Even knowing the prognosis for hemangiosarcoma - that no dog diagnosed with this disease ever wins, not in the long run - it's still so hard to believe that our precious, amazing, indomitable Harvey is no longer here with us.
The connection I shared with Harvey was so strong that it still feels like a part of my very soul has been torn from my being. The pain of his absence is sometimes so overwhelming that it feels like the breath has been knocked right out of me. Waves of sadness still wash over me, usually over some small little thing like the names "Murphy" or "Taylor", two of Harvey's best dog friends. He always perked his ears and became very animated when we said those names, no matter how long it had been since he'd seen them. I know those are names I'll never be able to use for any pets we may share our home with in the future.
Not having him at the foot of our bed or being able to feel his fur through my fingers or going through our "nite-nite" ritual of his favorite tricks - the sit, lie down, crawl, high-five, shake paw and others, with no verbal command, only the smallest hand gesture on my part, makes it so hard to actually go to bed at night. So I haven't been. I can't fall asleep until I'm utterly exhausted, usually after 4 in the morning ( the time he passed away on June 26 - I don't think that's a coincidence). And then, I wrap his collar around my wrist, put his small pillow and stuffed mallard near my feet where he used to lay and cuddle with his "mega-duck", a really large stuffed yellow duck he got for Easter this year. He loved that duck and used it for a pillow often, when he wasn't chewing on it.
The night/early morning he passed, he'd had trouble breathing for a few hours. He was panting a lot, trying to relax and catch his breath. He'd had a few spells like that in his last few weeks, but would always settle in and fall asleep after a while, then be fine when he awoke.
That night, it wasn't resolving itself, though he did fall asleep for a few moments around 2am. He was laying on my side of the bed and when I tried to gently ease in beside him, he woke up and started having trouble breathing again. My head tells me that he wouldn't have slept for long, but my heart so wishes I'd just let him remain quietly in my space - just in case the rest would have helped.
After about 1/2 hour more of watching him struggle, I decided to get the Buprenex our vet sent home. It's a sedative, generally quite safe, but she'd sent it home with me to use if Harvey started experiencing pain or distress that didn't resolve itself.
Not wanting to take any risks at all, we administered just 1/4 of the dose, hoping that it would relax him enough to allow him to rest. After 20 minutes, it clearly wasn't having any effect at all, so we administered another 1/4 dose.
I kept watching and praying that it would do the trick and allow him to sleep, but he became very restless - I'm sure it's because he wanted to get up and go potty, but didn't have the strength to get off the bed. We lifted him off the bed and put him on his doggy bed on the floor, but his breathing showed no signs of improvement.
I decided that I had no choice but to give him the remaining amount left of the Buprenex, assuming it would sedate him and allow him to finally get some sleep.
Within moments of receiving the final 1/2 dose, he seemed to feel better for just a few seconds, tried to stand up (again, I'm sure he wanted to go outside and potty) and wagged his tail. Then, and the memory of this will remain with me until the day I die myself, my boy collapsed into my arms, pressed his head into my shoulder and took his last breaths, wrapped in my arms with Frank sitting close by.
The rest of that night, through those long hours until I could call the vet, I was convinced that I'd taken his life with that medication. It all happened so quickly after he had the final injection.
When I was finally able to speak with Dr. Towle, she reassured me that the medication was, indeed, quite safe and she used it for other patients when she doesn't know their history, because it is so safe. The Buprenex hadn't taken his life. As Dr. Towle explained, the Buprenex would have simply helped him sleep, if it wasn't yet his time to leave us, waking a few hours later, as usual.
Instead, it was very likely that he was going to pass that night or early the next day and, while his will fought with every ounce of energy he had to stay with us, the medication allowed his body to ease into his passing, rather than continuing to suffer through what was surely a losing battle to breathe - to live another day.
My life will never be whole again as it was the last 12 years. I know that dogs don't live nearly long enough and, if we're very, very fortunate, we may have them for a decade or more. It's never enough time. But to lose my heart dog, the little being that was as much a part of me as the air I breathe and the beating of my own heart, leaves a void that will never be filled.
We've decided to try to do something to honor his life. The thought that Harvey, center of the universe, will be nothing more than a statistic, another dog taken before his time by this hideous disease called hemangiosarcoma, is so completely unacceptable to us.
I've been in contact with the Morris Animal Foundation about hosting a fundraising dog walk next year, June 26, the day that will mark one year since this remarkable, shining light went out of our lives.
I hope I can make this happen - perhaps even make it an annual event, so that, maybe, the dollars raised in Harvey's name can bring us closer to the day when no dog - no family - has to suffer through HSA. Closer to the day when an HSA diagnosis is no longer an automatic death sentence with an unbearably short life expectancy following diagnosis.
I know, in a way, we were fortunate through our journey with this disease. Far too many families lose their pets before even receiving a diagnosis. Far too many more have a very brief time with their beloved dogs, even if treatment is pursued.
We had seven months. Seven all too short months, but seven months that allowed us to make more memories, to tell him we love him every day, to hear him snore at our feet, share cuddle time while he napped on "Daddy's" pillow , see him perk up when he heard "Murphy" or "Taylor". Seven months to hear him bark at the fence when I came home, howl with the storm sirens every Friday at 11am, wait with eager anticipation on his face for his liver treats and - what I'll probably miss most of all - soak up those times when our eyes would meet, we'd hold each other's gaze for the longest time and know, just KNOW, that the bond we had was stronger than even impending death - and to know that he loved us as much as we love him.
I can't say goodbye to my boy-o, my Mr. Man Dog, my center of the universe, my Harvey....... I'll simply have to say, "We'll see each other again, my love, my heart. And when we do, nothing will ever part us."
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