Euthanasia, Part 2

 

Haunted Part 2

Euthanasia 

Panda was more than just a pet. Panda was my companion. I never once thought I would be the one who would consider her death. 

Panda’s last three days were spent at home with me. She was basically in hospice and although there were pills to give her, I found the act of forcing them down her throat more than either of us could bear. I finally stopped. 

I made the decision that I would be with Panda until the day one of us passed on, so on Wednesday, February 18^th, I took Panda back to the hospital. I knew she was happy no longer. 

I had requested we meet with one of my favorite doctors, the one that Panda had recently seen and also liked. My daughter and I, with Panda, had been taken to the grieving room. It was beautiful with wooden furniture covered with soft leather cushions. 

As we chose our seats, Panda held onto me with her little front legs as if she knew she would be leaving me. Panda was very sensitive and not one of those pets who, when the pet parent cried, would come and offer comfort. No, tears upset her a great deal and here I was, clinging to her and doing my best not to ugly cry, although water was flowing freely from my eyes. 

The doctor took Panda from me explaining that the techs needed to put IVs in both front legs. I was shocked by that, but I don’t know what I expected, I guess. I realize now that I was in a bit of shock. 

When the doctor walked back through the large heavy door, I looked up and saw my little baby reaching out to me with her head and her little IV cluttered legs. Funny thing about a heart breaking – one cannot hide the pain. I know Panda saw my pain and I felt hers. She was reaching out to me, wanting me to take her, to comfort her, to save her, and so I lifted her from the doctor’s arms and cradled her into my lap. I surrounded her little furry body with my arms and believed that if I prayed enough, there could still be a miracle to be given that would allow Panda to live for a while longer. 

We wrapped Panda in a little blanket and my daughter and I spent some time with her. Panda was fading so fast that she seemed to diminish right there, in my arms, to half of her usual size. I could also tell she had a hard time holding up her head because it had begun bouncing up and down and side to side, just a bit. She was very frightened, I could feel it, but then, I was terrified and knew Panda probably felt it from me, too. 

It would be so easy, so simple for me to just stand up, walk out with her, and go home. But then the voice of logic and reason would speak to me. Panda was 15 years old. She was tired, losing memory, and had lost the will to live, refused to eat or drink. I knew all that, but I still desperately wanted her to recover, firmly believing that if I held on tightly enough, and prayed sincerely enough, she wouldn’t leave me. I wanted to be selfish, just this once. 

It’s not like I hadn’t been praying. I’ve been praying for the last two and a half years, but I had not asked for a miracle. I asked for her to feel like eating. I asked for her to be pain free. I asked for her to recover after surgery, but I did not ask for a miracle. 

I had only asked God for one other thing for myself in my whole life. I’d never asked for a miracle, but now, I started to pray. I wanted a miracle. This time, I needed my miracle. 

After what seemed like mere minutes, but had to have been at least 45 minutes, the doctor returned and injected a pain killer into Panda’s IV. I leaned over so that my mouth was less than an inch from Panda’s little head and whispered several times, “Don’t be afraid little Be-Be, don’t be afraid, I’m here with you.” 

Just a minute later, the doctor administered a drug that she explained was like anesthesia. As soon as she did that, Panda’s little head stopped bobbing and fell against my chest. I could no longer control the crying and my sobs filled the room. I also became acutely aware of the feeling of my daughter’s hand placed softly on my knee and that she, too, was crying uncontrollably. 

Somewhere between the sobs and the sniffles I began silently begging God, “Please give me a miracle. I need my miracle.” Just seconds later, as the doctor was explaining the last injection that would stop Panda’s tiny beating heart, I gave it one more try - I looked up high to the ceiling and quietly sobbed, “Please, I need a miracle.”   

As I prayed the last time for a miracle, the doctor was telling my sobbing daughter how the last injection into Panda’s IV would stop her heart. I hadn’t planned on speaking out loud, but I heard my voice sobbing, begging for the only miracle I have ever asked for. At that very moment, the doctor’s voice broke. I looked over at her and saw tears threatening to overflow her eyelids. The doctor quickly gathered herself and continued with what she wanted to tell us. The doctor then asked me if it was okay for her to continue with the injection. I nodded my approval. I was numb. My heart was completely broken. 

The injection was given. All tears stopped. Noise ceased to sound. All eyes focused on Panda’s little chest rising, falling, rising, falling, rising, falling… after the third rising/falling, it didn’t rise again. The doctor leaned in, checked, and then told me that Panda’s heart had stopped. It was over. 

I sobbed and clutched my little brave Panda. I couldn’t let go because stubbornly, I still wanted my miracle. The doctor told us we could sit there as long as we wanted to with Panda. We sat there for a very long time. Panda’s little body was growing cold by the time I could allow her to be lifted from my arms and taken out of the room.   

I have been haunted by the way Panda reached for me when the doctor brought her back into the room with her IVs put in. Panda had relied on me for fifteen years to protect her, comfort her, and she trusted me. Now I feel like I betrayed her. I took her, held her in my arms and let someone take her life. Her life that was so precious to me that I will never be able to fully get over her. 

The miracle that I wouldn’t be able to see for several weeks was possibly the best doctor we could have gotten. Her voice catching and the tears in her eyes brought me back to the reality of my situation. The doctor was so compassionate and thoughtful that she talked me through the muck I was mired in and gave me the courage to do what I needed to do. Most of all she helped me see that I was there for Panda when she needed me most. 

I’m a firm believer of being aware of what you wish for. It would be weeks later that at that very moment, I got my miracle, just not the one I wanted. What I wanted was for Panda to live and go home with me. 

Growing up, my faith taught me that I should always be aware that when I pray for something, it may not come in the exact form of what I wanted because God will give me what I need, not always what I want. I'm not sure I believe in organized religion anymore.

Picking up the pieces:                                                                                                                       Haunted, part 3                                                                                                                                Aftermath