Mayita pt 2

See Part 1.

Which is why, saying goodbye is so darn hard.

She hugged me that morning. She leaned in - hard - and relaxed in my arms. There was an urgency about it. I whispered that she would be okay, we would take care of her, I'd be home soon, but I had to go. I had to go. And the guilt of that moment...I left her when she begged me not to.

4 hours later I came home. She was falling over, disoriented and scared. My mind couldn't process what I was seeing. What was happening? You were fine this morning. Maybe not fine...but not like this. She ran past her food bowl - which was still full from the past 12 hours of not eating - and begged to go in the garage. The dog that hates the car, was ready to go.

The vet saw her wobble. Saw her fall. Saw her press her head so hard into the wall, and into my hand covering the wall. She lifted my sweet girl, put her in my car, and said 'go, go now'.

I drove as calmly as I could to the emergency neurologist. When hysteria rose up in me, I chastised myself loudly and kept driving. We arrived and she screamed. I got out and saw her, body contorted in the backseat - unable to control her movements. She looked into my eyes, and had her first seizure. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you. It was terrifying.

The tears came then, as they swooped in and carried my girl straight to the back. I called my husband who was already on his way - "it's bad" I choked out between sobs. What was happening?

After an initial consult we drove home, quietly, still in denial, waiting for the neurologist to call back and say "it's just an infection, here are some antibiotics, it's going to be okay". Those were long hours. It's going to be fine it's going to be fine she's going to be fine. The phone rings. Bone tumor. Pushing into her brain. She will not recover. You were supposed to be fine

Can we bring her home for one last night? This can't be happening. I held you in the car. I whispered in your ear the whole way. 

We made a floor bed for us all, covered with your favorite blankets and laid you down. We took turns laying with you and getting ourselves ready for bed. You couldn't walk anymore. Your eyes were so big, so scared, so terrified. We got you, baby girl, we're here. We talked to her all night. Told her about her adoption, our funniest stories, her mischievous moments, her skills as an escape artist, how much we loved her and we named every person we could think of that loved her too. We barely slept between our words and our tears.

We had hoped for more time. More hours. More minutes. But as the sun rose, 24 hours later, we looked into your eyes, and realized that you could no longer move. Our time was up.