Adjusting to Life After Lucky

Quite a few people have inquired about how I have been doing since Lucky passed away and it seems the answer changes depending on what day it is. In some moments, I have amazed myself by how well I am doing, how at peace I am with my new reality and how well I am functioning. In other moments, the grief comes on like a freight train and I am so overwhelmed by how much I miss my sweet girl, I can't do anything but cry. I am sure my experience isn't much different from anyone else's who has lost a loved one. It's an up and down road and from what I have learned from helping others through this process, I know it will continue to be up and down for a while.

The first couple days, my biggest adjustment was establishing new routines. I have been so used to my routines revolving around Lucky, I didn't know what to do with all my 'free time.' Breakfast takes 10 min. instead of an hour, getting ready for bed also takes less than 10 min. instead of an hour. I'm still trying to break some well ingrained habits, like reaching for her water bowl to put fresh water in it when I get up in the morning or grabbing the can of wet dog food out of the fridge, when I am getting milk for my coffee.

Some of things I experienced were almost funny, like the realization that I hadn't eaten an entire sandwich by myself in almost 14 years. Lately, I get 3/4 of the way through a sandwich and feel full, or I get 4/5 of the way through my granola bar in the morning and then I don't know what to do with the last bite. Lucky always got bites of everything I ate. I never realized how much I shared my food with her until she wasn't here anymore to help me finish whatever I was eating. Apparently, I also always let her lick the plate after I was done eating, because it felt so odd the first couple of times I went to wash a plate and realized how much more work I had to do to clean the plate before putting it in the dishwasher.

Mostly what I noticed was how quiet the house is now. There is a stillness that fills the house that has left me feeling uneasy. It was especially intense the first week. When I thought about it, I realized that I bought my place 14 years ago this month, and I adopted Lucky 3 months later. I have almost no memories of ever being here without her. I wasn't sure how to be in my house by myself. For 13 years and 9 months, she had been my constant companion, the best roommate a person could ever have. Now I have to get used to the stillness. It's been difficult to get used to.

After Lucky passed away, I assumed I would sleep like a rock. After months and months of sleep deprivation, especially in our last week together, coupled with the grief I was experiencing, I figured I would do nothing but sleep for a couple of days but that wasn't the case. I noticed that I couldn't turn my ears off. I was so used to listening for her, listening for when she needed me, when she might be trying to move, or when she was thirsty . . . it had become so ingrained in me, it was impossible for me to not listen for her. Thus, sleep evaded me for the first several days.

Yet as time went on, I was still not able to sleep. When a friend told me how much walking had helped her after the loss of a loved one, I put the pieces together and figured the other reason I couldn't sleep was probably due to the extreme drop in the amount of exercise I was getting. I haven't "formally" exercised in at least 6 months because there just wasn't time for it, but I was getting exercise every hour of every day, lifting Lucky, carrying her, holding up the sling while she walked, etc. It was more exercise than I had ever gotten before, even when I was on the rowing team in college . . . but after she passed away, the amount of exercise I was getting dropped to zero. I decided that maybe getting more exercise would help. Since I had that realization, I have noticed that I definitely sleep better when I have gotten a lot of exercise and when I don't have time (or the motivation) to work exercise into my schedule, it's another sleepless night. Clearly, exercise is going to need to stay high on my priority list.

For all the adjustments I have been making, one of the most difficult things I had to get used to was going to a client appointment without her. Lucky went everywhere with me and my client appointments were no exception. She would wait patiently in the car for me while I was inside a client's house and on the way home, I would tell her how my appointment went. The first appointment I went to was three days after Lucky had passed away. I thought I was going to be ok . . . that is until I pulled my car out of the garage, and I felt her absence so intensely, I started to cry. I managed to pull myself together once I was on the freeway though and I did fine through the appointment . . . well, until I was getting ready to leave and my client gave me a gift to honor Lucky's memory.

It was a beautiful ornament . . . a german shepherd with angel wings. I said to my client "Did you know I always called Lucky "Angel?" as my voice cracked and I started to tear up. She said she didn't, as she started to tear up too, but she said she was immediately drawn to the ornament when she went to the store to find something for me. I told her I would be proud to put the ornament on my christmas tree and she said, "Why don't you put it in the car, so she's always with you?" With that, more tears flowed . . . as I realized that my clients aren't just "clients" . . . they are some of the kindest, most compassionate, wonderful people in the world.

I put the ornament on the dashboard when I got into the car and it instantly gave me comfort. I kept looking at the sweet face of the german shepherd and it made me smile. Now every time I get in the car, I talk to it . . . it makes me feel closer to Lucky. I tell it where we are going, or tell it how my appointment went, the same way I used to tell Lucky. And I trust that Lucky hears me.

The funny thing about calling Lucky "Angel" is that I didn't even realize I was doing it until someone pointed it out. It happened a lot over the years . . . I had all these nicknames for Lucky and I wouldn't even notice what I was calling her until the kids we were playing with would repeat what I had said. They would say, "Give me the ball, Silly Goose" or "Do you need some water, Sweet Pea?" It would catch me off guard at first, and then I would smile to myself at the reminder that children really do hear everything we say.

