The Show-Stopping Sign that Altered my Grief

Turns out, I can be a terrible predictor.

Anticipating grief ahead of the actual loss, I was convinced it would take me years to fully cope and move through. Now, it’s clear that two elements have served as beacons in helping me both breathe easier and, dare I say it, live more intentionally than ever before.

The first is documenting our journey and leaving a legacy (these very words you read today!). My fear is not that I will forget him (impossible) but that his mark may be forgotten by the world. I want to say to friends and loved ones: please don’t be afraid to use his name. Please always keep sharing your memories. It energizes me to see him alive in so many ways through others. And so, for the both of us, I continue crafting his–our–legacy as forever companions.

The second is the series of tangible, miraculous signs that form the language in which we converse. It’s the greatest proof I have that the connection with our loved ones who cross over is anything but stagnant. April is when nature’s symphony crescendos, when teeny buds poke their little heads out of dormant branches, looking lifeless at first glance. But really, they’re just waiting for the precise time to make themselves seen. That’s Ferg’s way, too.

Though the story I share today was once searingly raw to me, I share it because our world doesn’t recognize or validate pet grief as it does other forms, and mine is one of thousands daily that often go untold. I share it with you to show that the shit seasons do eventually transition to blossoming ones. And to confirm that seasons are necessary if we want to experience full circle meaning in our lives.

Ferg pulled out all the stops in this first spellbinding act, one of my forever favorite miracles on this anniversary month of his crossing over. Keep your eye out for part two in a few days for a little continuation... well, one of oh so many :)

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It’s April 2nd and my runny nose and itchy eyes bathe in pollen within hours of arriving in our new home city of D.C. We’re bopping around, testing out neighborhoods, we think, before committing entirely. Ferg’s arthritis–the reason he keeps falling off the bed and losing his balance–has been acting up the last few days, but probably due to long hours sitting in the car from Chicago. He’s sixteen, after all.

But it’s been almost a week and he keeps leaning to the left when walking outside the chariot, bumping into wrought iron gates lining front yard gardens.

I surrender to finding a vet, the last thing on our minds during our apartment search. There’ll be relief in knowing it’s nothing.

“Get on the scale buddy!” the staff says but I have to hold him in place, I tell them. Can’t take my hands off or else he’ll fall over. Vet lady wants him to walk from me to her on these floors that would be perfect in a yoga studio: thick, cushy, grippy. But he keeps falling and it’s agonizing to watch.

She prescribes anti-inflammatories since the X-rays reveal a case of swollen joints. I confess to her, look, I had this fear that it was suddenly… it. And if it is, just tell me. She laughs and says no, no. Not to worry.

Back at the AirBnB, I celebrate with Mom and Dad over Facetime while stirring a giant pot of sloppy joes. I never make sloppy joes. But I need comfort food and this is such good news that I even splash in more pickle juice.

A week later, I see no change in Ferg. I call the vet. Takes time for the meds to kick in, she says.

The following night, I give it a full hour before declaring this new episode of relentless panting and shivering and leg paddling and whimpering something to not mess around with. I have not taken eyes off him, moving him to the bathroom curled in his bed while I shower to the kitchen while I try to cobble meals together. But now I am in adrenaline mode and pull on my sweats before piling us in the car to drive to the other side of town to GoogleMap’s closest emergency vet an hour before midnight.

I have no idea where I am going, heart between my feet. Bloop! Bloop! A Capitol policeman signals me and yells YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY in a detour lane but for god’s sake none of this makes any sense. Once he sees my panic, my dog, my everything on the line he escorts me through the right way, apparently.

I white-knuckle it all the way there, Ferg whimpering the entire time in pain.

They admit him immediately while I circle to find any available parking and end up at the Ritz Carlton, of all places. I rush in and see him lying on the table with an IV in his leg. We lock eyes and I bend until our noses meet because, I remind him, I beg him, you can’t leave me now, babe.

Four hours of waiting after he’s stable, an exhausted doctor throws terms like possible tumor, cancer, neurological condition at us. I am enraged. Enough. ENOUGH. We’re going home. The nurse wraps him in a light yellow towel and helps me secure him in the front seat.

We need a second opinion. But we’re new in town and those kinds of “new patient” appointments are booked weeks out. I beg and plea and email and call and finally, a new vet makes space to see us next-day with a substitute vet. We take it.

Something tells me, do not be alone for this, Katie. My friend Ashley accompanies me, my brain running in a triangle between denial and dread and a sliver of hope.

The new vet bounces on her runner shoes, honest and empathetic as she rips the bandaid off: What I’m seeing is not what the vet saw a week ago. I’m thrusted into a haze. Prognosis poor. Don’t have the tools to see well enough. Refer overnight. Possible euthanasia.

At those four syllables, my entire world comes crashing down. My body collapses and my breathing becomes hijacked. It’s not happening. He’s just around the corner. He just needs the right meds.

