Making the tough decision.

Lucy in 2007

I knew this day was coming, but when it arrived I wasn’t emotionally ready for it. Since the first of the year, Lucy has had stomach problems. Day after day, one month merging into three, then into eight months, I cleaned up dribbles of diarrhea off the floor as Lucy moved through the house. The furniture was now covered with towels and sheets to protect the upholstery and the number of loads of laundry done each week doubled. In moments when I just had had enough of wiping poop off the floor, I’d asked myself why I would tolerate such a situation and why damn it, didn’t the vet seem more concerned about what was happening.

Finally in July, I confronted my vet about the situation. Nothing was working: the anti-diarrheal medication, the special diet, and the pro-biotic. I was frustrated, angry and yet upset that my Lucy, who had had a long (20 years), healthy life was now forced into weekly baths and daily battles to clean her backside of clinging feces. Then, I heard what I had feared all along. Based on her symptoms and the fact that none of the usual remedies were working, Lucy likely had a mass in or surrounding her intestines. Cancer, it seemed was going to do this old girl in. Too old for surgery, there was little I could do but make her comfortable until the end. Eventually the mass would cut off the intestinal passageway and Lucy’s life would be over.

In some ways, now knowing the truth, made the floor cleaning, the bottom wiping more tolerable. Weeks went by where I now just accepted that this was her reality and there was really nothing I could do. All that changed last week. After eight months, the dribbles stopped as fast as they started. Being the optimist, I thought perhaps I had made Lucy’s situation worse by all the fussing over her. By backing off and leaving her be, perhaps her anxiety has lessen and her body was following suit.

Well, I was wrong. Lucy began to strain, hunching her back spastically. Soon the back right leg began to splay out. Then the back left leg began to weakened turning the laminate floor into an ice rink. She begged to go outside where the rougher concrete patio gave her legs traction and she could sleep in her favorite spot behind the house.

I hold mental debates each night. Am I being cruel to allow her to live like this? Lucy doesn’t fuss, shows no pain, wants to be active and maintains her daily routine. Am I projecting my own interpretation of a good life onto Lucy when she was content, thank you very much?

I cannot make that telephone call to the vet as long as Lucy continues to follow me outside to feed the birds, pick up the newspaper and help me work in the yard. She isn’t much interested in eating now reducing the potential of digested food backing up into her system and buying her time. But who am I fooling? I realize that I am only kidding myself that she will miraculously return to her old self and see her next birthday. One morning, maybe tomorrow, maybe by week’s end, I will find her curled up in pain with eyes pleading me to do something.