Tuesday morning, July 9, I woke up on the bathroom floor, snuggled in a pile of blankets next to Murf. She had had a peaceful night, and she was actually looks pretty good, all things considered. The plan was to bring her in to the vet for observation while we were at work, then bring her back home to sleep that night. We’d continue this as long as we could. Later that morning, I cherished our car ride back to the vet together. I just never wanted that car ride to end. She was perking up, laying in my lap like she always did on the 25 minute drive, alternating between being all curled up with her head on my arm looking out the window, or against my stomach, snuggled up close.
When I dropped her off at the vet, I spoke with Dr Crawford about our plan for the day. She was shocked to see how Murf was perking up. She wasn’t sure that Murf would make it through the night, but a night at home with her family was just what she needed. Coming home after three nights in the hospital, seemed to relax her and give her strength. The plan was to monitor her throughout the day, consult with the oncologist again, and just pray as hard as possible.
I spoke with Dr Crawford throughout the day. Every time we spoke, I was seeking a different answer to the same questions. Ultimately, I just wanted to cure Murphy. Bring her back, like we had done so many times before. Dr Cawford sounded less hopeful for long-term solutions and more focused on keeping Murphy comfortable, hours at a time. A blood transfusion could buy her a few days. A surgery could buy her time or it could kill her. Radiation and chemo were options, albeit terrible ones – there just wasn’t enough time for them to work. It would only bring her more suffering without the reward of a cure, or at the very least, relief. I don’t remember much of the day. I tried to stay busy at work, get my job done as best I can. My boss was incredibly understanding. She didn’t understand my love for Murf, but she understood that I was in pain. I spent quite awhile crying in my car, either on the phone with Dr Crawford or with Mike. I just kept asking God for a different answer than what He was telling me. I repeated, I don’t know how many times, that I want to do what’s right for Murf. But it’s so hard to know what’s right when every decision has a such an impact. How do we know when we’ve done enough? I kept repeating that we would listen to Murf; she would tell us when she was tired of fighting. I believe God spoke to me through Murf. I could read her. I could tell if she wanted to keep going.
When I picked her up Tuesday evening, Dr. Crawford shortened the catheter tubing that hung off of Murf’s backside to keep her more comfortable and not worried about this tube between her legs. We discussed our options. We were still not at the critical point of a blood transfusion, but by the morning, we would be. She was growing weaker, eating and drinking less. He once-pink skin was turning more pale by the hour, a sign of anemia. A blood transfusion would take several hours, cost only about $400, and would give her some strength back. However, Dr Crawford merely called it a band-aid. She said to think of it like life support. It would only prolong the inevitable. It would only prolong Murf’s suffering for maybe three more days, and we’d be right back where we were at that moment. It felt selfish to give her three more days, in which she’d likely be weak and suffering, only so I could have more time. It wasn’t quality time. It wasn’t dignified to drag this out. But oh God, it hurt so bad to consider the alternative.
I brought her home that night for some more snuggle time. Within two hours, I saw the change in her. Her light was fading. She was so tired. I had never seen her so tired before. I was afraid she would not make the night. We considered bringing her back in, but I knew Dr Crawford had left for the day. I didn’t trust anyone but her at this point. Only she, and maybe one other doctor, Dr Sarah, seemed to truly understand the way we cared for Murphy. They understood that we were careful and calculated with our decisions and did not rush into the next thing. They understood that she was not “like family.” Murphy is, was, always will be family. She’s our baby girl.
As the night wore on, we knew it would be our last with her. We let Malcolm kiss her, and we took turns just holding her, sitting in our favorite spots, doing the routine things we always did with her, just held her, and cried so much. After Malcolm was asleep, the four of us, Mike, Brit, Murf, and I, laid on the bathroom floor together. This was better than the bed, because even though she had a catheter, and could only urinate when I uncapped it, she still had the urge to urinate, which would make her jump out of the bed. I drained her catheter on a towel on the bathroom floor, and flushed it with the syringe they gave me. She was passing nothing but blood. I was so scared for her. She spent her last night on her fancy temperpedic-like foam cushion. Every time she changed positions, we could hear the struggle in her breath. Even when she was resting, her breathing was heavy. Mike eventually finished the night in the bed, but I couldn’t leave Murphy’s side. My heart just couldn’t believe that this was really it. Though my brain knew the truth, my heart just hurt so bad.
Wednesday morning, July 10, we woke up early. Mike brought Malcolm to daycare, after a final reluctant sibling photo shoot.
We took our time. We knew Murf was ready, so we each called in to work. I honestly can’t remember what we did that morning. We laid around together. Took some picture together. Loved each other, held each other, and cried.