And in recent months, when I was talking on the phone a lot to an old boyfriend of mine, he would frequently say, "Hi Gorgeous" in the middle of our conversation. At first I reacted with a "Huh?" and then it dawned on me that he said it every time he heard me say, "Hi Beautiful" to Lucky. Until that time, I wasn't aware that I said it to her every time I walked past her in the house, while simultaneously reaching down to pet her on the head. Until I heard my ex's "response" each time I said it, I didn't realize it had become another one of my "routines." If I was back and forth to the laundry room, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, it didn't matter . . . each time I walked past her, I would stop and say "Hi Beautiful" so she knew I was aware of her, even though I was doing other things around the house. It was such a sweet reminder of how special Lucky was to me and how I wanted her to know each time I walked past her that she was still infinitely more important to me than anything else I was doing.

This "unawareness" of what I called Lucky came up again last year on Halloween. The woman who runs the water therapy program that helped Lucky so much her last year and a half, brought special treats for all the dogs. There were little baggies of dog treats for each dog to take home with them and a whole box of "costumes" for everyone to choose from . . . an assortment of decorative items to put around their necks. The first one I noticed was angel wings on a elastic band. I tried it on Lucky but it was too small, so I began looking through the box to find something else that fit her, but everyone at water therapy stopped me and insisted she needed the angel wings. When I asked why, they all said, "Because you call her Angel all the time!" I had one of those "I do?" moments and then laughed to myself over the fact that once again, I wasn't even aware of all the pet names I had for Lucky. One of the gals offered to bring the angel wings home with her and add some elastic so that it would fit Lucky and I accepted her offer. After all, if I was calling her Angel that often, she clearly needed to have the angel wings. I've included a picture of Lucky wearing her angel wings, as she laid in one of her favorite spots, overseeing her backyard and making sure the squirrels stayed away.

Evenings still prove to be the hardest part of each day. The first few nights, I was so out of it, I'd wake up in the morning and find the lights in the family room still on, or the back door still opened. It was another "routine" I needed to re-learn. In our final months together, our routine consisted of me helping Lucky out back to go potty. When we were done, we'd walk through the house and into our bedroom and once I got her settled in bed, I'd then go back out and close the back door (since I didn't have a free hand to do that while I was holding the sling) and I'd turn the lights off, etc. I am having to retrain myself to do all those things before I go into my bedroom and it's been a little shocking to see how long it's taking me to develop a new habit.

It's also at night that I talk to Lucky the most and that's probably why it's the most emotional time of the day for me. The rest of the day, I think I do better because I can stay busy and not focus on her absence so much but at night . . . when the house is dark and quiet, I miss her even more. I lay in bed and tell her how much I miss her and how much I wish she was still here . . . and I cry. I find myself continually apologizing for the times I got cranky and tell her how I wish I could have done better in those moments . . . and I cry some more. I know she isn't upset with me for the times I was cranky. I know that it is me who needs to forgive myself and I'm not sure why it's so hard for me to do that.

Last night, I laid in bed and watched some of the video footage I took of her in our last three months together. It made me smile . . . as I heard myself repeatedly call her; Beautiful, Angel, Sweet Pea, Goose, Bunny, etc. each time I focused the camera on her and I was surprised (ok, maybe not surprised) by how often you could hear the subdudes music playing in the background. It made me laugh when I got to see Lucky do what I dubbed "Freeze Frame" . . . she'd be doing something cute, rolling around on the floor, biting or talking to her toys but the second I pulled the camera out she'd immediately stop what she was doing and she wouldn't move a muscle. It reminded me of when I was a kid and we played "Red Light, Green Light" and I would think to myself how well Lucky would have done at that game, because she was so good at "freezing." It was also comforting to see her alive, to see her darling personality shine through on the video, to hear how often I laughed when I was video taping her. It was nice to be reminded of how much joy she brought into my life, to be able to see it and hear it. The reminder was truly a gift. I am so glad she was willing to endure all the video taping I did, even if she did "freeze frame" a good majority of the time.

Today, I pulled out an older tape, from 2006 through the first part of 2009, and laid down on the bed to enjoy from more reminiscing. I smiled as I watched her run on the beach, play in the surf, open christmas presents and birthday presents, and do a lot of "freeze frame." I am so grateful my family gave me a video camera on my birthday seven years ago, so that I could capture so much of my sweet girl on film. It was evident while watching the videos that there wasn't much in the world that made me happier than being with her. She gave my life purpose, she made me laugh and smile. She brought me so much joy.

It's one of the things I have been grappling with the last few weeks. I know I want to still feel that sense of purpose, I still want to laugh and smile and experience joy. I have realized that I feel that way the most when I am working. It is one way that I can continue to honor Lucky and all I learned from her. If it hadn't been for her, I don't think I would be doing the work that I do now and enjoying it so much. It was Lucky that taught me to trust my intuition, to trust that I could feel what an animal (or human) was feeling when I put my hands on them. It was Lucky that helped me understand the connection between mind and body and how our emotions can affect our physical bodies. I know that if Lucky hadn't helped me learn all of that, I wouldn't be able to help my clients when I work with them.

Unfortunately, I don't have client appointments every hour of every day, so I knew I needed other ways to feel connected to my purpose, to feel joy. Fortunately, I have discovered that writing is one of the best "therapies" I have . . . when I write, especially when I write about her, I feel closer to her. When I write, I feel more grounded, more at peace, more connected with what I believe I am supposed to be doing. I think I'll be writing a lot in the weeks to come and these posts on my blog may be longer than they have ever been before. ;-)

And still there are challenges. I have been surprised by some of the things I miss. I was almost disappointed to see the calluses on my hands healing up. In all the months I was using the sling to help Lucky walk, the straps of the sling would dig into my fingers and my hands looked more like those of a construction worker than an animal communicator. It almost made me sad to see my hands looking more "girlie." And as I have mentioned before, I was wearing shorts and flip flops exclusively so it was easier to clean myself up when I got tinkled on while lifting Lucky in and out of the car but on a cold day last week when I pulled out a pair of jeans to put on, it made me sad to be wearing pants. I never thought I'd ever say I missed getting tinkled on but I actually do.

