A Love Story of a Very Different Kind: Part 6 of 6

A terrible goodbye. I don’t want to write this chapter…

“If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane, I’d walk right up to Heaven and bring you home again.” — Author unknown

Things unravelled quickly with both my boys. According to Mason, the animal communicator, Fluffy said the answer to his illness would be in his blood and it was cancer. Bob was off his food again and didn’t seem himself.

Both needed the vet; that was clear.

The boys had such a wonderful vet. She was great with them. As I was fishing Fluffy out of his travel box, I told her exactly what Mason had said. “He wants a blood test; the answer is in his blood. He says it’s cancer.”

She looked at Fluffy’s gums and said, “He’s definitely anaemic so there’s something going on in his blood.”

To cut a long story short…the blood test revealed that Fluffy did, indeed, have leukaemia. And there wasn’t anything that could be done.

As for my little Bob, his blood work was suspicious, too. I told the vet what that other animal communicator had said, that Bob’s stomach was twisted.

On X-ray, they discovered that it was, indeed, twisted. The vet had never seen that before. And they found a tumour in his tummy, too.

She said they could do surgery but it would be horrible for him. It would be painful and it would mean a long recovery. He was 13, a good age for a rat snake, although he could have another year or two if we were lucky. She asked me what I wanted to do.

I want him to live forever — that’s what I want, damn it!!

I rang Mason. Never mind what I want; I needed to know what Bob wanted.

Oh, God, I’m in floods of tears just remembering…that conversation was Thursday, 1 April, 2010 and all these years later, I still haven’t got over what unfolded…

My sweet Bob told Mason he did not want the surgery. He was in a lot of pain. He didn’t want to suffer anymore. But he was worried about me; he knew how desperately I didn’t want him to go. He knew how terribly lost I would feel without him and he needed to know I’d be okay.

(How did I ever think I could write this story…I can’t stop crying…)

Fluffy was too weak to speak for himself, so he communicated through Bob. They wanted to go together…but they were both concerned that it would be too much for me.

Fluffy thought Bob should be allowed to go first because he was in a lot of pain. He said he could wait if it was too much for me to lose both of them at once.

I was — and still am — so overwhelmed by their love, their selflessness and compassion for me even when they were both suffering. They were more concerned about me than their own pain.

And of course, the only way I could show my love and gratitude for that was to let them go just as they wanted — together.

We shared some final words through Mason and I hung up — absolutely in pieces.

I talked with my (former)husband. We made back-to-back appointments for both boys to leave this world on Saturday, two days later. It was going to be ugly; the vet would have to inject directly into the heart because they can’t see veins in snakes. The boys would be awake and aware.

I thought I would be sick.

I asked the vet if I could bring Bob home till then. She advised against it as he was in so much pain and needed frequent meds. She said I could come early on Saturday and spent his last few hours with him.

In the meantime, I had a chance to spend some time with Fluffy. I would be at the vet’s all Saturday morning with Bob; my husband would take Fluffy for his appointment after Bob’s.

We agreed that I would not see Fluffy that day, not after being with Bob. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. I told Fluffy this and thanks to Mason after all those years, I knew he heard and understood.

Fluffy would be okay with Dad. And Dad would be loving and kind with Fluffy. It was easier to make peace with Fluffy’s physical death because he didn’t want to be here. He had been unhappy for his whole young life. We had our goodbye time together and I wished him peace and happiness on the other side.

The Terrible Goodbye

I sat in a tiny room that Saturday morning. A kind woman spoke softly to Bob as she handed him to me ever so gently.

In an instant, he slid around the back of my neck under my hair, like always, and coiled himself tightly around my shoulders. He had never clung to me like that before…as if he was hanging on for dear life.

And I suppose he was.

He had always given me little “kisses” when we sat like that, a few little flicks of his tongue or touches of his nose so delicately against my cheek. And it was the same that morning.

I stroked him the whole time. I tried not to cry; he didn’t need that. My years of conversations with him via Mason had taught me that he could always hear my thoughts and feel my emotions; I had to be strong for my boy that day. He had always been there for me, feeling my pain, feeling my fear, feeling my sadness.

He was the most powerful little empath on the planet. And he had been trying to take care of me for all our years together.

It was time for him to stop worrying about me, to stop carrying my pain and my fear, my sadness — even though I never wanted that from him; he had done it anyway.

I talked to him about all the fun memories we shared, the goofy things he had done, how much I loved him, and how very glad I was to have been blessed by his presence in my life.

It was time for me to thank him for being such a wonderful friend, a true soul mate.

If only I could have turned back time…but of course, it marches on.

And then the door opened.

The same kind woman stood there wearing a sad smile and telling me it was time.

I followed her through to the room where they would end my little Bob’s earthly life. As soon as we walked in, Bob tightened his grip around my body like never before. He knew what was coming…and I knew he was afraid.

And I couldn’t do anything to help him.

One woman held him up while the vet listened to find his heart. I asked them to hold him so he could see me the whole time. As horrible as it was for me to watch what they were going to do to him, it was worse for him to go through it. I wanted my face to be the last thing he saw.

The syringe was enormous. The needle was so long. Two people held my sweet Bob; the fear in his eyes haunts me still.

It seemed to take forever for the vet to empty that damned syringe into his little heart. I wondered if it burned. I wondered if he was suffering. I wondered if he was relieved it would soon be over.

And when the syringe was finally empty, they let me hold him while the drugs did their worst. I whispered to my boy. I told him it was okay to let go…I held him in my arms feeling his breath on my neck.

It seemed to take forever…and I wished it would. I didn’t want him to stop breathing.

But then…suddenly…he went completely limp. And there were no more breaths.

My precious boy was gone.

Here is a beautiful story by my dear friend, Sandy Peckinpah:

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