In Loving Memory of Thatcher Awa

​This month has been really hard. Actually, this whole winter has been really hard. Not just because it’s cold and gray and the sunshine is (usually) lacking and my health isn’t so great right now—aside from the frigid air making it harder for me to breathe, I also have a lung infection, MAC, that is going to require a year of nasty treatment, and I still have about 8 months of it left. So I’ve been pretty miserable, physically . . . but that’s not the worst of it.
 
No, the worst part of this winter is that last week my beloved pup, Thatcher, passed away. (If you’re sensitive to reading about pet loss or death and grief in general, you probably shouldn’t read on.)

​My sweet baby Thatcher (who was 12) was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor just 3 days before Christmas. So yeah, it was a really awful Christmas, and I spent half of it crying, just seeing him lying there looking so sick and out-of-it, wearing a diaper because he couldn’t hold his pee for very long anymore. He was still getting used to the phenobarbital they put him on, to prevent further seizures, and also a steroid to reduce brain inflammation.
 
We had taken him to the animal ER on December 22 after jingling tags and scrabbling claws woke us in the early morning, and we found him on the bathroom floor having a bad seizure. Our vet wasn’t open that day, so we had to find a place that was, and Oscar and I ended up spending several hours at an unfamiliar animal hospital waiting nervously and then sorrowfully after they told us the verdict: our baby probably only had a few weeks or a couple months left to live. All they could do was give him meds for palliative care.
 
Thatcher started doing better for a while, after getting used to the meds, and they helped his appetite return. He seemed in good spirits and started walking around again, although he would bump into things and sometimes go in circles when we walked him outside. But he was still willing and able to make it around the block until around Valentine’s Day, and for a while we thought—hoped—that maybe, just maybe, the vet was wrong and our boy wasn’t really that sick. Thanks to the meds, he never had any more seizures.
 
Well, it sucks how things gradually creep up on you and you don’t even notice until there’s been quite a change. He had lost a good deal of weight, although (since he’d been chubby) his ribs weren’t showing like they were when we first brought him home from the shelter in 2016. I’d noticed the weight loss but had no idea it was 15 whole pounds! He was down to 30 pounds . . . which made it possible for me to carry him when I needed to, which definitely helped because Oscar and I ended up doing a good amount of carrying him. We didn’t want him to jump into the car or go up or down stairs anymore—at least our own house is a ranch and doesn’t have any staircases, just a couple of short steps to get up into the house, which Thatcher could manage. Up until the last day or two of his life.
 
He started going in circles more and more, stumbling around and falling, so I shortened our walks and tried to keep him in the grass rather than on hard concrete. There hasn’t been as much snow as usual this winter, which was a mercy—although Thatcher loved snow (we think he was part Husky), I do not, and inclement weather makes it harder to walk any dog, of course. Especially a sick one.
 
I did my best on our final walks, typically through frigid blasts of wind, my lungs burning and my heart pounding (my meds are doing all kinds of lovely things to my body, and the MAC sometimes causes chest pain). One pathetic creature walking another. We took extra walks to save money on diapers, so I was taking him out 3x/day instead of 2. Since we don’t have a fenced-in yard, Thatcher was used to doing his business while circling the block and wouldn’t just do it in the yard. Plus, he absolutely loved going on walks; it was his favorite thing, and we let him do what he wanted to do. Thank God I never had to carry Thatcher very far because I’m not sure if I could’ve done it. He started taking breaks in the middle of walks, lying down and resting for a few minutes, and I would just crouch down next to him and stroke his beautiful, soft fluff and tell him how much I loved him and wished I could make him better. Then he’d struggle back to his feet and carry on—honestly, I have never seen a more resilient animal. He was so determined, had such a will to go on. Later Oscar said he thinks it’s because Thatcher loved us so much and wanted to stay with us as long as possible. (Yes, I cried when he said that. And I think he might be right.)
 
