Raider
My husband refused to join me, so I went with my close friend Bonnie. Her heart suffered enough for both of us. She canceled her Disneyland plans to give me moral support. Every red light stopped our journey, giving us chance after chance to rethink the terrible decision. Loud door chimes announced our entrance. I signed my name, messier than usual and plopped down on the gray vinyl seat, my back hunched over.
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The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol punctuated the eerie sound of muted whimpers that made their way through the thick cement walls painted in robin blue. Raider loved chasing birds. The lump in my throat felt dense. I swallowed, but it didn’t get smaller. The doctor walked in the room, looking downward, avoiding eye contact. Her well pressed lab coat crinkled as she moved. “Say your goodbyes. Let me know when you’re ready. The door swung shut with a resounding ring of finality.”
I considered my decision, diagnosis sepsis, a hole in his large intestine. The barium digestive study showed a minute stream of particles. The x-ray looked surreal, incomprehensible white opaque liquid patterns, Rorschach diagrams surrounded by images of his three-year-old hip and spine bones. Too young to die. He looked up at me with longing brown eyes. My crushed heart felt limp. We could pay the estimated surgery cost of $8,755 without a veteran family discount, but he will never be the same. The athlete would disappear, the trickster gone, no more Frisbee. A salty tear slowly dripped down my face.
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I looked at my friend and nodded. She grasped my hand, fighting back the tears herself. The doctor returned. This time she looked at me with a reassuring smile. "I believe you are making the right decision.” I stroked Raiders head, the soft place between his ears and he relaxed. My best friend trusted me to do the right thing. The doctor injected the clear vial, the syringe looked warm and cold at the same time. So much power in just a few cc’s. I watched the spirit leave his open eyes, rescued from his pain. I unclipped his green leash and slowly walked away. None of us felt Merry that Christmas.