Heidi

Today we collected Heidi’s ashes.

I was going to go alone, but Demetri wanted to be there for me. I was touched, but also was puzzled – drive to the vets, pick up the ashes, have a few moments with the ashes, and come home. Wrong, so wrong, wrong, wrong!

We arrived at the vets, discovered they had “lost” the large piece of vetbed Heidi had been carried in on and was then taken into one of the clinic rooms. I thought they would just hand over her ashes at reception (like they hand you the lead of a healthy dog when they have been discharged), give you a sympathetic look and off you go. I’d already told them I wasn’t bothered about the room thing in a prior conversation. Going into the room and seeing that little cardboard box sitting on the table gave me a jolt.

I wanted someone to hand her to me. I know it was her ashes, but it felt like she was being kept at arms length, like physical contact stops after they die. Maybe I’m just weird, but I remember Spike after he died was kept in a cardboard box while we inched him towards the back door to be buried (it was the only way Meg could cope with it). Every time I walked past him I’d stop and give him a gentle stroke (I had to fluff his fur up again afterwards as it started to go a bit flat which gave him a startled look). Not touching them feels slightly disrespectful.

Here was our girl in a box sitting on a table with the nurse standing in the doorway. She was very sweet and looked appropriately concerned, saying something, I know not what, but she was being supportive. I was encouraged to open the box. I was pleasantly surprised by the “casket”; a china ginger jar with pretty forget-me-nots painted on the outside.

This is where it got a bit bizarre. Inside the jar was Heidi’s ashes, in a plastic zippy bag – the kind you put your sandwiches in. I had to stifle my giggle and understood the practicality of such things, but Heidi in a sandwich bag?

The box was reassembled and I just wanted to get out of there.

The tears came as I walked through reception – Demetri was thanking the nurse for her sensitivity and all I wanted to do was bolt.

Clutching the box to me, the box which contained the remains of our beautiful girl, my heart was filled with both sadness and also such love. We sat in the car park and cried. The colour of the ashes matched that of her head and she reminded me of how it felt to have her head pressed into my hand, helping me to feel that even though the overcoat of her body had been shed and now rested in a bag in a china pot in a box on my lap, the love that we have is endless and cannot be destroyed by death or fire.

Heidi’s ashes are now in our bedroom awaiting their trip to Wales for scattering. I thought it would be good for that little body to go upstairs as she had such difficulty working out how to negotiate a flight of stairs and ended up staying downstairs as a consequence – regardless of how desperate she was to be with me or us.

I’m glad she’s safe in her little sandwich bag. It would be awful if she got spilled somewhere en route to Pembrokeshire.

Thank you for the memories little one.

I love you.

Rach x

I recently found this draft post, written earlier this year (March I believe). I think it’s appropriate to share my thought processes with you, and it’s helped me to be reminded of Heidi’s feelings too.

I went through all of them until I realised that the only one whose opinion mattered in all of this was Heidi’s. It is to be her passing. It is her life which is drawing to a close and she is the one winding down and reconciling her life. I asked Rebecca Armstrong at Bright Paws to talk with Heidi to see what her needs are, to ask how she’s feeling and to ensure that she knows how much she loved and by how many.

Rebecca is wonderful. Her sensitivity is tangible and she is able to explain things in a respectful and gentle way. Heidi was evidently keen to speak (as was Meg who kept butting in!) and it became very apparent that the atmosphere in the house was concerning her. Demetri and I have been pretty upset since we realised that she was getting ready to leave us and have been so sad at the prospect of no Heidi. She said that she missed the “twinkly music”, and I was confused as both Demetri and I drum! It was her way of describing the energy within the house – there is normally much laughter and banter, and huge amounts of love. The sadness had changed the energy to one which disturbed her; she loved how it was and wanted that energy back. It was making her sad.

It appears she has the odd ache and areas of stiffness but nothing which really bothers her. Heidi is aware that she’s slowing down and sometimes gets a bit muddled or confused (trademark Heidi), but she loves where she is and the people in her life, all of us.

We appreciate that her previous life as very different to how it is now; she’s confirmed that it was hard, but has left out the detail. In this conversation she said that she’d never forget the first two months with me, it created a bond which will never break. She will always be by my side as that is where she wants to be. She will never leave me, even though we both know there is no debt either way. How did it feel to hear that? I’m not sure I could put it into words. I certainly cried. To be loved so much that your companion chooses to stay here rather than go over the bridge is very humbling. I wondered who would be there to greet her if she did decide to go and perhaps staying with me will be more comfortable for her. Only she will know that and she is always free to change her mind.”

During her last days both Demetri and I told her who may be there to greet her – all people who have known and loved us and that would certainly love her; our ancestors, friends, god-parents and animals who have shared our lives would be tumbling over themselves to help her in her light journey.

The pain and sadness I felt at the time of writing the above post could have been a backward shadow of the future, maybe some kind of preparation for how I’m feeling know. If I hadn’t felt it then, who’s to say whether I’d have spoken to HRH via Rebecca about the detail and to have the knowledge of her wishes in the detail we do?

As they say, everything is happening perfectly. There are no mistakes.

