Grief Running

I have been hoping to write an uplifting post soon. Alas, I had to put down one of my dogs this past Saturday and this post is about that grief. I understand if you choose to stop reading now.

This post is also about going for a run during that grief. Everyone says give yourself a break when you are going through this type of grief. But, you never know how your body and mind want to handle that grief until you are in it.

Barley had been struggling with what I was told was ataxia (a neurological disorder which affected his mobility) and mild kidney issues since late autumn. The ataxia was an educated guess by his regular vet because I didn’t take the referral to a neurologist to have an MRI done, to confirm that. The MRI might have confirmed ataxia, it might have confirmed a slipped disc, it might have confirmed a tumor on his spine. His symptoms didn’t seem that serious at first. He had to be carried up and down the stairs. He couldn’t jump up on the couch anymore and we had to make sure he didn’t jump down from the couch or the bed because if he did, it was terrible thud.

Then, there were subtle behavioural changes, despite various treatments, he took a sharp turn for the worse in the last month. February was hard for Barley. He refuses to put booties on. It was very snowy and icy this February in Toronto. That, along with his reduced mobility in his back legs, meant, I had to carry him to places to do his business. He couldn’t really walk. At one time, he got stuck in an icy puddle and I will never forgive myself for the way he wailed in that puddle. March was a bit better but he could still only walk a couple blocks and still preferred if I picked him up partway.

I didn’t think, a month ago, I’d be contemplating end of life for Barley, but it became apparent that he wasn’t eating enough, he was losing a lot of weight, his mobility was getting worse. The suggestions for major intervention did not promise to correct his problems and some were not advisable at his age and I made the decision, early on, not to put him through invasive procedures. I have some regret about that but I have to find peace in that decision. I did what I thought was best for Barley. I loved him. I wanted the best for him.

In the last couple weeks, it became a game of what morsel of food will Barley eat today and in the last week, almost nothing. There were other things happening and I started looking at quality of life scales for when one might consider euthanasia. Gavin and I looked at it a couple weeks ago and did the “quiz”, each on our own, and at first, we thought he was maybe just slightly over the 50% mark where you might start consider it. But, then, as he deteriorated more and more (quickly), and I tried to get more options from his regular vet and that didn’t help, we came to the difficult conclusion that he was suffering too much. I was thinking of putting it off another week but then he was barely eating a speck of anything. He wouldn’t even lick a bit of peanut butter or yogurt off my finger – previously, two of his favourite things. His whole demeanor changed. When I picked him up, his lower body felt skeletal. He started waking up every night around 3 or 4 am and he was restless, sometimes he needed to be taken out. Sometimes, he just needed to be snuggled and I would take him downstairs, because I was afraid of him falling off the bed in his restlessness (which did happen a couple of times).

Barley was a shih-tzu I adopted when he was “around 2” in July 2014. He came into my life when I was perpetually single, somewhat happy, in a new home, ready to look after another being. People who knew me well, commented, early on, how much happier I seemed, with Barley in my life. Then 7 months later, I met my husband and we became a family of two humans and three dogs – Barley, Miggy (mini Shnauzer) and Callie (Wheaton). Callie passed away in her sleep the following November and then it was our unit of four. Miggy and Barley were a team from then on.

Barley was not the perfect dog. He had some reactivity. He didn’t like being touched in certain places, his bum, his paws, his mouth. However, from the moment, he came into my home, he was mine. I had never had a pet before. He lept into my bed, snuggled up to my body, and woke me up with kisses, every morning. I would come home from work and I could see is tiny body jumping up enthusiastically in the window ready to greet me. He LOVED food and he did this little dart and then dancing spin all the way to his food bowl each morning. For almost 11 years he followed me around everywhere and loved me in his way.

After we came to the difficult conclusion that we couldn’t let him suffer anymore, I arranged for “end of life care” for Barley through https://themobilehospicevet.ca/our-story/. From the moment I chatted with Dr. Michelle Lam to the day she came to our home on Satuday, she was clear, informative, and so very caring. As difficult as the whole experience was, Dr. Michelle made it as bearable as possible and I will forever be grateful to her for that. She is incredible. My husband and I kept saying we don’t know how she does this but we mean that in the best way.