Ashley races to the other side of the room, holding me. Dials Mom for me. My words are inaudible so she acts as yet another layer of thank-god-you're-here-support: interpreter. Dad’s on a plane the next morning.

I look at the puppies walking so easily around the waiting room, effortlessly. They have their whole lives ahead of them. God damn.

Another overnight ER visit. Tests, scans, MRIs, bloodwork. A failed elevator. More tests.

The night Dad comes, I feel guilty about sleeping the best I have in three weeks, straight through the night.

We get to visit Ferg for an hour. The nurse carries him into the exam room to meet us. His fur is all disheveled and his eyes have a hard time focusing. He’s coming off anesthesia, they say. Pant, pant, pant. His breath has a weird clinical sour smell and my poor baby, he’s so confused. I hold him in my arms, rocking back and forth. Then, after a few minutes, I see his eyes widen – they actually WIDEN when he recognizes his other favorite person on Earth. Your Grumpy came all the way to see you, big guy! We’re here. His breath slows, relaxes. And then he falls asleep in my arms.

The phone rings when we’re on stone steps overlooking the AirBnB’s quaint garden. I call Dad back to the house, who’s just started on a walk. We’ve waited two more days for this call.

She’s calm on the other end, factual. Sincere. The scans reveal what we hoped to rule out: lesions in his brain. It’s inoperable.

I don’t remember the rest of that day. But what I do remember is the conclusion I came to: that the worst thing in the world, I now know, is to watch your heart outside your body suffer. And to have no ability to make it go away.

I also knew: you, my boy, don’t deserve to be in this pain. And selfishly, I can’t bear this pain of you not being you anymore.

Ferg would cross with our hearts touching. He would spend three days at home with us for chariot rides and cuddles. He would leave pressed against my body, move into a state of never having to be dimmed.

We feed him all the salmon, all the sweet potatoes, all the turkey, all the carrots. All the orange: the color of the sun. The same vibrancy and nutrients he supplied me for more than a decade, I feed back to him.

And so, the hour before he flies home, he tells me in his own way, Mom, this is my time. And let me tell you, I have never seen him more at peace, more restful lying on my chest under those dogwoods when we closed our eyes and breathed together so many long, slow, deep breaths before that vet even showed up. He would be at home, he would be okay. A vow of confirmation that soothed.

But how else did I know? Because in true comical Ferg fashion, all that orange comes plopping out on my lap just as our transition guide – a hip grandmotherly figure and retired veterinarian – walks through our door. Leaving one last mark, for sure.

She speaks calmly, walking us through every step of the way. Letting us take our time lighting a candle. We stroke his fur whispering, we love you sweet boy. The sun that had shone outside suddenly clouds over as rain begins to fall.

As he takes his last breaths on my chest, she reads a poem from the view of a wise soul pup. She speaks of his wish to talk to his owner knowing she was sad; of his old, tired body that hurts; of the endless gifts given to him during this life, including this last one; of his time to now go.

I stare at Ferg’s baby teeth jutting out in his famous little underbite. His breath velvet, his body humid and snug.

If I could talk to you, she reads,

I’d tell you

Thanks for everything

I had a wonderful time.

She gingerly applies her stethoscope to his heart, letting us know he has gone.

I carry my boy to the wagon and cradle his head while lying him down to rest, swaddled like a baby wrapped in those white blankets. The rain has stopped, a faint glow coming through the crackled sky.

And this will sound so odd, because yes, I was undoubtedly devastated. And I was also strangely free and sprinkled with relief. I don’t believe in covering that part of the story up. Because the reason I was able to do this, that I was able to let go, to unlatch my fingers from his sweet fur, was because I knew, I knew, his body had become an instant shell, not truly him any longer. He was released, set free, and instead of in one place, floating here and there around me.

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Fast forward a week when the approaching Mother’s Day felt especially heavy. Hey Ferg, I tested. Wanna give me a sign? I’d seen a few small ones in the days right after his crossing. But, you know, a big unmistakable one would be kinda nice.

A few days later, the UPS man came jogging up the steps of the AirBnB. Unit one? That’s me.

I ripped open the brown paper protecting the package and unfold the card: In Mom’s loopy handwriting, it said: Ferg wanted you to have this.

Shiny paper cloaked in stars. A box, some tape. Something heavy. A picture frame.

My breath caught.

“Did Dad tell you? How did you know?” I asked.

“No…” Pause.

“Ferg told me quite a while ago to do this,” she said.

There in my hands was his big wet happy face grinning back at me, my forever favorite photo of him. His green fleece blankie draped over one ear after a tumble in the dryer. So frisky, my free boy.

And etched in the clean, white marble surrounding him, that same reminiscent last line of the poem:

Thanks for everything

I had a wonderful time.