Valium

Today was Jeremy’s first flag football practice and we almost didn’t make it. The last few days for Hank have been pure misery, increased pain and now muscle spasms. I laid on the floor with my dog for an hour last night, until 1 a.m., massaging his neck and telling him it’s not okay to die yet.

I took him to the vet today at 3:30. Hank is usually the dog who gets a lot of attention in waiting rooms for being sociable and friendly, but today people wanted to know what was wrong with him. They could see his neck muscles in spasm, vibrating like he was attached to electrodes, and whimpering with every step. The doctor happened to be in the waiting room when we showed up and escorted us to a room promptly. From there, we went through the rigmarole of his condition: bone spurs, arthritis, drugs, more drugs and more pain.

Immediately, they gave him valium rectally (you’re welcome for the visual) to calm his neck and shoulder muscles. This is when Hank went from hunched over and stiff to this:

This was the first time he was able to lay on his side since Friday, and while that seems like major progress, it was short-lived. As soon as the yappy dog in the next room barked, he was jostled and back to hunching over like a stiff statue.

As the time clicked away, I felt more and more pressure to be in three places at once – the vet, the football field, and in my bed crying. I peeked out of the door and whispered for the doctor. After explaining my need to leave and take my oldest to football, she said she completely understood and I was welcome to leave Hank while they waited to see if the valium helped him. They were also researching heavy narcotics and weren’t confident about what to prescribe him. With the go-ahead, I sped back to the house, scooped up the boys and drove them to the football field.

Life carried on as usual for the next hour, but my conversation with the doctor replayed in my head over and over again:

Doc: “He’s in a lot of pain and we need to get ahead of the pain and see if we can control it better.”

Me: “Yes, this is the worst it’s been so far.”

Doc: “You know, this is all we can do for him. At some point, you will need to –”

Me: “Don’t say it. Please.” (this is where I choke up and fight tears)

Doc: “I know it’s hard, but you need to understand that –”

Me: “I know. Just please don’t say it. I’m not ready.”

And that’s the bottom line here. I’m not ready. None of us are ready. After football, the boys and I sped back to the vet to get Hank before they closed at 7 p.m. I sat down with the doctor who explained all the upped doses of pain medication, plus a steroid injection she gave him just minutes prior, along with a prescription for valium to help with the muscle spasms, and don’t forget the Prilosec to help prevent stomach ulcers from all the medicine. All of that is to use in the meantime while she acquired Oxycodone (or, rather, Oxycontin) from the local hospital to really dope him up.

At what point does it become more about me and less about him? At what point do I drum up the courage to say goodbye? This is what I will be pondering tonight as I lay on the floor again to massage his neck and help my sweet puppy sleep.