Deb,

A big part of life is learning to accept the impermanence of this
world. We all intellectually know that nothing lasts forever, yet in
our own private hearts we do our best to forget this cold, hard fact.
Scooter meant very much to you, and was a big part of your life... so
much so that he felt to you like your whole world. When I read your
initial post about Scooter's passing, something stirred in me and I
remembered feeling that same kind of helplessness. I also know how hard
it is to accept losing the only thing you feel you have left to love.

Scooter was a sick boy, and whether you or he were ready or not, it was
his time. We ache so badly when we're losing one of our fuzzies that
we become frantic for miracles, and those miracles - if they come at
all - usually come from a skilled veterinarian. I have asked for many
miracles myself, but The Boss hands them out on his own accord and in
his own time. I can only ask, and then do the best I can earthly do.
That's all any of us can do.

And you did your best, Deb. You got Scooter to the vet (way too many
fuzzies die out of ignorance and lack of funds), and you were willing
to have the vet do whatever he or she needed to do to save his life.
You did everything you knew how to do, and it just didn't work. That
is not yours or anyone else's fault. It just is.

You are frustrated and angry in your last couple of posts. But this
post is not a castigation, not in any way. I am not a stranger to
anger and frustration, and knowing how destructive and misguided
those emotions can often be, my heart sincerely goes out to you, Deb.

About 10 or so years ago Sammy died during surgery for adrenal disease.
He bled out, and the vet (whom I trusted the most in the whole world)
could do nothing to save him. A slight five years later that same vet,
whom I still had trust and faith, did adrenal surgery on Jasper and
lost him. The blood vessels of the tumor, which was the size of a small
lime, were too intertwined with the kidney and could not be removed.
As my vet was closing Jasper up, he went into shock and just stopped
breathing. It was not my vet's fault. He did his best -- of this I am
sure. I still have faith in his ability, and if any of my guys needed
a miracle, his hands would be the hands I would trust.

Jackson currently has adrenal disease. He's actually had it quite some
time, over a year or so. My vet decided not to do surgery, and while he
gives Jackson Lupron injections to ease his suffering and prolong his
life, it will not save him. I was surprised at his decision at first,
as he always liked to take the aggressive approach, and found myself
wondering if my trusted vet was really making the right decision. Was
my "miracle worker" suddenly losing faith in his own ability? I started
entertaining those ugly thoughts in the back of my mind. Should I have
insisted he do surgery and give Jackson the only chance he would ever
have to beat this merciless disease? And if he attempted surgery and
Jackson died, would I blame my vet (and ultimately myself) for robbing
my little clown of what precious time he had left?

Who makes these "God" decisions? In the end, it's not me or my vet -
that's for sure. It's just who you'd expect it to be ;) and always
under his own accord and in his own time. And even though I know all
of this intellectually, my emotions still tend to be ruled by the
frustration I feel. This frustration often grows until it turns into
some form of anger, and often this anger is pointed at the very people
trying to help me. Of this, I am not proud. But knowing this about
myself is useful information, and allows me to catch myself and avoid
lashing out at others in desperation, even if one of those "others"
happens to be myself.

It is as natural as it is illogical to feel this way. These feelings
we have, however unpleasant they are, always seem to be the necessary
catharsis we need to go through before we can let go of those we love.
Somehow in our sorrow, there always seems to be a point where we lash
out at someone or something. I have no idea why it happens this way.
And no matter whom we blame, we always seem to end up blaming ourselves
for making the wrong "God" decisions, even though they were never
really our decisions to make in the first place.

I hope you understand what I'm trying to say. My heart goes out to you
and Scooter. I hope you can eventually find peace, Deb, and that your
memories of Scooter will eventually consist only of that which you
loved about him - free of anger, frustration, and other thieves.

Roary
35.199551 N ~ 106.644249 W

[Posted in FML 6080]