My Bingo, a large, 75-lb dog, had strength, bravery, and fortitude. When the SPCA women were wheeling her down the last mile, she made a final attempt to lift her body from the strap that held her down to the gurney. She could no longer walk, and her senses - vision, hearing, sense of smell - total awareness of her surroundings - all had faded. She was 14. I admired that dog, as did many others who knew her. I never said goodbye to Bingo. That image in my mind - and the strength, the fortitude it took for her to lift her body from the gurney - won't stop haunting me. I keep thinking that if I'd hugged her and kissed her goodbye, the image would no longer persist. Was she too far away to reach?
My daughter, Susie had bone cancer. She was sick her entire life, from one illness or another. Painful hip dysplasia, arthritis in her paws, tumors (benign!) on her spleen and its removal, an infected paw, fatty cysts, and so much more I can't recall every affliction. The vets performed unnecessary surgeries as well as procedures that did need to be done. I never regretted the thousands of dollars spent on her care. I'd bought Calcium pills from the vet catalog and took Susie for long walks every night to keep her leg strong. At first the bony tumor was held in check; but after many weeks had passed, it began to grow, and grew faster, and then continually faster. I wanted to give her two weeks - just two more weeks for her and me to be together. The vet said, "You have to take the pain now, instead of her." He asked me if I wanted to watch her drift off to sleep. That was something I wouldn't agree to or tolerate in a lifetime, and I was furious with the vet for taking the death of my dog so lightly. Before I left that office, knowing I was seeing my daughter for the final time, while tears poured down my face like unstoppable rain, Susie leaned all her weight against my body to prevent me from leaving. I cried so hard my eyes burned. She and I had undergone unspeakable experiences in the vets' den of pain and indignity, and I would always be sorry and regretful. I had forced her to succumb to torture - the beautiful animal that I loved, I believed, so selflessly. I was sick, depressed, tearful, month after month. I later learned that the vet had made a donation in Susan's name. I had little doubt that this token was little more than my daughter's ravaged, cancerous body.
Thank you, Budd. We need to express more sadness in the world, on an individual level. Then maybe there will be more compassion. I hope I haven't affected anybody all that much, but that's what I try to do in my writing, and it's also part of how I view the world. I look at the dark side. Thank you so much for your comments and reviews. Rose
Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
Jamie was a healthy, active 12-year old who loved to skate and played hockey as well as any boy. Then one afternoon during a game, she suffered a stroke that changed her world. Her memoir takes the reader through her ordeal and her journey out of the
