losing a friend

I am not really sure where to begin. I don't know what I'm doing here. I once read that writing can set us free, that it can help us heal. I guess you could say, with every stroke of the key, I am praying for a healing. I am grieving. I have been for over two months. My beloved Dog, Wyatt passed away December 8th, from an aggressive cancer that took his life within 7 weeks of diagnosis. He was 7 yrs 10 months. I'm a realistic person, I know that children, wonderful, amazing people die of cancer every minute. I have a friend who just lost her husband, to an awful, rare disease that took him away from his wife and young children at the age of 41.
I feel shallow to think, in any way, that my grief can be measured against the loss of a human being, to that of the loss of a father, a husband. But it hurts. It's agony. It's my own, singular, private grief.
Wyatt as a bullmastiff would at best have lived to 11-12 years. We knew when we open our hearts and home to him that, most likely, we would out live him. So in many ways, because of that knowledge, we did everything with him. We celebrated his life, and he knew it. I'm not a fatalist, but there were moments back when he was 5-6 years old, that I cried because I understood, that regardless of how healthy he was or looked, no matter how much love and care went into his life--he at 5 yrs, was middle aged. Five years goes by in a blink of an eye.
So fast forward to 7 yrs 8 months old. It was a beautiful fall day in mid-October. Recently moving to the N.E. from Texas, all the seasons were so new to Wyatt and he embraced each one with the enthusiasm and curiosity of a child. Fall was becoming a new favorite. My husband and I decided to take Wyatt to a local park with great hiking trails. It wasn't soon after jumping in the car, that Wyatt seemed suddenly fatigued, weak. He wasn't poking his head out the window or responding much to us. I crawled in the back of the Jeep with him, barely lifting his head, I noticed his breathing was labored. Our plan of a Sunday at the park, ended up being a rush to the emergency room. I have to say I was relatively calm. I held his head, stroked his back and promised him it would be okay. Afterall, this was just some strange asthma attack, from Clint mowing the lawn? No, it was a ruptured spleen, most likely due to cancer.
I couldn't here it. Nope. Not this dog. Ruptured spleen, okay. Take it out, do the surgery, but you'll find no cancer in this dog. He was pure, honest, kind, so full of love and a zest for life---cancer--impossible.
The surgery went great. Wyatt was ready to go home, shortly after waking up from anaesthesia.
He was back to his old self, within a couple of days. A true triumph after a brush with death. Definitely signs that it couldn't be cancer. I happily told everyone that, "Wyatt lives to die another day."
Well, it was cancer. One of the worst possible kinds. So aggressive, in fact, that we were discouraged from just about every doctor we consulted in attempting chemo and encouraged to focus on his quality of life.
I swear to you I would have fought dragons to keep him alive. My husband and I embarked on the most diligent, structured holistic healing regimen we could find. We cooked for him, only whole foods, cancer fighting foods. He was on an array of supplements to boost immune system function, protect healthy cells, liver cleanse. We prayed over his food, his supplements. I prayed over him every night, imagining his body free from cancer. There were days he ate so well, looked so great, so full of energy--I thought he was a walking miracle, that he was beating it. We did our best to keep it together, for him. Life went about as normal as he wanted it to be. If he wanted to go on two walks, yep, we bundled up and went for a stroll, just after walking in the door from the first walk. He took to wanting to visit friends, it seems strange, but he wanted to visit with people, children, he wanted to meet everyone we passed on the street, more than ever before. He knew, we could see it, but it wasn't going to stop him. Wyatt never looked, 'sick.' He lost a little bit of weight, but his zest for life, his love, curiosity never faltered. Never once did Wyatt feel sorry for himself. If anything, there were moments he would discover me crying, and he would come curl up and comfort me.
The night he told us that he could not hold on any longer. Locking eyes with each my husband and me, for longer than he had ever done before. He literally sat down in front of us, pleading with his eyes, apologizing, thanking us. It is still so vivid, haunting, almost not of this Earth. It was happening and I couldn't believe it. I wanted to jump off the couch and cling to him, beg him not to go, but this was above me, above my simple emotions. This was spiritual, so I stayed put, did my best to embrace what was happening before me, and undeniably, for me. We each talked to him, thanked him, told him it was okay to go, that we would be okay. Clint and I were each talking about our favorite memories with him, smiling, laughing. When he seemed satisfied, he laid down to rest and really never got up. We had hoped that he would pass in the night, but when morning came and he was still hanging on, we called the vet to come to the house. I snuggled with him before the vet got there, whispering all the good times, all my thank yous, how blessed and lucky I felt for knowing such a kind soul.
It happened so fast. My husband and I were both holding him, I kept whispering to him, telling him that he is going back to the beautiful place he came from, because his life always felt like such a gift.
I can still feel how, underneath my calm exterior how desperate I felt, how silently I was pleading with the powers to be, to please stop this. Please don't take him. If love alone could save a life, I wouldn't be sitting here in a pool of tears, Wyatt and I would be out for a walk.
If you're still with me, if you're still reading this. I am soo sorry. I am sorry for our humanity. That we are so limited to our understanding of how and why life works the way it does. I'm in awe of it, really. That we really do have to depend soley on faith. Death is so cruel. It is so final. Although, in those moments when the vet was giving Wyatt the shot to put him to sleep, it all felt very kind. Like, I wish someday someone would do the same for me. We never waivered in our decision of euthanasia. Wyatt was too good to us, he lived for us and we would not allow him to suffer one minute. Wyatt was a brave, stoic dog and he died with honor, with his family on either side of him, in his home, surrounded by all the love and memories of a life time.
I know so many people understand this sort of grief. This ache. I wish I could hug each of you. How closed off we can be to other human beings, but how vulnerable and open we are with our love for our pets. In many ways I feel like my husband and I were let down easy. We had seven amazing, beautiful weeks to say good-bye to our cherished friend. He was allowed to die in his home, not in a rush to the hospital, or in a cold unfamiliar room. Also, I have asked myself to not dwell too much on those last moments. Wyatt's life was so much more about how and when he died. He was an ambassador to big dogs everywhere, he brighten my darkest days and I got to witness him enjoy and experience life. I guess in the end, life is never about death, it's about how we live. Love you, Wy.