Farewell, Lily

It was over a month ago that we said goodbye to Lily.  I didn't want to write this post, especially since I had not written in forever, and I didn't want to post something as grief-filled as this particular goodbye.  Beth put a picture of Lily at the door of Hands On Physical Therapy with the caption that Lily had gone to the the light, and I thought it particularly apt.  Lily was always a part of the light and she shared it every single day of her life, even the really bad days.  The cancer returned in a dozen small tumors, one of which--on the old incision site--grew, ruptured and had to be bandaged, which necessitated wearing new fashionable clothing.

  But this is not just about how she died, but also how she lived, and she did both with a grace and generosity of spirit that leaves me almost speechless.  Her brother Mischief began watching over her, and we all rejoiced in the days that she seemed to have a good amount of her old energy.  She was slowing generally, wanting to walk less and rest more, but still wanted to come to work, still needed to greet everyone and still didn't want to let Beth out of her sight.

Things changed abruptly and it was clear, all during that restless last night, that the time had come when she needed to leave.  In the morning, when Beth asked if she wanted to go to work, she still jumped up, eager to do her job, and then lay back down, remembering her weariness.  She wagged her tail when Carolyn, her favorite vet, came in the room, and she left this life held in the arms of the person she loved the best.

I am absolutely sure that she is dancing on four legs, cavorting with her first human mom and waiting, doggy smile in place, for the moment she gets to greet her last one.

The Flight Attendant's Story

Carolyn and I traveled to Arizona this month.  We took the pups with us and, as always, they charmed everyone they met, including the flight attendants on every airplane.  Because they work as service animals for me, they can ride together and they can ride on our laps instead of under the seats.  I do a lot of explaining about how it is that Zuza can know that my blood sugar is falling too fast and what Lukas would do if I lost consciousness. 

On our last flight coming home, one attendant was particularly interested.  Zuza was being her perfect traveller self and sleeping soundly, while Lukas was being himself, fidgeting and flirting with anyone who spoke to him.  So, when the flight attendant offered me water, it was Lukas who accepted it with his neck stretched out just as far as it could possibly be stretched.  She melted, and said how very much she loved animals.

When we were deplaning--and we were the last ones to do so--she came and told us this story.  She has a cat that she loves immensely, and last year was very confused by his behavior.  She was lying on her left side, on the bed, with her head propped up on her hand and inviting the cat to hop up next to her for a snuggle.  He hopped up, but would not come close, only hissed at her and growled and stared in the direction of her left breast.  She could feel something under under her and thought that it was one of those little furry mouse toys that every cat in the world (and my dog, Zuza) loves.  Maybe that was what he wanted--although it was an odd reaction from his usual loving self.  So she reached under her, and instead of a toy, she found a lump. A big lump.  And yes, it was malignant.  And until the day that she had it removed, her cat would not let her hold him up to her chest.  As soon as the cancer was gone, he reverted to his snuggling self.  He knew that the cancer was there, and that it was wrong.  She said, "He saved my life."

They are so much wiser than we can know.