Stahlke Adoption

My Teacher

"Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand;
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.
Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light.
Take my hand, precious Lord; lead me home."

Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 739, st. 1
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Friday, October 19, 2007 (4:00 am)

A small thin dog stands vomiting at the base of our giant oak tree. Wind whips through the branches, and the angry sky spits a light rain. Dakota stands nearby, gazing at her, his tail quivering. I stand with the porch door open, just five feet away. A moment later, I carry Alabama back up the steps into the house.
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She had gotten weaker and thinner over the last year. First she chewed on her back feet, which were probably tingling. Eventually, she lost feeling in them, which we discovered when I accidently cut the quick on two nails and she didn't even notice. She, who had been starving as a puppy, ate slower and slower, and eventually only picked at the dry food she had always eaten heartily. In her last month, she began to lose muscle mass, and on October 15, the vet told us she had lost ten percent of her weight in just two weeks. He diagnosed her with diabetes, and we scheduled an appointment for Saturday, October 20, to discuss the possibility of insulin shots. In the meantime, he told us she needed lots of water to flush the extra sugar out of her body.

But despite it all, she didn't seem to be in pain, as long as we gave her arthritis medication that allowed her to move more freely. On Thursday, October 18, she ate well at both noon and 6:00 pm, since we had now switched to mostly canned dog food, which she loved. But at 11:00 pm, the vomiting started, and continued most of the night. We got her into the vet's office by 8:15 am on Friday morning, and she was so dehydrated that he hospitalized her to give her fluids by IV.

I took Dakota with me everywhere that Friday, both for me and for him. I had my own doctor's appointment across town that day, and my blood pressure, although still normal, was the highest it's ever been. Before heading home, I walked Dakota for several blocks, which felt like an incomplete version of old times. We had to stop our walk early when the rain started again and the wind blew quite strongly.

When I telephoned the vet at 1:00 pm, he told me Alabama wasn't doing much better despite the IV fluids. I asked him if he could give her enough insulin so that we could bring her home for the weekend to say goodbye. I knew that she was old and that her life, like everyone's, must someday end, but I didn't want to let go just yet. The vet told me that he thought that her liver was also failing, and I knew that the arthritis medication had probably made her weak liver even worse. She was too sick to come home, and we were to telephone the next morning at 10:00 am for an update.

Arriving home, I had 45 minutes before the afterschool whirlwind would start. Something told me that I should go see Alabama, but I couldn't find my car keys. I was apprehensive that they were locked in the car, and I knew that if they were, my window of time to see her would be gone. Suddenly, I found my keys and was able to drive quickly to the vet's office.

They walked her slowly to an empty examining room, with IV in tow. Shutting the door, we had fifteen minutes together. She paced the floor the whole time, not able to relax. I wanted so much to help her feel better. (She hated hospitals. As a puppy, she had been in one for three days, and upon coming home had buried her head in Jonathan's lap for minutes and minutes, and then remained mute for days.) I knew that her life was coming to an end soon, and I took the opportunity to say goodbye to her. But she was not herself, and could not be comforted.

When it was time to go, the technician gently tried to walk her away, but she resisted. Alabama looked up at me, and for a moment her eyes cleared and she looked young again. But her eyes were pleading, "Don't leave me here. Take me home with you!" I knew that I could not take her home--she was too sick--and that my presence made it too hard for her to follow where she needed to go. As much as I wanted to continue watching her, I left first, knowing that my departure was what she needed to stop her struggle.
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Saturday, October 20 (4:00 am)

I awaken in the night, torn between two questions. How, Lord, could I ever give permission for my Alabama to be euthanized? Yet, how could she go on living in such obvious pain and discomfort? I had prayed all day Friday, "Lord, please do not make me have to decide to kill her!" Now, I tossed and turned, thinking of her all alone in the hospital. "Lord, I've taken care of her for over 13 years. I am not able to do it anymore--it's beyond my ability. Lord, you must take care of her now." Suddenly, I felt at peace. I had given her over to him. Now I could sleep again.
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Saturday, October 21 (7:30 am)

The new day was bright and clear. The storm was past.

The phone rang. It was our vet calling--Alabama had died sometime during the night.
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"Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm,
Whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm:
Be there at our sleeping, and give us, we pray,
Your peace in our hearts, Lord, at the end of the day."

Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 738, st. 4

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We all handled our grief in different ways. The younger children wanted to say goodbye, and on Saturday afternoon Jonathan took three of the children and Dakota to see her body. In the next few days, some of the children drew picture books of her. (Since they have no photos from their years in Ukraine, they are in the habit of drawing things they want to remember.) One of Misha's picture books is titled "The Jomping Alobama" and contains drawings of her with arrows showing motion. I asked him what it meant. From the mouth of babes: He had seen us lift her into the car or onto our bed in the last weeks, since she was so weak. Now, in heaven, she could jump again!

I saw my counselor last week, and she helped me understand why I am grieving so much. Alabama's death raises pain for me from the distant past. As a third-grader, I experienced death for the first time when I lost my beloved grandfather and was unable to say goodbye to him. The loss affected me deeply for years, and still comes back at times. In addition, Jonathan and I had found Alabama in the midst of our infertility journey. For eleven years, I mothered her instead of the biological children I could not conceive and the adopted children that I waited so long to bring home.
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Thank you, Alabama, for teaching me about both life and death.

posted by Stahlkes @ 12:04 PM