I haven't been able to put all of Lucky's things away yet. Her toy basket is still overflowing with toys in the laundry room. I thought about donating her toys to other dogs, but I'm just not ready yet. My kitchen floors are still covered with the rugs I put down over a year ago to help keep Lucky from slipping. When a friend inquired the other day about why the rugs were still there, I told him if I picked up the rugs, I was going to have the scrub the kitchen floor and try to remove the stains on the white linoleum from her dog bowls that have been there for almost 14 years. As soon as I said it, I knew it wasn't the whole truth . . . I paused for a minute and then said, "I guess I'm not ready yet."

Other things have been easier than I expected. I donated all of Lucky's treats to a client of mine and it felt good to know that her dogs would enjoy all of Lucky's favorite treats. And when a friend took me to pick up Lucky's ashes the other day, it wasn't nearly as devastating as I expected it to be. As I held the urn in my lap, I knew she wasn't in there, not her soul anyway, and aside from it being a reminder of my new "reality" it wasn't as awful as I feared it would be. I found a nice place for the urn on a shelf in our bedroom, next to one of our framed christmas card pictures and pictures of me with members of the subdudes. It seemed like a fitting place for her. I guess that shelf will be an homage to some of my most favorite things.

So, all in all, I am doing alright. I know there aren't any rules for how the grieving process should go, that it's just something you need to go through in whatever way it shows up each day. I'm just trying to remember to let myself feel whatever I feel, to let the emotions come up and then release them. It's going to be a process . . . and I trust that as time goes on, the ache of her absence will lessen and I'll be able to focus more on all we learned while we were together and how she helped me become the person I am today.

death, middle names and the subdudes

There are so many things I wanted to write about this week, this post may feel a little more disjointed than usual, as there are three different topics that I don't think I can weave together seamlessly. Hopefully, you all won't mind if I jump from topic to topic this week.

The first thing that has been weighing heavily on my mind is the whole subject of euthanasia . . . On a happy note, I received the most beautiful condolence note from one of the gals we met at water therapy. After her dog had surgery, she had brought him to the same place, Aqua Dog, where Lucky and I were going and we hit it off immediately. Her note touched me deeply and made me realize that Lucky was having a positive impact on people, even when we didn't know it.

Her note said:

I am sad to hear of Lucky's crossing over. I know there is nothing I can say to ease your pain but I want you to know that Lucky had a big impact on me. I was always amazed at how happy she looked even though she had physical limitations. I had always thought that once a dog couldn't walk easily on their own, the "humane" thing to do was to have them put down. That opinion changed when I meet Lucky. The first time I saw her in the water, her eyes so bright and full of life, I realized that I had been wrong. I remember calling my sister that night and telling her about Lucky.

Her note warmed my heart . . . to think that Lucky and I had given her another perspective on things made me feel like Lucky's life and her challenges were even more important than I already thought they were . . . that maybe Lucky's imprint on this world was even grander than I imagined it was. It made my grief easier to manage.

It reminded me of a conversation I had a month or so ago. I was talking to someone about how last May, Lucky lost all bladder control for several days. It was a scary time and I thought maybe the end was coming, that her body was giving out on her. Many people suggested "it was time" but miraculously she regained bladder control again and it was a non-issue for us until last month when it happened again for a few days, and then miraculously once again, she got her bladder control back. I was telling this person how glad I was that I waited it out, that I didn't succumb to the euthanasia pressure because I would have missed out on five more months with my sweet girl. The person got really quiet for a few minutes and then told me that they had put his dog down earlier this year when he lost bladder control. I could see the wheels spinning in his head, wondering if maybe they had acted too quickly, wondering if his dog's bladder control would have resumed the way Lucky's did. There is no way we'll ever know, but it does make me think that in some cases, we're too quick to "end an animal's suffering."

Just this week, one of my clients called . . . she was very upset after a visit with her vet. Her cat had thrown up a couple of times and she brought her to the vet to find out what was going on. Her labs all came back fine, no signs of any problems, but when they did an ultrasound, they saw a mass in her stomach. The vet's recommendation was immediate euthanasia. Fortunately, my client didn't take his advice, knowing she needed time to figure out what her cat wanted, to figure out what she wanted. I was shocked by how quickly the vet went there. My personal opinion is that vets often go there too quickly. While I am sure there are plenty of vets who don't, there are many who do and I wish it wasn't the case. I don't know what lies ahead for this particular cat but at the moment, she is doing well and I know she is happy that her mom is listening to her more than she is listening to the vet.

The question of euthanasia came up quite a few times, especially in our last six months together. People would say, "Do you think it's time?" and I would always say "No" with a little confusion in my voice, because the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I knew Lucky wasn't giving up yet and as long as she was still willing to try, then so was I. Lucky and I just seemed to face each new challenge we were presented with and we would figure out how to make things work, whether it was using the sling, covering the floor with towels, me wearing shorts and flip-flops, using the wagon or whatever else we came up with to manage our new definition of "normal." The brightness in her eyes, her voracious appetite, her excitement when we would see the children at the park . . . those things all told me "it wasn't time" regardless of how her ability to move on her own had been diminished.

