacks, did not protect her from the stress of The Little Girl's continually voiced antipathy and did not bode well for healing even with a feeding tube combined with everything else going on with The Big Girl and extra information I solicited from the vet about what we could expect if we chose to allow The Big Girl to die at home in her own time, I reversed my decision about the feeding tube insertion and decided it was time to put The Big Girl down. My mother wearily agreed.
Throughout Tuesday, prior to me taking The Big Girl in (and, finally, out), my mother could not remember from moment to moment that The Big Girl was very ill, that she had been undergoing (and usually fighting) intensive treatment both at home and during frequent vet visits during the last week and that I was taking her in to hasten her death that afternoon. She did remember that "something" was going on with The Big Girl, thus she spent the entire day up to the time I left peppering me with the same questions and repeatedly expressing shocked surprise and dismay about what was to happen to The Big Girl at 1500 yesterday afternoon. Whereas on Monday I finally tired of repeating everything to my mother, yesterday I felt an obligation to go over the facts, my decision, my reasons and the upcoming death drama each time she required the information. It was torturous.
Since The Big Girl's death, though, my mother has been undisturbed. I thought I'd need to remind her several times but this hasn't been the case. She not only remembers "what happened to The Big Girl" but is beginning to recall details of The Big Girl's almost two week health plight and is now at peace with my decision.
She is nowhere near as emotional about it as I am. I tend to grieve ahead of time. I have, for instance, throughout the last 10 years, already completed a large portion of grieving over my mother's death even though there is no indication that she will die any time soon. Most of my grieving over The Big Girl's death was done by the time a vein was found (most of The Big Girl's veins hadn't yet recovered from the IVs and shots during her hospital stay), the serum was injected and The Big Girl's pupils blew (yes, I attended the death). The only part of the grieving process left for me are the spasms of teary sadness I'm experiencing as the normal events of yesterday evening and today repeatedly bring forward the realization that The Big Girl, who was my shadow, is gone, she won't be growing into her eccentric old age in our home and how much I miss her. My mother, as tends to be characteristic of her and which characteristic she recovered by the time I returned from putting down The Big Girl, finds my convulsions of missing The Big Girl just this side of ludicrous. I'm grateful that she is handling the entire experience so well, but, frankly, I also wish there existed, within my household, an avenue through which I could express my feelings and exhaustion over the entire Big Girl ordeal and receive some informed sympathy. The lack of such is also very hard.
My mother is, however, a lively companion when it comes to remembering The Big Girl and talking about her, which I appreciate. Here's the best of these heart healing moments, excerpted from a very recently written e to MFASRF:
Last night my mother could not resist yet another "pet psychic" observation. "Do you suppose," she asked, "that The Big Girl is visiting us and talking to The Little Girl?"
I laughed. "If she is," I said, "I'll bet she's not giving up her self-appointed position as The Little Girl's malicious mentor. She's probably telling her, 'See? If you don't straighten up and become a half-way decent cat, this is what Gail's going to do to you!'"
My mother gasped. "You don't suppose that's what she believes, do you?"
"No," I said, "but that's what she'd like The Little Girl to believe. But don't worry. It was a major stress of The Big Girl's life that The Little Girl never believed anything she said."
My mother nodded and finally laughed. "You're right," she agreed. "She was a character, that's for sure."
As she remains.
Ah, endings. We've had too many sudden, traumatic endings in too short a period of time. I'm ready for some beginnings, some renewals. I hope my mother is, too.