[warning, the next paragraph is about the day of Barley’s euthanasia]

I had a couple hours with Barley, in the morning, before Dr. Michelle arrived. I wasn’t planning to invite anyone in the morning, but I was anxious and, my cousin, who knew Barley well, and who had asked earlier in the week, came by to say goodbye. Barley refused any food that morning. When I went to try to give him a few different options from the “potential food that Barley will lick or put in his mouth and then spit out” counter collection, he wouldn’t take anything. I was balling from the moment I tried to feed him and he wouldn’t take it. I tried to give him anti-anxiety medication I was told to try to give him and he wouldn’t take it, as he wouldn’t take any food. Gavin tried to give it to him. I tried to squirt it in the side of his mouth and I’m still not sure if he got it all. When Dr. Michelle arrived, Barley suddenly had enough energy to walk to the door with his brother, Miggy. Gavin and I spoke to Dr. Michelle about the process that would take place. Because I wasn’t sure if he had taken the anti-anxiety medication, I wasn’t sure if he would let her put the first mild sedative on his gums. I went upstairs and she and Gavin tried to administer the sedative. True to form, he didn’t let them put it on his gums. The next step was the sedative via injection. I stayed upstairs for that part. Once that was done, I came downstairs. He was now sleeping heavily. I spoke to him through my tears. I thanked him for coming into my life. I told him I hope I did enough for him. I think I just kept saying thank you. I don’t remember exactly. I was able to hold him at that point. His head was floppy and needed extra support. His body was already limp. I held him and cried and talked to him and Dr. Michelle ensured it was OK to proceed and then injected the pentobarbital. She had warned me that his eyes may not close fully after that, when he was gone and they didn’t. I will never forget the way he felt in those moments or the smell of him – or the last “pfff” breath that came out of his nose. I spent some more time with him and Dr. Michelle helped me place him in a cozy basket with flowers and I was given the option of walking him to her car where she would taking him to his final resting place. When I had read about that part of the process in the materials she had sent me leading up to the day, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to do this, but I really wanted to be with him as long as I could at that point, in any form, and so I did.

The rest of the day was a blur. I felt nauseous and just grief ridden. Heartbroken. Guilty. All these things. But, at around 6pm, after I tried to eat a bit of dinner, and which is not the usual time I go for a run, I asked Gavin, if he would mind if I tried to go for a jog. I just felt I needed to move and get some fresh air.

I went for my jog. I told myself that if I didn’t feel stable, I could switch to a walk. All I know is that the action of moving my legs, in the fresh air, helped move some of the emotions around. It didn’t make it go away, but the familiarity of the movement, helped make me feel alive and grounded. I jogged slowly for about 25 min and then, as become a little bit more nauseous again, I decided to walk the rest of the way home. It felt like the jog helped clear my head up a little, although, it didn’t stop me from having “grief bursts” the rest of the evening, especially when I held the blanket he spent most of his time on to my face.

The next day, I had an exercise class scheduled at 10 am. I wasn’t 100% sure I should go. I didn’t want to bring my sadness to class or have it permeate the rest of the group. But, selfishly, I also knew the movement would be good for me. A couple people in the small group knew what had happened and gave me either a real hug or a “hug with their eyes”. They understood I couldn’t talk about it right then. I did feel that going through the usual motions of the familiar workout session, in a safe space, helped me have a tiny reprieve from my grief. It didn’t stop me from having another grief burst that evening. Especially, when I received a lovely follow-up email from Dr. Michelle that included ink prints of Barley’s paw and nose.

Throughout this experience of grief, my husband and I have had great support from close family and friends. I am grateful for all of the support. I am also grateful for the movement practice that I have developed over the years that gives me a place to move and heal through my grief.

In my feelings of heartache, I have wondered if I am worried about letting go of the grief, because, along with letting go of the intensity of emotions, I am letting go of Barley. His touch, his personality, his scent, his breath. That worries me but I know I won’t stay in this intensity. There is no doubt my memories with Barley will always be a part of me.