Yet, it was something that I still grappled with from time to time, wondering if I was blinded by my love for Lucky and not seeing things as they really were. I worked hard at being as honest with myself as possible about Lucky's condition and as a back-up, I asked one of my best friends to speak up if he ever thought I was over-looking the truth. (He never did) :-)

I remember the holistic vet that Lucky and I used to see would always say, "You know it's time to euthanize when the animal is suffering too much, or the human is." That statement made a lot of sense to me and at the same time, it filled me with more questions. Mostly I would wonder "How do we define suffering?" I was always more concerned about Lucky suffering, rather than myself, although there were some moments in our final week where I wasn't sure I could keep doing what we were doing and I understood in those moments what he meant a little more.

I remember in our final week together, when I was getting scared that I wasn't doing the right thing by letting Lucky pass on her own, I kept getting on the internet, trying to find information on the subject. No matter how many searches I did, I couldn't seem to come up with information that defined how you know when your animal is suffering. I also couldn't find information on what a "natural death" was like . . . nothing that could tell me what the normal signs of dying were and when it moved into the realm of "suffering."

I realized that I had never seen an animal die a natural death, so I had no idea what to expect. All the dogs we had when I was growing up were euthanized. I am not second-guessing my parents decision, as they felt each of the dogs we had reached a point of "suffering" but I still didn't know what it truly meant to be "suffering."

Most of the information I found about euthansia said, "It's a very personal decision" which I agree with, but again, they didn't explain how you know. Many people say, "You'll know when it's time, you'll see it in your animal's eyes" and still, that's not a clear cut explanation. I realized, especially in me and Lucky's final week together, that there really is a lack of information on the subject.

The philosophical discussions I was having with the friends who spent time with Lucky and I on our second to last day together centered on this subject. We talked about how in many ways we are sheltered from death. People don't want to talk about it, they don't want to experience someone else's death . . . we tend to fear it. I think we often assume it will be far worse than anything we can imagine . . . and yet, death is as natural as birth. It is something we will all do. We are all born and we all die, there is no getting out of it. So, it left me with the question, "Why are we so afraid of it?"

One of my friends pointed out that birth isn't "pain-free" either, so why do we expect death to be "pain-free"? That made sense to me. It seemed logical that there may be some discomfort as we get ready to leave our bodies. But where is the line? What is a normal amount of pain or discomfort? and when is it an abnormal amount of pain that tells you that you should step in and do something to end the pain?

During that one particular night, when my mind was swirling around, I kept thinking about the similarities between birth and death. I was trying to honor Lucky's desire to have a "natural death" and yet there were moments where I was afraid of it, afraid it would be too much for her or too much for me. I thought about women who opted for a "natural birth" . . . and I wondered how many of them at some point said, "The pain is too much, give me an epidural!" (or wished they could say that.) And I thought about a friend of mine who wanted to have a natural birth but after many, many hours of labor and some concern about her baby, she was forced to have a C-section. It was very difficult for her to make her peace with it, as she was so disappointed that she had gone so far with her labor, and she wanted to see it through, but she also didn't want anything to happen to her baby.

In the moments I considered breaking down and calling a vet to help her out of her body, what would stop me was the thought . . . . what if she was close to doing it on her own and I stepped in at the last minute and took that away from her. It reminded me of a quote I read once that said something like, "If you knew how many people gave up minutes before finally achieving their goal, you'd think twice about giving up."

I wish I could say I had figured it all out and could offer some keen insights into this topic. Unfortunately, I have all these questions and not very many answers. Maybe in time I will learn more and things will become more clear. At the very least, I can say from my own experience that I am glad I didn't step in and have Lucky euthanized. In many ways, the experience of being present with her through her death was as much of an honor as it was to be present throughout her life. It was my final gift to her and her final gift to me and I will treasure that memory as much as every other memory we created together.

I'm not saying that people who euthanize their pets are wrong because I really do believe it is a very personal decision, one between an animal and their guardian and only they know what is best in their particular circumstance. I just wish that we were less afraid of death in general, whether it is humans or animals. I wish we could embrace it for the natural part of our experience here on earth that it is. And I wish we had more information available to us about what to expect, and what is a "normal" part of the dying process vs. what is "suffering" so we could feel better equipped to deal with these decisions when we are faced with them. I think if we could be more opened about death, if we could de-mystify it, we could all be less afraid of it. I know from my experience with Lucky, I don't want to be afraid of death. I want to embrace it and honor it and be at peace with it.

Onto my next "unrelated-topic," many people have inquired this week about Lucky's middle name . . . not knowing she ever had one and wondering how it came to be. I thought I'd share the story in case any of you are interested.

It all started a few years ago, when all the kids Lucky befriended at the park were always asking me questions about Lucky. They always wanted to know things such as: What time she went to bed, What her favorite food was, Did she ever have play-dates at her house, Did she ever get "time-outs" and What her middle name was. They were always pleased with all my answers, except the middle name question. Time after time, the kids who inquired would express concern that Lucky didn't have a middle name like they did.

One day, I asked the group of kids that were playing with Lucky what they thought her middle name should be. They came up with several options, and week after week, they would continue to quiz the other children that came to play with Lucky, asking what they thought her middle name should be. They came up with a list of possible names such as: Rose, Sky, Charm, Star, Penny, Flower, Cloud, etc. After a couple months of hearing all the options, I finally picked Rose and Lucky officially became "Lucky Rose." The kids were all thrilled that Lucky finally had a middle name and when she met new kids who would ask what her middle name was, I was happy I finally had an answer for them.

