If only our vet had also studied psychotherapy

A letter to Maya’s vet:

Thank you for holding my hand through the last few weeks and helping me realize that we did what we could for Maya and it was, in fact, time to let her go.  I think I needed someone’s permission to do that.  I would have much preferred my mom stealing Maya away in the night and telling me our cat had gone to live on a farm, but I guess grown-ups don’t have that luxury.  Perhaps that is an additional service you might provide in the future for your customers who prefer to live in complete denial.

Speaking of which, you might also want to stock some pamphlets on the grieving process.  My own includes efforts to repress outward emotion, weird dreams involving the Siamese cats from “Lady and the Tramp,” and an uncontrollable urge to check the status of a food bowl that is no longer on the kitchen floor.

My daughter’s grieving process is another thing altogether, and I really wasn’t prepared for it.

Over dinner on Friday night, we told Miss D. that Maya had been very sick but was no longer suffering because she had died.  Miss D. knows a bit about what “died” means due to a family funeral over the summer and the fate of Maleficent in “Sleeping Beauty.”  When she heard about Maya, Miss D. cried for a few minutes, then asked about dessert.  This is what I had expected.

I knew I had to readjust those expectations when Miss D. woke up in a panic an hour after we put her to bed because she couldn’t find one of the 52 stuffed animals with whom she sleeps.  And at 2 a.m. when she crawled under our covers and tried to burrow into my stomach, I realized she was going to take this harder than I had anticipated.

On Saturday morning, Miss D. watched me fold uneaten french toast in plastic wrap and asked me why I was doing that, since Maya wasn’t sick anymore and wouldn’t try to eat it.  Then she sat down on the floor and cried for 45 minutes.

And then, of course, I doubted our choice to end Maya’s suffering.  Surely we could have let our cat wretch and vomit and dry heave and waste away a bit longer so that our child would not have to feel this pain, right?

By Sunday, Miss D. was still sad, but not inconsolable.  She looked under the bed once for Maya.  She made note of it when we drove past your office.  Then she asked for a dog.

Despite her interest in a new animal, we know our little girl is still grappling with the loss of the only pet she ever had.  Miss D. is carrying around an imaginary cat, “Shally,” who apparently is feeling poorly.  I fear for Shally’s future.  Perhaps when her time comes, I should steal her away after bedtime and tell Miss D. she went to live in a barn with ducks and pigs.

Maybe these are things you and I might have discussed during our talks about surgery, medication, inexplicable illness, and difficult choices.  Or maybe not.  Do they teach anything in veterinary school about managing the grief of three-year-olds?  I guess that’s not really your job, huh?  It’s mine and Country-Fried Daddy’s, and I really hope we’re not screwing it up too badly.

Best regards,

Country-Fried Mama

Tagged as: a child's grief, loss of a pet, mom blogger, Mommy blog, yankee in the south