Goodbye Luna

This story was awarded an Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest’s 89th Annual Short Story Competition in 2020.

We met two hours ago, but I’ll never forget you.

When discussing death and suffering, it’s astounding how an everlasting connection can develop in an instant. You lived an entire life before we met, Luna. It was filled with happiness, adoration, and true love; sunny days, open green fields, and blue sky. You lived the life of a beloved dog. 

I was there for the final two hours of your perfect life, and it was my honor.

Euthanasia is the greek word for “good death”. At times we’ve termed it “the final gift”: a peaceful end when suffering is all that you’ll see. A gift, because your loving “people” take on your pain in the form of grief. 

We, the veterinary staff, are drawn to this career because empathy drives us. Unfortunately carrying out euthanasia is also a normal part of our job. It’s not easy, and it never gets easier. Adaptation is the only defense we have. We remove our empathy temporarily, to finish the task at hand, but every time we do, it becomes harder to bring it back. 

 It’s akin to playing in the ocean. Always keep your eyes on the water. Watch the waves. Dive under them before they hit. Close your eyes, hold your breath. Listen to the power of nature crash over you. Remain suspended in the calm below. Relax. Let your heart rate slow. It will pass. Don’t come up for air too soon or you will get hit — pulled away gasping for breath and praying you don’t drown. 

But if you miss every wave — if you sink down into the stillness every time — you lose the reason that you waded into the waters in the first place. Every time we slip away, we dive deeper into the numb void of compassion fatigue. It becomes reflexive. Our skin hardens until we become stones, sinking to the very bottom. Lost in the dark, lost to emotion, or feeling. We forget to breathe. We go home, skin burning from the brine. No connection to our work. We just float through the universe without meaning.

So why do we play in the ocean if it’s not, for a moment, to feel alive? Sometimes, you must stand. You must let the waves hit. Under those salty layers, your heart aches for every wave you missed: every chance you had to feel that connection to what lies within.  

It was one of those days.

You lie napping on the floor. On the coziest bed of blankets a dog can get. I join you for a moment, running my fingers along the bridge of your nose and behind your large floppy golden ears. Your big brown eyes open and find mine with the calm confident trust that only a 10 year old lab mix can have. I am a human, you are a dog: we are born to love each other. You know this, I know this; it simply is.

There’s a gentle spirit in those eyes. Your energy is dulled by pain, and you’re too tired to give me more than a single flap of your tail when I smile at you. You like when people smile. In your younger days you’d have jumped up to greet me, but today you need some coaxing. I take your leash from the wall and it takes you a moment to stand and get your bearings, then we begin our walk to radiology. My normal pace takes over, but I’m halted by a quick tug on the leash. I look back to see you’re coming, but would prefer to walk slower. 

A tickle of empathy catches in my chest. I brush it away and apologize with a laugh, giving you a reassuring pat. We’re here to make you feel better after all, I shouldn’t rush you. You’re mildly disinterested in my attention, taking the opportunity in our pause to search anxiously. I know who you’re looking for. Don’t worry, your humans are in the lobby where you left them.

A laugh draws our attention and we look up to see my coworker watching us.

I chuckle in reply and shrug. “This is the pace we’re goin’.”

“She’s an old girl, she makes the rules, ” she replies.

“She sure does,” I say and smile down at you.

We reach the ultrasound suite and gentle hands help me lift you up. You’re unusually tall for a lab mix: I wouldn’t be surprised if you had some Great Dane in you. I reach down, bend my knees, and lift you into the soft blue trough on the ultrasound table. Your legs wrap around my waist gently but firmly. I look down to see your worried eyes find mine. I stroke your face to calm you and gently offer the promise that we won't hurt you. A moment passes, then you release me. Another passes before you begin to relax.

My fingers find your broad chest and begin scratching you softly, almost of their own accord; they’re long trained to find just the right spot. You maintain your watchful eyes, but I finally see the hint of a “dog-smile” on your big floppy lips. I laugh proudly as the internal medicine specialist shaves your belly. She pours the gel on your freshly hairless skin and you lift your head to fix her with an indignant look. What a personality you must have when you’re feeling well! The doctor apologizes to you and reaches forward to pet your muzzle. You approve of this. You lie your head back into the trough and glance at me expectantly. I resume the chest scratches.

We humans chat casually about things that bore you, and soon you’re snoring is louder than our voices. I ramble on about school and my nerves about graduating, feeling behind on my veterinary school applications. What I don’t say is that I’m beginning to get cold feet about it in general. I don’t think I can afford the debt, nor the emotional toll that this job is already taking. 

I only just register the doctor mentioning the masses she found in your belly. I’m too focused on my own problems to consider the gravity of yours. 

The doctor is describing her own time in vet school when she stops suddenly, tilting her head at the screen: her “tell”, so to speak. Something was amiss. The other tech glances at me nervously and confirms we’re seeing the same thing on the black and white screen: the giant black blob of fluid that’s not anywhere fluid should be. 

I’ve waded into the waters, but the waves aren’t of concern yet.

Quickly, the doctor grabs a needle and a syringe. You’re fast asleep, but the instant the needle touches your skin you jump in surprise. I look down into fearful eyes, your breath grows shaky. 

I bring my nose to yours and whisper a reassurance as I move in to hug you, and also, I admit, to restrain you so the doctor can get the aspirate. I stroke your face and distract you with endless repeats of how good you are. You agree, you are a good dog, you do know this. You grow calm and still, so I chance a peek back. In the semi-dark of the ultrasound suite, I can see the syringe fill with a thick dark red liquid.

