Walter's Mom

I was never fond of being called “Walter’s Mom”. Walter was my “adopted” Golden Retriever. I always chuckled at that characterization. How else does anyone welcome a dog into their life?

But yes, Walter’s “Gotcha Day” was one month shy of his 5th birthday and about 2 weeks shy of my 45th.

People referred to me as Walter’s mom and I gently dissuaded them. I was his best friend, his guardian, “his person”. But “mom”? I don’t have children. Growing up, my parents’ dogs knew them as “Mommy” (as in, “get off the couch now, Mommy is coming!”) and “Daddy” (as in, “Oh my god, Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”) And that all seemed perfectly normal. Jack and Sandy are my, and my much older sister’s, mom and dad. It felt natural and made sense to me that any souls under their charge would also identify them as such.

But I’m not a mom. Or that’s what I thought. I don’t judge others who refer to themselves as their pet’s parent. The term, “fur-baby” seems fine. It’s cute, anyway. I didn’t give any of these terms but the most superficial introspection until now. Whatever thought I had given it, it felt like calling myself “Walter’s mom” would be perceived as overcompensating for what I allegedly lacked in my life, and I didn’t want any of that. Walter was Walter. I was his person. And no other titles were necessary.

Walter passed away two weeks ago from today. He was a few months shy of his 12th birthday. He was generally fine, strong even, until he wasn’t. There were two days of vomiting. I brought him in to see the vet on Day 1 and then again on Day 2 when he was getting worse, not better. The vet visit on Day 2 led to me walking Walter straight to the Animal Medical Center of NY. And Walter never came home.

He was checked into the hospital on Thursday, August 17th at about 6 pm. I got about 20 minutes of visiting time with him before I left him there for what I was hoping would be a short stay. Each day there were more tests. The list of possible diagnoses grew larger, then smaller, then they went sideways. I made an appointment to see him each night during evening visiting hours. Friday night, I got “lucky” and they left me in a room with him for about 45 min. Saturday night, we got close to two hours together. He was a bit dopey from anesthesia for a needle aspiration done that morning, but mostly, he was still Walter. I snuggled with him on the floor. He fell asleep next to me. I said the things I needed to say to him, over and over again, still in disbelief, but feeling like this may be our last days together.

Sunday, he finally ate. Relief! I started to get the tiniest bit hopeful. Maybe this was just a huge scare. Maybe we would still have a few months together. Don’t get greedy. I bargained with myself that I’d be happy with a day or two with him at home; then down to a few hours at home. Just let him be in the place he loves most once more, where he will feel completely safe and at peace. I prayed and wished for a little bit of time away from this sterile place with the stinging antiseptic odor and the loud, foreign sounding beeps, whooshing machines, and occasional bark. My thoughts of us having years together was radically and abruptly recalibrated. We just needed a little bit of time to be with each other. I would hold him. I would pet him and tell him I loved him and that he is a very good boy, over and over.

Though it was encouraging that he ate something earlier that day, they also detected the first signs of pneumonia, a common side effect of his symptoms for megaesophagus. They put him on a panel of antibiotics. Caught early. Scary, but that still seems promising. The lovely vet who served as my liaison to a team of Walter’s specialists and generalists since Thursday, told me this was her last shift till next week. She gave me and Walter her best, of course, told me Walter was one of her favorites, no duh, but told me her wish would be to never see me again, implying that (she hoped) Walter would get well enough to be discharged, and we’d be home by the time she was back to work the following Wednesday. I happily agreed. I gave her a hug and thanked her for everything she had done for Walter and me.

My visit with Walter on Sunday night lasted only about 15 minutes; cut short because they had to take him away to administer his meds.

Later that night, just after 10 pm, the vet called me. My heart slammed against my chest. I got routine calls throughout the weekend from her with updates, but never so late. She was very kind, but straightforwardly told me Walter’s pneumonia had gotten much worse. What?! This diagnosis was like 4 hours old! His temperature had shot up and his breathing was much more labored. He was moved to the ICU and he was on oxygen and closer monitoring. I asked the vet if he would live through the night. She didn’t know. As my heart kept slamming against my chest, my head spun and my breath seemed to leave my chest and did not return. She asked me again what my wishes were regarding resuscitation measures - effectively asking about DNR. Before, when they asked me this question during his admission, it gutted me. But they reassured me that it was just protocol and very theoretical in Walter’s case. Now, it was a very real question. It was an out-of-body experience to reiterate, in a stutter and through gasps of tears, that I didn’t want extreme measures taken on his behalf. I didn’t want Walter to suffer. I was doing all that I could to focus on Walter and his needs and ignore every screaming desire to do everything possible to keep him here for me. I asked if I could come see him right then. She told me no, they don’t accept visitors to the ICU.

My fancy dreams, a few hours prior, to be able to take Walter home, now seemed so naïve and foolish. I was inconsolable and couldn’t stop whaling. I put my mom and sister on a conference call and told them the update. I couldn’t bare having to do it more than once. I stayed at my sister's apartment, clutching my phone to my chest throughout the night, in case we got the call.

My greatest fear wasn’t losing Walter. It was for him to die alone and scared. Somewhere along the years, I made a promise to him and myself, that, if it came to it, I would be right there for him. I would hold him and look him in the eyes, and the last thing he saw, felt, heard, and smelled would be me, telling him I loved him and that he was the very best boy. I was now picturing him in a cage in the ICU, terrified, without me, and an oxygen tube in his nose. The absolute opposite of my promise.

Walter made it through the night. I still couldn’t comprehend this was happening. Six days prior, when people asked me how Walter was doing, I’d say with a smile, “He’s good! Making trouble. You know, the usual.”

I won’t go into every detail, but if you are still reading, you deserve some general outline of what happened. They let me in to see Walter for a few minutes in the ICU. The rules change when the critical status is upgraded. He was still Walter. He wagged his tail when he saw me, moved his head towards mine, and his soul was very much in his eyes.

He maybe had minutes, hours, or possibly, though I got the sense not likely, another day or two. But all that time would be spent laboring to breathe, alone and scared in a cage. He was only living for me, not him.

So we said goodbye. He was brought into a room. And I kept my promise to us. I’ll go into those details more in another post.

Going through those final days, thinking about all of these things, it occurred to me, if that’s not being a mom, I’m not sure what is.

I am Walter’s mom and his loss is profound. As part of my healing process, I wanted to start this blog. I may contribute to it for a few weeks or a few months.

For the last seven years, every day, I would think about how to care for Walter. Now I have to focus some of that care on me. And in some small way, this process of writing and sharing my thoughts keeps Walter in the present. One of the things I told him in our last few hours together was that he changed me forever and taught me so much. With his loss, he continues to teach me things and I’ll explore them here.