Goodbye to Indy

Today was a challenging day. So was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before that. That makes February a challenging month.

Feb 1st. The seventh year anniversary of the night that Dad died.
Feb 2nd. The seventh year anniversary of the early morning that Dad died. Groundhog Day.
Feb 3rd. The day before I was taking Indy to the vet and deciding how to approach this.
Feb 4th. The day I took Indy to the vet, made an appointment to have him put down, told my fam that this is what I was going to do.
Feb 5th. I took Indy back to the vet, put him down, told my mom and bro about it.

The 1st. Damn. It was really hard, actually, after Joey left after hanging out for the day deep cleaning my apartment and after I got off the phone with my uncle. I was fine up until then. And then, standing in the middle of my living room, I felt my.........that thing some might call my chi or energy or soul or heart.........drop through the floor. And I sort of fell, sort of sank down to the floor and laid my forehead down. Damn. Dad. Damn. I got out his box of letters and laid on the floor for awhile reading them. I always come away knowing he loved me absolutely unconditionally. I'm grateful for the time I spent away so that now I have more letters than I can read in one sitting. I wrote in my journal to him. After he died, I started a journal with the understanding that everything in it was a letter to him. With the idea that, if somehow possible, he's receiving these letters. So I wrote to him. I cried a lot of tears. Big ones that rolled off my cheek and splashed. It's nice when they roll and they don't get lodged in your throat. It felt cathartic and therapeutic. I felt really lonely. No, not lonely. Just really alone. And I didn't want to be alone. I got Becki on the phone and we talked for awhile until I got into bed and it was time to sleep. I don't generally feel lonely, and don't generally mind being alone, but sometimes it feels really nice to feel present with someone. To be present with someone.

The 2nd. Groundhog Day. Dad's day. Eric and I went for our run. Not so bad really, the hard part was the night before.

The 3rd. I worked. I went to Eric's for his superbowl party and left a bit before halftime. I gained some clarity about Indy. It was my decision to make, because it really was about what was best for him, not best for my fam, or what they wanted. This made all the difference and made the next two days much easier to cope with.

The 4th. I took Indy to the vet and she and I discussed his health situation, deciding that it was best he be put down. I called my mom, bro, and sis and told them this is what had been decided. This was the right way to do it, I know. If left, as I've been saying, to committee, a decision would never have been made and he would have suffered longer. Maybe it's not a bad thing I can be "autocratic." (sort of kidding)

When talking to my brother, he thanked me more sincerely than anyone has ever thanked me for anything. I was very grateful for this. I think I tend to think of apologies and forgiveness-es as being powerful. But really thanking someone is a very powerful thing. I'm not sure I can explain it. But I had been feeling very resentful and somewhat angry before that about the situation, but when he thanked me, it all changed. I could say "you're welcome" and feel somehow empowered. Now I could just feel sad and grieve and I had more love to give Indy. Maybe I've never so needed to be thanked before so I never really paid attention to a sincere thanking. This gives me something to think about.

The 5th. Today sucks. Last night I made Indy sleep with me. He slept up near my pillow after we agreed it wasn't good for him to be on my chest anymore. We cuddled in the morning for an hour or so. He licked my hand. Then he continued to cuddle up with "Mr. Whale," the stuffed animal that Dave gave me 10 years ago or so that somehow I've kept all these years. He, Mr. Whale, seems to reappear from a box when something traumatic happens and comforting needs to be had. Indy curled around him last night and this morning.

I went to work.

I voted.

I came home.

Indy and I spent some time together. He'd been sitting on the bookshelf in the hall closet so he wasn't feeling too bad, I think. I was glad that this wasn't the worst of his days. Then it was 5:30 and I had a 5:30 appointment, so there was no more putting it off. I picked him up and put him in his travel carrier. He didn't resist that much and only complained a little. We listened to Elvis sing "Love Me" on the short drive to the vet. We checked into the vet at 5:40 and we were right away ushered into Room 4. Before we'd always been in Room 3.

I took Indy out of his carrier, sat down on the bench in Room 4 and drapped him over my chest so that his head was right by mine. I leaned back so his body was inclined, so he wouldn't slip off me. I gave him love. He purred. I cried. Some minutes passed like this.

A very kind woman named Liz came in and asked me to sign the Euthanasia Consent form. We discussed what would happen to his body and agreed they would hold onto it until after I talked with my family. She took my payment and brought me a "Dog prayer" in a frame that would apply just as well to cat's, she said. I appreciated her gesture of comfort. It was written in the voice of the animal, basically thanking the human for taking care and doing what's best for them. She touched my arm, gave Indy some love. She said, don't feel bad about crying. We all cry. I appreciated this too. She asked me if I knew about the "rainbow bridge" where humans are apparently reunited with all of their companion animals. I felt comfortable crying in front of her, so this was nice. She asked me if I wanted to be here for it. I said, yes, of course.

She explained to me that it was two injection process. That I'd have time with him to "say my last good-byes" after the first injection. She said she hated that expression, but that's what it is... She left.