And for my third unrelated topic, there is something about the subdudes that is tied into Lucky's final chapter that I feel compelled to share. Back in July, one of my friends in the band told me that he was going to send me an advanced copy of the CD that was going to be released the first week of September. I was very excited about the idea of getting to hear the CD before the masses did and began eagerly checking my mailbox. Several times in August, he called and said, "I'm really sorry, Maureen, I didn't get a chance to get to the post office before we hit the road again." I wasn't concerned, I knew I would get the new CD eventually, and once that leg of their tour was over, I would go back to eagerly checking my mailbox.

But at the beginning of September, I had a premonition . . . in this premonition, I saw myself listening to the new CD as I was grieving Lucky's passing, and I knew I would get the CD the day she passed, or the day after. As you can imagine, it made me much less excited about receiving the copy of the new CD. I found myself going to the mailbox with trepidation, for fear that the CD would be there, and if my premonition was true, it would mean Lucky would pass that day or the next. I didn't want the CD to arrive.

I never told anyone, hoping my premonition was wrong . . . and four days before Lucky made her transition, the subdudes arrived in California. My friend called to check on us and then mentioned that he was very sorry he never got the CD in the mail, but that he would give it to me in person at the show at Moe's Alley. At the time, I was so consumed with what was going on with Lucky, I didn't even think about my premonition.

As you know from my post last week, Lucky passed on the 15th and on the 16th, I went to see the band play, and it was at that time that I received my copy of their new CD, Flower Petals. And just as I had seen in my vision . . . I spent the days after Lucky passed listening to the new CD, as I worked through my grief.

The first couple times I played it, I just listened to the music as a whole and eventually, I began to pay more attention to individual songs and their lyrics. One song in particular made the hair stand up on my arms, a song called Wedding Rites. I know based on the title, it wouldn't seem like a song about Lucky and I, given that we weren't married. :-) But the lyrics, if I changed one word (from lover to Lucky) fit us like a tee.

When I was a little girl, I knew I was going to have a German Shepherd. It was one of my most vivid memories from childhood, this "knowing" I had . . . there was no question in my mind, I was supposed to have a German Shepherd.

When I first saw Lucky on TV, I had that "knowing"again - I knew she was the one I was supposed to be with. When I won the lottery and went to meet her for the first time, I heard myself say over and over again, "It's me, It's me!" I never knew where those words came from or why I said them. I just had this overwhelming feeling that we were seeing each other again after a very long time. It made me wonder if Lucky and I didn't make some pact in the spirit world, agreeing that we would come together here on earth to help each other heal.

So, as I sat on the floor, listening to "Wedding Rites" with the liner notes in my hand, tears streamed down my face, I realized that once again, the subdudes and their music had touched me in a way that confirms their place as my most favorite band in the whole world.

partial Wedding Rites lyrics:

"Well, I don't know what to believe about past or future life

But I do believe in a love before first sight

'Cause Lucky (lover), when I saw you, saw you for the first time

I was amazed, I was so pleased to find

I already knew you, before I even met you

I already felt you, before I ever held you

Like two streams that flow from the very same source

We're together again, let the river run it's course

We're together, let the river run it's course."

The river did run it's course with us and I feel so blessed that we had the opportunity to be together again, to do what I believe we had agreed to do for one another. My heart still aches in moments . . . and in other moments, I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity I had . . . to love and be loved . . . as completely and honestly and purely and sweetly as I did. I will love my sweet girl forever . . . my Lucky Rose.

Lucky Rose Burkley-7/12/95-10/15/09

On Thursday, October 15th, my sweet girl made her transition. She was 14 years, 3 months and 3 days old. She was the love of my life and my best friend in the whole world.

This past week has been one of the most intense weeks of my life. It was filled with moments of gut-wrenching grief, confusion, sleep deprivation, self doubt and physical exhaustion. It was also filled with moments of peacefulness and love so beautiful it could take your breath away. I will probably be writing about my experiences and insights for many weeks to come. There were just so many things I learned from the final phase of our journey and so many things I still need to process and understand.

This last phase of our journey started on Saturday, October 10th. Lucky's front legs gave out on her. I would stand her up and get the sling under her back end, but her front arms just couldn't hold her up. I was so worried. I massaged her arms, put ice packs on them, gave her reiki, and hoped that in the morning, her arms would be better.

When we woke up on Sunday, October 11th, things were not better. It wasn't just that her front legs still weren't strong enough to hold her up, it was something more than that. It's hard to explain, I just felt it in my bones and every time I looked at her, I teared up. I knew Lucky was getting ready to make her transition. She wasn't telling me in traditional ways . . . she still voraciously ate her breakfast and drank water but something told me the end was still coming. I cancelled all my appointments that day and decided to camp out on the floor with her and spend our last day together as peacefully as possible.

Sunday came and went and on Monday morning, Lucky was still here. I was confused because I thought my intuition was pretty good but clearly I had been wrong about her passing on Sunday. I figured Monday would be the day, so once again, we spent most of the day camped out on the floor together. I was having more difficulty moving her when she wanted to change positions or carrying her when she wanted to go outside to go potty. My back ached so much but I knew I needed to keep pushing through the pain, because my sweet girl needed me to be strong for the both of us. She still wanted to eat and drink, and while she was still trying to bark at me when she needed something, it didn't sound the same. It was more like she was singing to me, maybe because she wasn't inhaling as deeply for a bark.