On Saturday, February 17, we woke up and greeted Thatcher as usual, only to find him very lethargic and weak. He’d been having diarrhea for a few weeks, despite us putting him on a diet of chicken and rice and trying other things we were told to do, and we had a big mess to clean up, including his legs and belly. His back legs had grown so weak by that point, we discovered that day that he couldn’t walk anymore. As I knelt down cleaning off my baby, I lifted his back legs—something he normally hated and protested—to wipe them, but he offered no resistance at all. His legs felt so limp and floppy . . . and I slowly realized he was at his limit. His valiant spirit was giving way along with his body. After we got the mess all cleaned, we laid him in his bed, and Oscar and I had the worst conversation we’ve ever had.
 
We knew what we had to do, we knew it was right, and our parents agreed when we called them, but it still felt like stabbing ourselves in the heart. Oscar made the calls and found a vet with an appointment that day. We just . . . didn’t want to prolong our boy’s suffering any more, though it meant hastening our own. I never knew mercy could be so brutal, so painful.
 
I got a taste* that day, I think, of what God’s love for us feels like. He put us before Himself, before His own comfort and pleasure; He walked around in frail flesh for more than 3 decades in harsh conditions, gently leading our poor, sick, dying selves; and in the end, He allowed the ultimate pain to be inflicted upon Himself, for our sake, because it was the only way to bring us peace. Cancer (like my dog’s tumor) is a great metaphor for sin, and who knows how long you have it without even knowing about it. Even knowing about it, we try to fool ourselves and think that we’re okay. It just snuck up on us, at the end, how bad our poor pup had gotten. I wonder how long he had it before his diagnosis.
 
Anyway, it’s not my intent to preach. I’m sorry for putting up such a sad post this month. I’m not sorry for writing it, because it’s been very cathartic typing all of this and chronicling this difficult season of my life. I’ve had the hardest time focusing on reading and writing since Thatcher’s diagnosis, haven’t done much of those 2 things at all since then, and this is finally helping me get back into writing again.
 
Hopefully, my next post will be much lighter. Next month is my birthday, the start of spring, and longer and warmer days are coming. I suppose next month we will start looking for another dog.
 
I don’t really want to think about that right now, though. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday crying, and this week I’ve been experiencing all the hard “firsts”—the first time waking up and he’s not there to feed, take care of, pet, and talk lovingly to. The first time Oscar came home from work and only had me to greet him. The first time cooking meat and Thatcher’s not standing next to me begging for some; it was weird and sad putting all of the meat in our food instead of setting some aside for him. I miss spoiling him. I miss petting his soft, thick fur and giving him hugs and kisses. Seeing his beautiful big brown eyes and his freckly nose and his ears perk up and that big, sweet puppy grin. It was hard seeing his things lying around or hanging on hooks, so we put most of his stuff away in a box in the closet for now with the half-bag of kibble that’s left. The house is too quiet and empty. I miss hearing the click-clack of his claws on the hard floor, the jingle of his tags. He rarely barked, but more than hearing him around I could feel him around, feel his warm and loving presence, that sweetness that was waiting and available for me while I worked in my home office—I could go and pet him and talk to him at any time . . . but now I can’t. It’s just me here, alone, trying to keep busy and be productive so I don’t sit around crying. At least I always have a lot of work to do. Distraction helps. I’ve been watching some of my favorite anime shows and episodes, because TV pulls me in better than books do (freaking ADHD).
 
I think the gush of words is about over. Going without writing for a couple of months is not always the greatest. But I hope in that time, I’ve learned some things, gained wisdom and experience. Seasons begin and they end. My greatest hope and comfort is that, through it all, my God remains constant and faithful and will never, ever leave me or forsake me. One day I will be with Him in peace forever, and I believe I will see my baby again too.

And he'll be happy and smiling like this! <3

​*I mean a very small taste; it’s not like we had to die for Thatcher, although a part of our hearts died with him. We loved our boy so, so much. All I mean is putting someone else’s needs before our own, even when it’s very painful.
 
And if you’re thinking, “He was just a dog,” well, we tried to have kids and never succeeded. Adoption fell through, in strange circumstances that seemed like God Himself closed the door. Then I started a business and had to start taking some meds that definitely cause miscarriage, and the chances of having a child just slipped away from us. (I’m at peace with that now.) So our dog has been our only baby.