We lost Bailey a week ago this Monday.  In a way, it feels like a long,
long time, and then some instances, it feels like it was a few hours ago.
 
The first day was the hardest.  I had to call and email people that I am
close to, and I never could get through the message or the conversation
without crying.  Both sets of my parents understood our loss, and did their
best to assure us we had done the right thing.  Phil's parents are less
understanding about pets, they wanted us to put Bailey to sleep rather than
pay for her Adrenal Surgery two years ago.  Mercifully, when they called
that night, they said how sorry they were, and that we had done the best
thing for her.
 
Phil broke my heart that day.  He was always the strong one with Bailey.
He would patiently pin her to the floor to make her take her medicine.  He
would wrestle her tot he ground to feed her.  He came with me to every vet
run.  He called to get information and searched the internet for it.  He
was home on Monday, having taken the day off.  When I came in to tell him
I thought Bailey was dying, and we had to go, he rushed to get us there.
 
I have always been the hysterical one, the one terrified of losing them,
the one angry and frustrated when the medicines don't work immediately.
But in the office, we switched places.  I became calm, even though I could
not stop crying.  When Dr. Putkonen listened to her lungs and said the
pneumonia was back, and three times worse, he asked us for permission to
put her to rest.  Phil snatched her back from him and looked at me, his
face in panic.  He kept asking if we had to do this, if it was time, wasn't
there something else we could do?  As the doctor went to get the injection,
Phil left the room with her, saying he wanted to give her water, she was
probably thirsty and would feel better after drinking.  He took Bailey when
she had passed and cuddled her to him for a minute, and then gave her to
me.  He held me while I cried and cried.  He got up, paid for the bill,
made arrangements to pick her up in a week and came in to bring me home.
 
The whole day, I just cried and fell apart.  He made me lunch, he made me
go to the store to get some things.  He hugged me and let me cry, saying we
had done a good thing in stopping her pain.  We got a bottle of champagne
and spent the night toasting Bailey and everything cute she had ever done.
I was surprised at his strength and wished I could get a grip.  Then his
mom called, and he went outside to smoke while he talked to her.  I
couldn't hear what was said, or understand it because they talk in German,
but I heard his voice crack, saw him slump over and heard him begin to cry.
I waited until he came back in, and when he did, he just lay on my lap and
cried.  It broke my heart.
 
Bailey's dad is a wonderful dad.  He never is in too much of a hurry that
he can't play Make The Bed with them, or Kill The Sock, or Bite Your Butt.
Our babies *love* him.  The boys hop, leap and get bushy when they see him,
because they know he'll play with them until they can't see straight.  Our
girls know he will pick them up, cuddle them and worship them.  I've often
told him that he loves his fuzzy babies more than I've seen some people
love their human ones.  He blushes when I tell him what a good dad he is,
and what a good father he will be some day.  But for now, he is grieving,
and he misses the gentle, sweet little girl that wore our hearts on a
string.
 
Thank you to everyone who has written us.  I have printed out about 35
emails and cards.  Some make him smile, some make him cry.  But they all
make him feel better.  It gets a little less agonizing as the days go by.
I still feel something in my mind for her, like I need to go pick her up
or look for her or feed her.  I suppose that will heal with time, but we
will never ever get over that sweet little girl entirely.
 
Julie - [log in to unmask]
Phil - [log in to unmask]
[Posted in FML issue 2880]