Since I believe so strongly that animals come into our lives for a purpose, the only explanation I could come up with for why she hadn't passed yet was that she didn't feel her work here was done yet. I worried that maybe I was somehow holding her here, so I talked her again and again about how it was alright for her to go, that I would miss her with all my heart but that she had my permission and my blessing to get out of this body. I talked to her about all she had to look forward to once she was out of this body, that she would be able to run free, chase tennis balls, etc. I thanked her body for how hard it has worked to support her all these years, especially the last year.

I laid there on the floor with her, either in front of her so that we were face to face, feeling each exhale of her breath against my forehead, or behind her so she could feel loved by my embrace. At one point, on Monday afternoon, I felt a swell of love in Lucky's heart and I just knew she was seeing her mother. I don't see spirits, but from what I was picking up from Lucky, I had no doubt that her first mom was there to let her know it was safe to cross over.

It took me aback for a minute as I was overcome with emotion. It had been a long time since I thought about the fact that Lucky had a "mom" before I came into her life. I remember in our early years together, I consulted an animal communicator to try to get some help for Lucky. She told me that Lucky carried a deep sadness in her heart over her mother . . . that she still felt a great pain over being separated from her at such a young age and that she missed her terribly. It was one of the things that compelled me to help Lucky heal on an emotional level. I didn't want her to hold that sadness her whole life.

As tears streamed down my face, I asked Lucky to please thank her first mom for me, for allowing me to have the privilege and honor of filling in as "mom" all these years, that I hoped she was pleased with the job that I did and with love and gratitude, I was releasing Lucky back into her care. I cried and cried but it was with love and gratitude for the opportunity I had had to take care of her girl all these years.

When it was time to go to bed that night, I camped out on the floor with her again. I put a hand on her, so that I would be able to tell if she stopped breathing. I figured that after all our emotional talks, she would be ready to go, plus I could see the change in her eyes and how the skin on her face had become more taut. It was evident to me that she was beginning her transition. I tried to be as brave as I could, but the mixture of emotions I was experiencing was overwhelming. I didn't sleep very much, between the crying and having to get up for more kleenex but I was happy to be there, laying next to my best friend and hoped that she would go peacefully in her sleep.

Early the next morning, (Tuesday),I woke up to Lucky "singing" to me. I looked at her face and all the "signs" I had seen the night before were gone. Her eyes were bright again, the skin on her face was no longer taut. I had a mixture of emotions . . . I was happy she was still here, confused as to why she hadn't passed and exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster I was on, preparing for her departure, then switching gears to be in caretaker mode again, then once again preparing for her departure, then realizing she wasn't leaving yet and I still had a job to do to take care of her.

I tried to lift her up and I just couldn't do it, my back hurt so much. I went into the kitchen to make my coffee and her breakfast. I figured I'd just serve her breakfast in bed, but Lucky didn't seem to like that idea. She kept "singing" and it was clear she didn't want to be left alone in the bedroom. I decided my only option was to drag her bed, with her on it, into the dining room. I pulled the bed slowly, so she didn't fall off and we made it out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and into the dining area where Lucky always ate. She seemed pleased to be there and ate her whole breakfast, took her medicine, drank a bunch of water. Seeing her so content helped me tap into some reserve that must have still existed in my body and I was able to pick her up and carry her into the yard to go potty. Afterwards, I put her in her favorite spot in the hall and we spent most of the day there together.

As we laid there together, I wracked my brain trying to figure out why she hadn't made her transition. I couldn't figure out what she possibly had left to teach me, unless she wanted me to learn what it felt like to hit the wall. I started to worry that I was doing the wrong thing by allowing her to pass on her own. What if she needed help out of her body? What if by still being here, she was telling me she needed medical assistance to make her transition? I was so torn up inside, wondering and worrying.

It was a long day. I tried to make it as enjoyable for us as possible, playing music, talking to her, reminding her of all she had done for me and all I had learned from her. I fed her, gave her water, and helped her change positions whenever she wanted. I couldn't stop wondering what else I was supposed to learn, as on some level, I was sure that was why she hadn't passed yet.

Our evening was peaceful, she slept a lot and I enjoyed just feeling her breath on my forehead each time she exhaled. Around 11pm, I decided we should "get ready for bed" but I didn't have the strength to get her all the way into my bedroom, so I got some blankets and made a bed for myself next to her in the hall. I hadn't been able to fall asleep, because as I laid there listening to her breath, there were moments where her breathing would become more labored, then it would calm down again and be very gentle. I couldn't fall asleep because I was so focused on her breathing. Then around 1:45am, Lucky started "singing" to me. I got up and got her some water and she drank a lot. A little while later, she started singing again, so I figured maybe she was hungry. I got out a can of wet dog food and feed her spoonfuls, which she happily gobbled up. A little while later, she started to sing again and for the next few hours, it was a guessing game of what she might need. I flipped her over, thinking she wanted to lay on her other side but that just increased the "singing" even more and it was bordering on "yelling" . . . I flipped her back over, repositioned her, took her outside to go potty, repositioned her again, gave her more water, repositioned her again. By this time it was 5am. I still hadn't slept and I couldn't seem to make her happy.

It was at that point that I had a major melt down. I told her I didn't know WHAT she needed and sobbed as I told her how sorry I was. I felt like such a failure. I am an animal communicator and I couldn't figure out what my girl was asking for. I started to worry she was asking me to get a vet to help her out of her body. I couldn't tell what was fear and what was intuition. I didn't know what to do. I just sat on the floor and sobbed. I wanted it to be over, I didn't think I could do this anymore and at the same time, the idea of living without her was so overwhelming, I even prayed for a little while that I would go at the same time so I didn't have to live without her. My thought were becoming irrational and it felt like things were spinning out of control.