Every day which passes is slightly easier as I get used to seeing her office bed empty or realise I’ve made it to the kitchen without deviation, hesitation or repetition. Walking with Meg is harder – we both really miss Heidi’s gentle presence the most when we are out; she somehow made walking a meditation, stopping to smell the flowers, looking at the trees or sky gazing at night, everything held her in the moment. I miss her excited bark and circle running when she heard that Meg had smelled the fox. Foxes just aren’t as much fun anymore.

Meg’s grief is now coming through her skin, erupting as wet eczema which send her into a frenzy of nibbling, licking and scratching. Our lovely vet has given us a remedy to address her grief and we shall see what effect it has on her skin. She appears brighter already.

Thank you everyone for all of your wishes and kind words. They have really helped.

Rachael.

Love is a many splendoured thing...

Nothing prepares you for the days following the death of a loved dog-companion. It has felt as though I’ve been on a non-stop activity fest since Sunday night and I hadn’t had time to properly take in how I’m feeling, until last night when we had the house to ourselves once more – it was almost easy while the boys were here and their energy certainly lifted me.

Today is another day. Today I really saw how lonely Meg looked on her walk; the girls used to scout for the good smells and then share them, pushing their noses deep into the undergrowth and snuffling delightfully. Meg just seemed to amble from one scent to another with no real interest in any of them. Our walks are over so quickly now as Meg can put up a good trot and there is no reason to hang around twigs or discarded bags or random rocks, or even encourage Heidi to walk in the same direction as us as she’d often amble off in the opposite direction.

Those who knew her or knew of her have been so kind with words and hugs for us, but especially concern expressed for me. I realised quite recently that the animals aren’t “mine” but very clearly “ours”; it’s a source of utter joy for me to know that Demetri loves them too. It’s interesting how much of the support has been aimed at me and yet Demetri is grieving every bit as much as me; I’m guessing this is usual as the man can take on the supportive role, but who supports them?

What is other people’s experience of this?

Holiday snooze.

Heidi left us on Sunday evening.

I can neither describe my sadness, nor explain the relief that she has now found her peace. I will leave both to your imaginings.

Heidi had been going off her food over the last few weeks and we changed her to tinned Chappie, which she appeared to enjoy pretty well. The Denes tinned food was great for a while but she kept getting bouts of diarrhoea so the change was good for her.

We were due to go to Scotland on 1st August 2011 for our annual jaunt to African Drum Village and had planned on leaving the dogs behind with our friend, Ozzie Dave. It became quite clear that leaving Heidi behind was out of the question so took the lengthy decision to take her with us and leave Meggie behind with Dave.

The day after a 7 1/2 hour journey (Tuesday) Heidi was drifting in and out of consciousness. She had last eaten on the Sunday following a steroid injection designed to stimulate her failing appetite (which made her eat on the day, but then stopped eating altogether). That evening she vomited up the Sunday food undigested. Demetri and I spent the day sobbing and recounting Heidi tales, whilst telling her how much we loved her, that our ancestors and loved ones were waiting for her with open arms. She may not know them but she will be loved by them regardless. We were sure that she couldn’t possibly survive the day.

We were wrong.

A much appreciated back massage from Anne

Wednesday she was a little brighter but very wobbly on her legs, needing support and guidance when she walked. Our tent was on a slight slope, so when I carried HRH out I’d take her up the hill so that gravity would work in her favour to take her back to our tent. Sometimes she overshot and ended up at the neighbours, but Anne was wonderful and either gave her tickles and strokes, or massaged her increasingly boney back. At dawn she took me for a walk in the sunshine to the Tanante van parked 20 yards away; it took about 15 minutes to get there, but she was determined to do it. I thought I’d have to carry her back, but no, she managed to turn around and wobble her way back most of the way. This was the day after I’d had to show her how to move her limbs to walk as she was just standing there not moving. Once she’d got her legs moving she started to do it for herself. We suspected she’d not make it through the night.

We were wrong.

Tucked in and ready for sleep.

Each night she’d have her pyjamas put on and be tucked into her bed with a blanket as it was so chilly. Her legs were really cold so we’d take time to rub each one to get the blood circulating before sleeping. There were moments of snatched sleep as she’d struggle to stand and would need a helping hand to move around to get to her water bowl, where she’d hang her head, attempting to lap, but not quite succeeding. We started to rinse her mouth out with water every couple of hours and was feeding her on Nux Vom to help with the nausea. She started to leak yellow stuff from her mouth – unfortunately I couldn’t tell whether it was something infected or custard as I’d managed to spoon in a couple of teaspoons before she started to refuse it (remember, we had an arrangement that I’d let her choose her way forward, and if anything was refused, it wasn’t forced on her).

It was hard to see her slipping away from us. It gave me an opportunity to think further about this thing called the “Rainbow Bridge”. It’s something I’ve felt uncomfortable about for a while. Someone like Heidi would be utterly miserable waiting for me to die to be re-united, plus she’d possibly get caught in a stampede of lost loved ones in the clamour to get to the front of the queue – none of my lot have ever had any sense of decorum about them and I suspect they’ll not acquire it on the way! I just can’t see her there, but more likely still shadowing me, just less likely to trip me up quite so often.