We finally got in the car. We finally decided to cross that big bridge and take that long 25 minute drive to the vet’s office with Murphy. We knew what we were going to do, but God, it hurt so bad to admit it. We didn’t flush her catheter that morning – it seemed futile and it made her uncomfortable. I was afraid that by releasing the blood in her bladder, she’d grow weaker. I’m sure that doesn’t make any clinical sense. As we were driving down the road to the bridge, Murf’s breathing was growing heavier, and she tried to adjust her position. When she did, her bladder released some blood, totally bypassing the catheter. We pulled over to the side of the road, and placed her in the grass to uncap the catheter. Her legs were too weak to support her weight, so she just laid in the grass. It was such a beautiful moment. We were so caught up in our own sorrows, and trying to do what was best for Murf’s health, that we forgot about what made her truly happy. She always loved to lay in the grass and soak up the sunshine. The simplest thing made her so very happy; laying in the grass in the warm sunshine, water from the garden hose, chasing tennis balls, tearing up stuffed animals, playing fetch with sticks from trees in the yard, snuggling under the blanket with me on a rainy saturday afternoon… In that moment, for one single brief moment, I smiled. Seeing her stretched out and enjoying the feeling of the warm sun and the cushy grass was too much to bear. It was beautiful to see her without pain, even for just a moment.
We eventually got back in the car, made a quick stop by my work so I could take care of a couple of things, then Murf spent the rest of the ride in my lap. We walked into the vet clinic with a very solemn and heavy feeling, and I sat with Murphy in the back corner, keeping my sunglasses on. I couldn’t trust my emotions anymore. Mike let them know we were there to see Dr Crawford. She was expecting us, and even though it was her busiest day of the week, surgery day, she appeared within 20 minutes and called us back. I’ll never forget her voice and how compassionate she was – everyone was. I was still questioning our decision – should we try the blood transfusion. Tell me again why we can’t do surgery. Tell me again why we can’t help her regain strength and then try chemo again when she’s ready. Tell me again, tell me again. I asked, “So we are doing the right thing?” “You are,” she replied. She was so patient with us, never ever rushed us. This was the hardest day of my life. It was the hardest decision I ever had to make. The most tears I’ve ever cried. We told her we were ready, and that we understood it was time. Murphy told us she was done. Her body was losing muscle tone – even her head was shaped differently. Her nose was dry and scaly, her legs were weakened. When she sat the night before, her hind legs didn’t bend at the knee anymore. Now, on Wednesday morning, she couldn’t sit at all. She could only lay out. She refused to eat or drink. She truly looked tired, so so tired. But she loved us. I could feel it from her. She was on this earth to love us and to teach us how to love. And now, she was telling us that her job was done. She had fulfilled her mission from God to make the world a better place, and to make our family whole. She was with us through college, marriage, renting, buying, selling, and building a house. She was with us through the adoption process, and the heartbreak of two possibilities that we were not selected for. She was with us for the most joyous days of bringing home Britney from the shelter, after a hard fight with their administration to allow us to adopt her, and through the most joyous time of bringing Malcolm home. She was my constant companion during 8 weeks of maternity leave, and through the challenges of the first year with a newborn baby. She could always be found at the foot of Malcolm’s high-chair, waiting for him to drop food. She was an instrumental part of teaching Malcolm how to love and respect animals. She was patient with him, but she was firm. Britney was always the gentle one, letting him get away with anything. But Murf, she taught him how to properly treat an animal, a family member, with a gentle hand, and love and respect. She saw us through the biggest moments of our life and got us ready for what was to come, and now she was ready to go home. My life was most certainly better and more worthwhile because I was blessed to have her in it.
After a long conversation, where Dr. Crawford validated all of our feelings and concerns, we finally told her that we were ready. The tech, Nicole, took Murphy to the back to place her IV catheter in her front leg. Dr Crawford asked whether we wanted to be with Murphy when they injected her with the final drugs, and without hesitation, we said absolutely yes. She carefully explained what would happen and how it would be quick. She gave us all the time we wanted with her and let us say “when.” We hugged and kissed and squeezed her as tight as we could. I inhaled her smell, and stroked her fur. I placed my nose in the little divot above her little smushed nose, like I did every day, and kissed my lips on her little black mouth. She was laying on a towel from home so that she would have familiar scents and feel relaxed and comfortable.
We stood on opposite sides of the counter, so that we could each touch as much of Murf as possible, I on her front left side, and Mike on her right, towards the back. Dr Crawford stood on the front end of the exam counter. We kissed her and told her we loved her and thanked her for being in our lives. I can’t even remember the exact words, except that the first “last words” I said sounded so stupid, so I just kept talking untill something felt right. How can you adequately tell someone how much they mean to you and what a difference they have made in your life, and that you are better because you know them? How many kisses are enough kisses? How many “I love you”s are truly enough? The answer is that it’s never enough. It’s never, ever enough.