I finally fell asleep for a few hours and so did Lucky but the "singing" resumed by 8:30am. I got up, made my coffee and got the can of wet dog food. I sat on the floor, feeding her spoonfuls of dog food, with my head still swirling around. Just then the phone rang. It was one of my best friends calling to check on us. I said, "I need you to come over here, I feel like I am losing it and I need some help processing the jumbled mess in my brain." He said "I'll be right over" and as I hung up the phone, I kept hearing my voice say "I need you to come over here." It struck me that those were words that rarely passed my lips . . . "I need . . . " I hadn't thought about my own needs in so long, it felt foreign to think about myself. Maybe it was because I finally identified a need . . . I needed someone to help me get out of my head so I could get back in my heart and figure out what to do for Lucky. It is hard to explain but I felt something shift in the moment I asked him to come over. It was as if the energy around me was more opened, I could breath more deeply.

When he got there, he listened as I talked and cried and shared all the convoluted thoughts that had been swirling around in my brain. He asked me questions to help me try to get some clarity and then he just listened some more. Eventually, I could feel myself finding center again. I still didn't know what I was going to do but I felt more equipped to figure it out. Before he left, he helped me carry Lucky outside to go potty one more time, and helped me get her comfortably repositioned in the hall. As he was hugging me goodbye and telling me he would check on me again in a few hours, there was a knock at the door.

Much to my delight I opened the door to find another friend of mine, standing there with a bunch of gardenias from her yard that I love so much, and a bag of food. As one friend left, the other one stepped in and for the first time in days, I didn't feel alone. When I looked at the food she brought, my mouth started to salivate. I realized I hadn't eaten in at least a day. I devoured a sandwich she brought while I filled her in on everything that had happened the last 24 hours and how confused I was. She sat on the floor with me, petting Lucky and helping me continue to sort through the mixture of emotions I was experiencing. At one point, she said, "If Lucky wants help crossing over, you'll know it in your heart." Then she asked "If you imagine yourself calling a vet to come over and help her, how does that make you feel?" and I said "Sick to my stomach." She suggested maybe it was a sign that my intuition WAS right, that Lucky DID want to make this transition on her own, without medical intervention.

She stayed for several hours, helping me process my thoughts and feelings and we had some deep discussions about death and birth and how they are a natural part of life. She helped me become less fearful of the process of death, and see it for the natural step in a journey that it is. By the time she left, I was feeling so peaceful again and so was Lucky. I felt like I could finally "hear" my intuition again and it was telling me that we were on the right path, that Lucky wanted to make this transition without intervention. For the first time in at least 24 hour hours, my brain was still. I knew Lucky and I were going to get through this and that I just needed to be present for her and continue to show her that I loved her and that I was there.

While I was laying on the floor with her, the phone rang again and I heard another friend of mine leaving a message on the machine. She asked me to let her know if there was anything we needed, that she'd be happy to go to the store to pick something up for us. I felt so loved and so supported. Today was a very different day than the previous three days, with a steady stream of friends offering to help and I couldn't help thinking that something really HAD shifted when I told my friend that morning that I needed him to come over.

A few hours later, Lucky let me know she was hungry again, so I got the wet dog food for her. Spoonful after spoonful she ate and ate, until we were at the bottom of the can. I panicked for a minute, not knowing if I had anymore wet dog food. I ran to the pantry and looked and sure enough, there were no other cans of dog food in there. I was trying to figure out what I was going to do, worrying that Lucky would want to eat again and that I wouldn't have something for her, when I remembered the message on my machine. I called that friend and asked her if she could get some dog food for Lucky. She said, "Just tell me what Lucky's most favorite dog food is and I'll go get it right now." A feeling of relief washed over me. Then she offered to stay for a while, incase I needed to do anything, like shower or rest. I realized I hadn't showered in days and said I would love to do that while she kept Lucky company.

When she arrived with the dog food, Lucky happily ate several more bites and I was so glad I had called and asked for help. She stayed for several hours, laying on the floor with us, petting Lucky, and listening as I told her about what had been happening. Lucky and I both felt even more peaceful in her presence. I finally got a shower and then sat down with her again to enjoy the love and support we were receiving. When she was getting ready to leave she said, "Lucky, I am going to have to go now. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?" and I heard and felt Lucky's response with such clarity, I couldn't believe I had doubted myself as an animal communicator. My friend looked at me and said, "I know it had something to do with you but I am not sure what" and I told her that Lucky said, "Just take care of my mom for me." We both cried. I have been so focused on caring for her and focused on my love for her, that I forget sometimes that she loves me as much as I love her.

That night was the most peaceful night Lucky and I ever had. I had a hand on her all night as we slept and I actually slept for chunks of time long enough for me to dream. I was at peace with where we were and I know she was too. I was just going to be there with her until she was ready to go and I was no longer feeling anxious about if or when it was going to happen. I was just going to be there for as long as she needed me to be and savor the peacefulness that we both felt.

On Thursday morning, I got up and made coffee. I brought water over to Lucky and she lapped and lapped at the water, but I noticed there didn't seem to be less water in the bowl. I offered her some wet dog food and she had a tablespoon and then didn't want anymore. I offered her more water and again she was eager to drink but she didn't seem to be getting any. I found a dropper and started putting water in her mouth that way. She seemed pleased with that.

I spent most of the morning and afternoon on the floor with her although I would get up from time to time to check email, or put some laundry in but I would always find myself gravitating back to my make-shift bed on the floor in the hallway, putting dropper fulls of water in her mouth, giving her rescue remedy and rubbing essential oils on the pads of her feet.