I gave Indy more love. He still purred. I still cried. I wondered if this was the hardest thing I've ever done. It felt like it. And nothing else could come to mind.

Dr. Lindsay Miller came in with her assistant. I forget his name. Maybe David. She gave me a hug, she gave Indy some love. She talked to him in that lispy voice people sometimes use with animals. I liked that. She explained the process to me. I told her about Dad, about how Dad had really bonded with this little guy, and that everyone said that Dad was Indy's favorite. I told her the story is that Indy liked Dad's barrel chest and deep slow breathing. That Indy had memories of Dad, even if we couldn't tap into them, and that I thought this made this whole thing with Indy extra hard for everyone. That this weekend was Dad's anniversary so it was espeically difficult for everyone. She said that Dad would be waiting for him "up there," that Dad would be the first person he'd run to. Part of me wanted to reject this kind of talk. But I thought of "Dogma," the movie. I thought that these are nice ideas. One doesn't have to believe or disbelieve them. They're nice. There's nothing wrong with that.

I cried. Indy purred.

She gave Indy some love. We talked about why this was best for him. She mentioned that it's one of the blessings of her profession and unfortunate we don't extend this compassion to humans. Yes. I thought of Craig Ewert. She sent David out of the room to go get a towel for Indy to lay on. It was light blue in color. Before I picked him up to lay him down on the table, he did his characteristic head nuzzle. He tucked his nosed into his neck and rubbed his forehead back and forth into the crook of my elbow. Nuzzling me. Oh, Indy. It's the thing he does that melts everyone's heart. It melts my heart. He hadn't done this recently and I was so grateful for this show of his personality. One last nuzzle.

She may have asked if I was ready. I shrugged. No. But it's time.

I laid him on the table. Dr. Miller and David administered the first injection. This was to make him very relaxed and drowsy. Maybe like you would get if you were at the dentist when you're sort of awake, but very relaxed and not caring too much about what was going on. I picked him up again, sat down, and held him in my lap. He stopped purring. His head rested on my left forearm. His paws were on either side of his face. She told me to not be alarmed when he went limp. It would take a few minutes. She and David left the room.

I cried. When I found a voice, I sang to him "Pretty Indy," adapted from Dad's rendition of Peter, Paul, and Mary's "Pretty Mary" since that is the song I always think of when I seek comfort or seek to comfort. I told him I love him, and Anne and Matt and Mom and Dad loves him. I told him I was sorry. I told him he would be okay. I sang to him and gave him love. He was limp. His eyes were still wide open.

Dr. Miller and David knocked and came back in. It was after six o'clock, when the clinic closes. Any animal noises in the hallway had ceased. Human voices were at a minimum. We laid him back on the blue towel on the table. She asked me if I wanted any of his fur. I said, sure, maybe my sister would like that. Is there a particular part? A place where you like to pet him or a color? We chose the base of his neck between his shoulder blades and a bit from one of his dark front paws. Since he is two-toned. Is this weird? To take some of their fur? She told me she still had fur from her first dog.

He was on his left side. His head was at the end of the table and I kneeled in front of him. I positioned him so that he could see me. I picked out his eye buggers (he probably didn't like that) and a hair off his nose. I pet his head. I gave him love. We watched each other. She inserted a mini catheter needle into an artery in his back leg. She gave him the injection. Essentially it's an overdose of anestesia and would take about 30 seconds or so. His eyes closed a little, though they were still open a bit. I said so. Yes, she said. She listened to his heart. I had my right hand on his head, my left on his chest. I felt a shift. His eyes went dark. He's gone, she said. Yes, I said.

She said, I'll give you some time. Yes. I cried. I thought about Dad. About Indy. About grieving. About our family. Time passed. She knocked and came back inside. Can I have more time. I'll be out in the hall working on charts, just stick your head out when you're ready. Okay, thank you. More time passed. I cried. I pet him. I cried. I wondered if it was weird that I was petting him. Because he was dead. He was gone. I guess I was really petting him for me, not for him. I felt sad. I told myself, it is okay to feel sad. It's good I feel sad. It's right to feel sad. So I felt sad. I was glad I spent so much time studying grief and practicing grieving and I could coach myself through a process. I sank to my knees in a prayer position. I think now, some people like to say that when you are praying to a God, you are on your knees so that you feel vulnerable, so that God can rule over you, in a sense. Maybe that it true sometimes, but I don't really believe it anymore. Because standing, bending over Indy's dead body wasn't as comforting as was kneeling before him with my hands pressed over my heart, or at my mouth, or on his body. It was comforting to me emotionally to kneel. Maybe it is a surrender of some sort, but it is a pleasant surrender.

I was not there when Dad died, or when any of my grandparents died. I'm glad I was there with Indy. And it was nice to be alone. Alone with him. I felt like it was a good-bye to Dad too that I'd never had before. It also all makes me want to get a kitten or kittens. If I was in a relationship, yes, maybe I'd be feeling the baby urge. :) Something about someone dying stimulates, perhaps, that desire for young life and the urge to carry on and witness the cycle of death, rebirth, life, death, rebirth. He was a wonderful kitty and he was very well loved. I'll miss him.