Taking a balafon break

Demetri was so strong in all of this. He would send me off to do a workshop, or give me cups of tea and sit with HRH while I took a break. He never expressed any frustration or questioned my approach. We talked. A lot. It helped to have someone on side who clearly loves her as much as I do. Seeing him be so tender with her, helping her to settle or giving her TTouch to relax her tightening muscles and tendons touched my heart, talking to her, explaining what was happening and giving her the freedom to let go when she was ready. This was balanced with going out to explore some drumming workshops for himself.

Somehow she got through Thursday night, then Friday. Each day neither drinking nor eating. Each day standing with more difficulty and finding it harder to balance unaided. We talked about getting a vet out to her – it was heart-rending watching her struggle to get to the water bowl only to hang her head over it and snap her mouth. This apparently is a classic sign of nausea in a dog so I upped the Nux Vom frequency and added Arnica as now her mouth was bleeding. It appeared to help her.

In the early days she made it very clear that the day she needed help to go would be the day she was unable to get up. She kept demonstrating her ability to get up, even though she was unable to maintain it and would make the point all the clearer by staring at me after having got up.

Happy to hear the news over the clatterings...

Saturday came and still she was with us. Her eyes had dulled over the week and her frame was painfully thin; the bones on her head were sticking out and I had to be so careful when turning her. She never complained. Not once. She was no longer able to get up on her own and appeared to have little of no physical energy, eve though her spirit still felt astoundingly strong. I needed to get out – it was breaking my heart seeing her and knowing that she wanted to do this her way. She wasn’t in pain, but was slowly slipping away from us. Each day less of Heidi remained. I went off to learn about the kirin and the next thing I know is Demetri is outside the tent grinning from ear to ear and signalling that she had got up. Another day with Heidi!

She couldn’t possibly make it through Saturday night. Wrong again. Those little button eyes kept on watching, even though there were more periods of vacancy. She no longer wagged her tail – the greeting which always melted my heart and was usually accompanied by a special Heidi grin. Saturday night provided enough rainwater to clear the drought in East Africa. It chucked it down outside while we remained snug inside.

Sunday was the day to break camp and head home. It was quite clear to me that Heidi wanted to go home to see her Meggie. I had no idea whether she’d cope with the journey as she was now passing blood and could no longer hold her head up unaided. Part of me prayed that she’d slip away, that she’d be spared any more, but another part of me willed her to live as I knew how important it was for her to see her old friend. We both sobbed as we packed up, knowing that this was the last time she would be with us in the tent, that this was her last journey.

Six and a half hours later of a journey carefully planned by Demetri so that we could stop quickly if we needed to, avoiding long stretches without services and relatively straight roads. A lot of thought went into it and it worked! Somehow, she stayed awake all the way back and allowed me to clean her up and rinse her mouth. I took this time to forewarn the animals at home that she really didn’t have long and she wanted to see them for one last time.

Meg didn’t disappoint me in ignoring her completely on our return! We laid Heidi on her favourite bed while we stroked and loved her, crying more tears of such intense sadness that it was nearly unbearable. It suddenly became clear that she wasn’t able to take that final step on her own. Within an hour of being home she was showing signs of moving from discomfort to pain. I couldn’t find a vet in Leeds who would come to the house to help her on the way. We had to drive to the opposite side of Leeds with a dog whose tummy was really hurting her now. I sat in the back of the van with her nesting and resting between my legs, head on my knee. She wasn’t there, but her body wasn’t letting go either. Each time the pain caught her I prayed that her heart would stop, that the body which had helped her get through incredible trials in the past would release her from this torture. The heart which I believed to be so weak turned out to be so strong that it couldn’t switch off and let her go.

When the time came she didn’t struggle or resist in any way. She stretched out and simply slipped away without a murmur. Yes, we cried, but I was relieved that she no longer had to struggle.

Today? Today we heard Meggie barking downstairs and initially heard the telltale punctuation Heidi barks, then realised that it was just silence.

My first walk with Meg on her own brought many tears. No stopping to wait for herself to catch up or realise she’d gone in the wrong direction, or calling out “wrong legs” as she attached herself to the wrong person and was trotting off happily with a complete stranger. No smiling into the eyes of a delighted dog who had realised that I was still there and hadn’t spontaneously combusted. No watching the steady metronome tail as she trotted along the path. Just Meg. Just me.

Heidi, you have been quite the most remarkable creature I have had the pleasure to share my life with. Your extreme gentleness was matched only by your immense tenacity. I fell completely in love with you and I believe, you, me. I have never had such trust put in me. I have never experienced such peace when crises abound. Somehow you always made things feel like they were absolutely fine. Your calmness was astoundingly infectious and helped me to do what I needed to do. I suspect you will continue to do that as I feel you by my side, the place that you promised to remain, regardless of life or death. Your body has gone but our love remains as does your spirit.

Thank you for sharing my life. Thank you for your love. Thank you for everything you have brought in to my life, the lives of my loved ones and those who encountered you and your dotty ways.

Heidi, I love you. I will always love you. I still miss you.

Rachael xx