The only lingering stress in the back of my head was the fact that the subdudes were in town that night and the next. I had never missed a show when they were in California and I was a bit conflicted about my desire to be with Lucky and my desire to see my favorite band. I asked the friend who delivered the dog food if she or her husband would be willing to stay with Lucky if I decided to go to the show . . . the way things had been going with Lucky hanging on and hanging on, I knew there was a chance she could last until Sunday, so maybe it would be ok to go out on Thursday night, I thought. They of course said they would be more than happy to stay with her if I decided to go. I didn't know what I wanted to do, I just kept finding myself back on the floor with Lucky, resting my head on her shoulder, reminding her of how much she meant to me and how deeply I loved her.

A little after 4pm, the friend of mine who I had first ask for help from the day before came by to check on us and see if I needed anything. He brought me something to eat and was willing to just listen to me, which again was such a gift. I kept thinking about how nice it had been to feel so much love and support the last couple of days, to have people around who were honoring this journey with Lucky and I and letting us both know we weren't alone. I wondered if that was Lucky's final lesson for me . . . that if I was willing to focus on what I needed and say it out loud, it would shift the energy so that more love and support could come my way, that more people would come forward and be present in the way I needed them to be. I am determined to not lose the lesson if that's why she lingered here so many days . . . . patiently waiting for me to finally get it.

One thing for sure was that I was so grateful for the peacefulness that seemed to surround Lucky and I. Around 4:30 that afternoon, I finally got clear on what I was going to do . . . I was staying by Lucky's side that night and I was going to skip the subdudes show. There wasn't an ounce of regret in that decision. It just felt right. With her was where I wanted to be and I told her what I had decided.

My friend stayed for a while and visited. I was sitting on the couch with him but I kept finding myself getting up to check on Lucky and ensure she was still breathing. When he needed to make a phone call, I went to lay down next to Lucky again. I saw her arm twitch and realized she was taking her last breath. She was so peaceful. I put my hand on her heart and I could feel a couple more faint heart beats and then she was gone. No gasping for breath, no whimpering, she just drifted away as peacefully as she had been all day.

For as emotional as I had been all week, and for as fearful as I was about how I would handle this part, I didn't fall apart like I thought I would. I thought there was a chance my grief would swallow me up but instead I just felt peace. I said "I love you, I love you, I love you, baby girl" as I kissed her nose, her forehead and the crown of her head. We had been given five days to say everything we needed to say, there was nothing more that needed to be said. She was the love of my life and she knew it. I felt relief that she was free of her body, I felt blessed to have shared the journey with her and grateful that we had experienced so much peace the last two days. I knew in the coming days and weeks, my heart was going to hurt like hell, but at that moment, it was alright. I laid on the floor with her for a little while, while my friend helped me think through my next steps and determine if there was anything I needed before he left.

As he was about the leave, there was a knock on the door. It was the same friend that showed up the last time he was leaving and once again, they passed the baton of support. She had brought over some essential oils to help ease Lucky through this part of the process but I had to tell her it was too late. She asked if it would be alright if she sat with Lucky for a while and I welcomed it. For several hours she sat with us, petting Lucky and listening to me, as I recounted all that we had experienced since she had been there last. Her love and respect for Lucky and I and what we had been through gave me so much comfort.

For most of my journey with Lucky, I have felt like we were in it alone . . . that it was up to us to keep powering through . . . especially in the last year, that feeling was even more intense . . and I found it so beautiful that in her final days, at the end of our journey, when I needed the support the most, we were finally not alone at all.

The next day, another friend came over to help me transport Lucky to Monterey Bay Loved Pet, where she is to be cremated. His compassion and support was amazing. After helping me through the emotional task of putting Lucky in the car, he drove us to Salinas. We took my car, so that I could sit in the back seat with Lucky and just enjoy my last bit of time with her. Even though I knew she wasn't in there anymore, I realized how much I loved her body, and wanted to have the time to thank it and honor it one last time.

After we got back from Salinas and my friend ensured that I was ok being back home without her, he got ready to leave . . . but not before extending an invitation to join he and his wife and daughter for a home cooked meal at their home that night. I told him I wasn't sure what I wanted to do but that I would let him know. I was feeling a little numb and wanted to just keep moving, so I started picking up all the towels and blankets that have covered my floors for months and months. I got the first load of laundry going and was just kind of wandering around the house trying to decide if there was anything else I needed to do.

Just then the phone rang and it was yet another friend . . . the one who happened to introduce me to the subdudes music 19 years ago. He called to express his condolences and then asked me if I wanted to go with him to see the subdudes. I knew immediately that that was what I needed to do. I knew Lucky would want me to go. I jumped in the shower and 1/2 hour later, he came by to pick me up.

When we got there, it was clear that everyone knew why I had been mysteriously absent from a subdudes show at Moe's Alley the night before. All the local subdudes fans who I have become friends with over the years offered their condolences and let me know they understood how big of a loss this was for me. It was a little emotional, but when the band started playing, I was once again sure I was exactly where I was supposed to be. With each song, I felt lighter, freer and more grounded all at the same time. I sang, I danced, and my heart felt full. And at the end of the show, each band member took the time to hug me and let me know how sorry they were that Lucky had to go. Once again, I felt loved and supported and I kept thinking about the beautiful role Lucky had played in my life up until her very last day.

For as much as my heart aches, I know that I am the one who was truly lucky.