I’ve begun to write a bunch of different blog posts in the last 20 minutes or so. Five stages of grief. How I’m trying to feed him baby food. How my vet is humoring me by me I can come in to pick up another medication that might curb Aremid’s nausea since the Zafran doesn’t seem to be doing it. How I see all the signs now.
I don’t know how to deal with this.
I finally get it that he’s miserable. I didn’t get that being old and decrepit and only half-lucid much of the time did not make for that bad a quality of life when you still had your person loving on you. I still don’t know if I get that. But if I imagine being nauseous all the time, and there’s no relief, I begin to realize that, at this point, each new day is not really a gift.
We’ll see. If I were completely in acceptance mode, I would be planning the end. I’ve heard people say that they spent one last night with their pet, that they had planned it like that. I don’t want to plan that. I would rather that my vet pick a random time to knock on the door and say, “Ok, I’m here to do it right now.”
Ok, enough morbid thoughts for now.