Hemoabdomen, my mind says immediately — shit. 

A wave hits me in the gut. I stumble, but don’t fall. There was more power behind it than I anticipated. I fix my eyes on the horizon. 

I’ve spent ten years in this field (the recent year in specialty medicine) and I still somehow cling to naivety. I openly blame my foolish optimism for rarely entertaining the idea of such a grim outcome, but perhaps the truth is I hide from such painful thoughts. As the syringe fills with blood however, I feel the familiar sinking in my gut. The most obvious explanation now would be hemangiosarcoma — an extremely aggressive canine-specific cancer that targets the cells of vascular tissue. Basically, the big badness attacked the walls of your blood vessels and made a large bloody tumor in your abdomen. No wonder you feel so awful.

We get you down slowly, carefully minding your blood-filled belly. The walk back to the ICU is even slower this time. I urge you to take your time. I can’t imagine how sick you must feel. We make you a new cozy bed. You immediately vomit on it. You’re embarrassed, but I assure you it’s perfectly okay and replace your blanket. You lay down with relief and close your eyes for a nap.

We “round” your referring doctor and she leaves to speak with your parents. I mention that you were looking for them, then leave the ICU and go back to work. I finish up charts on my other patients, but it’s a slow day and I’m done quickly. Half an hour later, I decide to check in with you. You’re in the ICU, standing anxiously over your bed, a nearly distraught look on your face. You’d found your way back to your people for a while. According to the ICU tech, you went out on a walk with your humans and spent a lot of time with them in the exam room. That explains your behavior. You sensed they’re sad and fearful. 

No honey, they’re not in danger. 

Reluctantly, I ask the question, though I already know the answer: “what do they want to do?” 

The tech grimaces. 

I sigh and nod, looking at you. It’s for the best. You’re suffering.

The water around me pulls. The incoming swell grows stronger. I can run. I still have time. I don’t even need to play in these waters. I can still walk away.

You’re technically not my patient. I can go back to my department; I might even be able to leave early. But something about your unique spirit has touched me. Instead, I prepare for the dive. I ask if they need help setting up a quiet room for you and your family, or placing your IV catheter.

The tech’s eyes brim with tears. She shakes her head.  “The owners don’t want to be present,” she says.

Crash. The wave hits me hard in the chest. Taking my breath away. I’d hesitated for too long. My heart breaks under the pressure.

In this unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, your eyes find mine. The relief in my newly familiar face is evident on yours, and you give me the smallest wag of your tail. It’s all I need to make my decision. 

I move to your side and hug you. You move your head into my chest gratefully. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’ll stay with you.” 

Perhaps if your people had seen how you’d searched for them, they may not have left. But it was hard enough to make this decision, they couldn’t bear to watch you go. Don’t worry sweet girl, I don’t blame them for leaving: I know they’re your world. I will take on their grief, so you won't be alone.

I run back to my department and inform the other specialty tech of what’s going on. His smile drops immediately and he jumps up to join us. As we sit with you, the ICU girls join us too. Soon there are five humans surrounding you, honest tears running down our cheeks. We offer you our love, assurances of what a good girl you are and the tastiest dog treats we have. You politely take the treats only to place them on the ground. You don’t want to offend us, but you’re feeling too ill to eat. 

Together, five of us stand in the shallows, our eyes on the rising swell. It’s amplitude is already greater than the others we’ve seen that day. It grows, no signs of slowing. Hand in hand, we show no signs of diving. 

The doctor joins us with a syringe of pink liquid, carrying the smallest needle she could find. She attaches the needle to the syringe, but pauses before removing the cap. She looks at us, tearful and surrounding you with love; she understands what this moment means to us. She reaches forward to pat you in her own personal goodbye before removing the cap and inserting the needle into a vein in your back leg. You don’t even notice.

Inches away, the wave begins to break. We are ready.

Your eyes grow bright. For the first time since arrival, they aren’t veiled in pain. You look around at the love all of us share for you, and your big floppy lips pull into the fullest dog-smile I’ve seen in a long time. I keep scratching your chin and look into your chocolate eyes, smiling through tears. You look into mine without fear, as the pain begins to fade. My hands support your chin when it grows heavy. Your eyes grow distant, but the smile stays on your darling face. I gently guide you to the soft bedding below, speckled by the small circles my tears make as they fall freely.

“Goodbye Luna,” I say in less than a breath. I reach forward to close your eyes.

The wave breaks. We’re carried away. Our bodies drag through the torrent of power like feathers in a wayward breeze. The pounding crushes our eardrums and drives the air from our chest. We feel the connection, our souls floating within this body that is powerless to nature. 

So peacefully and gently you go. It is beautiful. Exactly what a sweet, loving dog such as yourself deserves: kindness and pure love in your final moments. No pain, no fear, just peaceful sleep. If only your parents had been there, they’d have seen your relief. The end of your suffering. They would have felt it too. The final gift they gave you.

I rise from the waters, gasping for breath, terrified and awed. The warm sun glints off the beads I wipe from my eyes, a mixture of sea water and tears, sobbing and laughing in gratitude to have experienced something so raw and real. To feel alive.

I saw in you the embodiment of the ancient friendship between human and dog. I loved you as if you were my own, and so you found happiness in your final moments. You are why I do what I do, Luna. You pulled me from the empty void. You fractured and freed me from the salted layers of stone. You brought breath into my lungs. You reminded me why I am here. My purpose. You were the connection to the universe I lost, and longed to find. Every time I prepare to dive under the waves, I’ll stop and remember this brief moment; the difference love made in the coldness of death. I will never forget you.

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