One of the greatest tragedies of my adult life took place on Wednesday. I have my own grief, but the event took hold and dragged my family along with it in ways I would have never wanted. It's one thing to grieve, it's another to see your children and your spouse grieve. It's poignant devastation. We started out our week with its usual business, with the exception of my SUV needing work done and Chaucer, our dog, getting sick. Wednesday started with a trip to the dealership to figure out what was wrong with my vehicle (alternator; you know, the one we just replaced in June in Houston). So that happened and the dealership kindly shuttled me back home to find Chaucer had vomited on literally every rug and carpet in the house. He hadn't eaten in two days.
The vet was able to fit us in at 2:15. I didn't have a car, but we made the snowy walk up two blocks from our house. He perked up a little as we walked. He always loved the snow. We walked in and he was weighed just inside the door. Our always skinny dog had somehow lost ten pounds. It was about this time memory captured me; odd things stood out and were quickly filed in that sorting place of unsureness, either way to be remembered. I found myself in a small room with my two older girls (ages seven and eight) and Chaucer. On the surface things checked out all right. Then the request for blood work. Then the long wait for results. The girls oblivious to what this visit could mean, coloring princesses in their books. The vet returned, glanced at the girls and took me a few steps away to the examining table where she deftly handed me a box of tissues and laid the results on the table. The flash mob chorus of "I can't do this. My girls are here." was loud in my mind as I quickly dumped my unsorted memories into the nightmare file.
Kidney failure, he's exhausted, he's using less than 25% of his kidneys, we can prolong him maybe maybe a few weeks but then... it's been going on for months he just made up for it in other ways, he can't do it any more... tissue after tissue, silent sobs, the girls still coloring in their books behind me, the vet getting me a new box of tissues... stop... what do I want to do? Call Keith. I left the room to make the call "Come home. To the vet. Now." The ugly choke of sobs, tears and breath vying for their turn. Return to the room, face the girls, the hour long wait for Keith. The tears from the girls, quickly replaced by smiles as they innocently think he will get better. He has to get better. Dad will get here and we will all go home with Chaucer. Wait a bit longer. Chaucer hears Keith's car pull up outside, he slowly gets up, walks the few feet to the door, lays down next to the door in anticipation of seeing his man. He doesn't walk again. The pain, the hurt, the dawning realization for the girls that he won't be coming home. The final decision. The goodbyes. Caelan and Keith choose to stay with Chaucer. Evelynn and I walk out into the office. The song on their radio plays:
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree,
Wear a necklace of hope
Side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.
Must leave. Outside. In the cold and the falling snow which has a strange affect on burning, swollen eyes. It refreshes. Return to the room. It is done. He's gone. More tears, a last look... Caelan walking away but turning back to throw herself on Chaucer and sob. We are led to a back door to leave. Keith gets in his car. The girls ask to walk home. The snow has covered our tracks from the walk to the vet.
I don't want these memories. I wasn't given the choice. They are filed away, black and stark, devoid of warmth. Return to the warm memories. I was five months pregnant with Evelynn when we got Chaucer in November of 2005. He was Keith's dog from the start. He picked him out and he rode home in Keith's lap. The were training/hunting buddies from the start. I took him to Shippensburg University and bundled him into a warm bed in my Beetle while I was in class. I couldn't leave that sweet puppy at hope to cry the moment I left. I graduated in December and we spent the next four months curled up in a recliner watching Celebrity Poker and Project Runway (pre-Netflix days were tough). We lost him in Arkansas that first Christmas, we found him, then went to Texas where he got into some rat poisoning. A rough start really. Then along came children. Evelynn and Caelan's first words were Chaucer. We sat McKenna's carseat in the floor when we brought her home from the hospital (we did that with all of them). He paced around her, glancing at her and then looking at us as if saying "Another one?" Then we brought Paxton home. Chaucer walked up, looked once and then walked back the way he came, seemingly shaking his head at having to deal with another Brannon kid. He was the perfect family dog. The many warm snuggles, the playfulness, the way he calmly took to being terrorized by all four of my kids. He would be covered in stickers or run around the house wearing a tutu. Bows added to his collar or covered in toys. He was well loved and loved well in return. We stored our warm memories of Chaucer's life for the day we were captured by his loss and they have spilled over to sooth the broken hearts.
Miranda, you have such a gift with words and you capture the balance of comfort and starkness in a way that moves. Thank you for sharing this with us. I remember those early days as well, how he would frustrate Keith with his ranging gallops and slow returns in our woods. He had energy, that he did! The children learn from these losses that life has sharp and chill edges that accompany the happy times. It can bring you all closer as the memories live on. May blessings be on you all. PY
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