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Dec. 1st, 2011 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unikorentoOk, one more of these.
I swear, I freaking promise that I'm not this much of a drag most of the time, okay? I feel like all I ever write here is bad stuff. But, yeah, I guess if I knew how to say this IRL, I wouldn't have to constantly be telling you guys. So. Sorry about that. It's more whining about my dead dog.
It's not like I've been actively keeping track, but it hit me today that she's been gone over six months now. And I still feel like so much crap.
It's not like some stuff hasn't gotten easier. It does, practically speaking, make your life easier when you don't have to make sure to always keep track of time, and when you're not constantly responsible for the well-being of another living thing. I have an easier time both making plans and being spontaneous. And not needing to buy 20kg bags of dogfood every three weeks helps my finances.
But that just doesn't make up for it. This hole in my life. And it's not a question of just needing that feeling of caring for someone, though I'm sure it's part of it, it's that I miss her. She was my friend, and I don't want her to be gone anymore. I don't know how to... be like this.
I wrote this, a few weeks after she died.
I want to tell her "I'm not getting rid of you". You know that, right? I never wanted to be rid of you. I know it hurt to go to the vet. They cut you and prodded you and poked you, and you couldn't know they were trying to help. You were scared, and in pain, and you looked at me and I told you to lie still, and you did, because you trusted me, and I let them hurt you. And I'm sorry. And I miss you.
I feel like I should just re-post that. Over and over and over and over, because that's all I'm feeling. Like some kind of an idiot, I keep expecting that if I tell the empty space that enough time, I'll get some sort of answer. Absolution, or something, because I feel so damned guilty.
I talked to a friend of mine who knows medicine after we got the results for the biopsy (this was about two weeks after Maggie was already gone), and she told me that there was nothing I could have done. Maggie's liver was failing, and that it had been a ticking time bomb since the day she was born. Nothing could have saved her, and so this wasn't my fault. I couldn't know what was going on, and because it was so rare, the doctors couldn't know either.
I'm grateful she told me that, because it did help with some of it. I could stop second guessing if there had been something I could have done differently to save her. There wasn't. The kind thing would have been to put her down the day she started feeling ill.
The thing that I can't get over is the last week. I didn't know that she would have to be put down no matter what, so I let them take the biopsy that was the thing that caused her so much pain. I'm so, so, so sorry. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know it wasn't going to help, and I'm so sorry I put her through that, and I'm sorry for the night after, and for the day after, and I'm sorry for everything. I want to take it back. She trusted me, and I let her down during the one time that it was on me to keep her safe. She loved me so much and she did every single thing I asked of her. I knew in my gut from day one that something was seriously wrong, and I should have been braver.
The night after the operation, I slept on the couch so she'd stay on the bedding we'd set up in the living-room to keep her comfortable. She was all dosed up, but I couldn't make her take the Rimadyl that would help with the pain, and when she finally went to sleep, I got up for a minute. I swear, it was just a minute. I just went to my room to check my mail, I thought she was okay, but she'd gotten up. She was less than 8 hours off an operation table, and in so much pain, but she got up and came looking for me. She could barely even walk!
I feel like that last week has eaten 6 years of good memories. I could ignore it for a few months, and maybe it's just because I'm stressed out right now, but November was horrible. I'm not the kind of person that cries very often - once every six months is fairly often for me - but this past month I broke down once a week, every single weekend that I would have had time to sit and relax. I don't know what to do about it, or why it feels so much worse suddenly.
I suppose there's nothing to do, not really. You ride it out. You write it down. I just want my dog back.
I swear, I freaking promise that I'm not this much of a drag most of the time, okay? I feel like all I ever write here is bad stuff. But, yeah, I guess if I knew how to say this IRL, I wouldn't have to constantly be telling you guys. So. Sorry about that. It's more whining about my dead dog.
It's not like I've been actively keeping track, but it hit me today that she's been gone over six months now. And I still feel like so much crap.
It's not like some stuff hasn't gotten easier. It does, practically speaking, make your life easier when you don't have to make sure to always keep track of time, and when you're not constantly responsible for the well-being of another living thing. I have an easier time both making plans and being spontaneous. And not needing to buy 20kg bags of dogfood every three weeks helps my finances.
But that just doesn't make up for it. This hole in my life. And it's not a question of just needing that feeling of caring for someone, though I'm sure it's part of it, it's that I miss her. She was my friend, and I don't want her to be gone anymore. I don't know how to... be like this.
I wrote this, a few weeks after she died.
I want to tell her "I'm not getting rid of you". You know that, right? I never wanted to be rid of you. I know it hurt to go to the vet. They cut you and prodded you and poked you, and you couldn't know they were trying to help. You were scared, and in pain, and you looked at me and I told you to lie still, and you did, because you trusted me, and I let them hurt you. And I'm sorry. And I miss you.
I feel like I should just re-post that. Over and over and over and over, because that's all I'm feeling. Like some kind of an idiot, I keep expecting that if I tell the empty space that enough time, I'll get some sort of answer. Absolution, or something, because I feel so damned guilty.
I talked to a friend of mine who knows medicine after we got the results for the biopsy (this was about two weeks after Maggie was already gone), and she told me that there was nothing I could have done. Maggie's liver was failing, and that it had been a ticking time bomb since the day she was born. Nothing could have saved her, and so this wasn't my fault. I couldn't know what was going on, and because it was so rare, the doctors couldn't know either.
I'm grateful she told me that, because it did help with some of it. I could stop second guessing if there had been something I could have done differently to save her. There wasn't. The kind thing would have been to put her down the day she started feeling ill.
The thing that I can't get over is the last week. I didn't know that she would have to be put down no matter what, so I let them take the biopsy that was the thing that caused her so much pain. I'm so, so, so sorry. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know it wasn't going to help, and I'm so sorry I put her through that, and I'm sorry for the night after, and for the day after, and I'm sorry for everything. I want to take it back. She trusted me, and I let her down during the one time that it was on me to keep her safe. She loved me so much and she did every single thing I asked of her. I knew in my gut from day one that something was seriously wrong, and I should have been braver.
The night after the operation, I slept on the couch so she'd stay on the bedding we'd set up in the living-room to keep her comfortable. She was all dosed up, but I couldn't make her take the Rimadyl that would help with the pain, and when she finally went to sleep, I got up for a minute. I swear, it was just a minute. I just went to my room to check my mail, I thought she was okay, but she'd gotten up. She was less than 8 hours off an operation table, and in so much pain, but she got up and came looking for me. She could barely even walk!
I feel like that last week has eaten 6 years of good memories. I could ignore it for a few months, and maybe it's just because I'm stressed out right now, but November was horrible. I'm not the kind of person that cries very often - once every six months is fairly often for me - but this past month I broke down once a week, every single weekend that I would have had time to sit and relax. I don't know what to do about it, or why it feels so much worse suddenly.
I suppose there's nothing to do, not really. You ride it out. You write it down. I just want my dog back.