How do you know when it’s the right moment? I lived through it and I still can’t tell you. I’m eternally grateful to Dr. Crawford and the techs who let us take our time and decide when we were ready. Never put pressure on us to hurry.
Finally, when we had said all we could say, we agreed, it was time. We held Murphy so tightly and guided her to her final rest with love, dignity, respect, compassion. The first injection was a strong sedative. She was still breathing after it, just looked like she was sleeping. When we were ready, Dr Crawford began the second injection. It was a huge syringe full of pink liquid. She told us it would be quick. This one would stop her heart. The syringe was maybe a third empty when she took her last breath, but she administered the whole thing. And in the most peaceful and beautiful way possible, Murphy was gone. I truly believe her soul left her earthly body, and she is in heaven, doing all the things she loved so much.
We spent a few minutes alone with her, still touching her and petting and kissing her. We cried. We hugged. It was a surreal moment.
When we were ready, they took her body and placed it in a box, carried her out, and placed her in our car. The story of the Rainbow Bridge was attached to the top of the box.
The drive home was mostly quiet.
We eventually chose a spot to bury her in the yard. Mike carefully dug a grave for her while I quietly watched Britney run around the yard. Brit knew something was up. She kept sniffing the box that contained Murf. We buried her beneath my bathroom window. She used to lay next to me on the deck around the tub when I bathed, so it seemed appropriate. Plus, it was a place we would see often and think of her, talk to her. And it is a place we agreed that no matter what we do to the back yard in the future, we would never dig up this spot. She will never be disturbed. We each chose one of her favorite things to bury with her. I chose a tennis ball, and mike chose the nozzle from the garden hose that she had chewed up so much.
After Mike dug the perfect-sized hole, he carefully and gently placed Murphy in it. She still looked like she was sleeping, and the second hardest thing I ever did was watch as her body was covered with dirt. Mike placed the first four or five shovels-full around her body as I sobbed and pet her. I wanted to crawl into the hole with her. Until he had no choice but to begin to cover her with dirt. Eventually, we couldn’t see her beautiful body anymore. He continued to fill the hole, and then replaced the grass on top.
Today, a month and a half later, that grass has almost fully taken, and there is little evidence that it was ever disturbed. When I close my eyes, I still see her laying so peacefully in her little spot. When I pass from my kitchen door, and walk into the garage, I look to my left to her spot, and I tell her I love her, and I miss her. And that life is different without her. But that I thank her for being in my life and making it better. Sometimes, I’ll go sit in the grass next to her, and soak up the afternoon sun with her. It’s a great spot to talk to God. He has blessed me in so many ways, and while my heart aches without Murphy for me to physically hold and kiss and snuggle, I know that she was placed in my life to help me to grow into a better person. God placed her in my life at a time when I was a lazy selfish college student. He placed her in my life to help me mature and grow and care about someone more than myself. She taught me what unconditional love truly was. She taught me how to fight for what matters, through her two-year battle with cancer. She taught me when to fight, and when it’s ok to not fight. And that just because you don’t fight doesn’t mean you have lost. While my heart and my body physically hurt when I feel her absence sometimes, and I miss her more than I could ever explain, I could never say we lost the fight. How could I? I was so blessed to know Murf. I was so blessed to call her my family, to share a bed with her, to share my snacks with her, and to give her my heart. We won. Our family won simply by knowing and loving Murf. I believe, through my reflection with God, that He had a purpose for her, and once she fulfilled it, He called her home. She made people happy. She was funny. She did hilarious things, like go crazy with the water hose or the leaf blower. I believe she taught me about family, and that she spent years making my heart ready for the responsibilities of marriage, then increasing my capacity to love by adding Britney. She taught me that I could love my children, her and Brit, so much it hurt. She comforted me in times of sorrow, and showed me how to move on. And then finally, there’s Malcolm. She spent one more year showing me how to love him and care for him, and keep perspective by balancing her medial needs and the emotional and financial demands of it, with the challenges of expanding our family and caring for this infant. And as I learned each of her lessons, or rather God’s lessons being taught through her, I was rewarded. She made me laugh. And the way she pressed her little smush face into my face for a kiss – at least once every morning and once every night before we fell asleep, and the most peaceful feeing as we lay on the couch under a blanket together, her curled up behind my knees. And I was rewarded with her love. The best kind of love. Thank you, Murf, for making my life better. I will always love you. I will always miss you. Until we meet again, my sweet angel.
Murf and Brit 