Processing guilt

A very common after-effect in the face of a pet's death is the ugly head of guilt. It nestles itself somewhere along the 'stages of grief' spectrum, and can be gut wrenching and haunting. I have found two wonderful articles on guilt, one by Moira Anderson Allen and the other by Ginger Lyn-Summer.

As Allen explains, guilt is closely linked to responsibility. With pets, we are responsible on a daily basis for their well-being - we feed them, nurture them, take them to the vet when they appear sick. So when something goes wrong, it is natural to feel that WE are responsible for that. She says,

"When something goes wrong, we want to know why. How did it happen? What went wrong? Could it have been prevented -- and if so, how? Who is responsible? What could/should have been done differently? Rarely can we acknowledge that there are no answers to these questions. Rarely can we say, "no one was at fault; it simply happened." Rarely can we accept that nothing could have been changed or done differently."

In Sassy's case, I was already feeling guilt that we had moved from DC, where there is a 24 hour animal hospital with a full oncology team working to battle the cancer, to a small town where there are no oncologists, ultrasound machines, and other measures to treat cancer patients. On top of that, the first vet I chose turned out to be an arrogant disaster who, when we arrived for our first appointment having faxed over 20 pages of her case history a week earlier, had no understanding of her case whatsoever (hadn't read the fax), spent most of the time talking about himself and how great he thinks he is, and visibily disturbed Sassy by his mere presence (which is the opposite of what I witnessed when she met her oncology team). But I did advocate for her in this instance -- I listened to my gut feeling that this would not be a good course of treatment for her - the vet made me feel unheard and uncomfortable even, which is an unsolid relationship basis. So I hit the streets (like Erin Brokovich I joked with my husband), pounding the pavement, demanding to see vets in person for an interview sans Sassy. I did finally find someone who I was very comfortable with.

That being said, a 3cm "something" palpated by our new vet on June 8. She also got a fever and wasn't feeling well so we started antibiotics. He went ahead and gave her a chemo treatment of doxyrubicen a week later.....the oncologist had suggested getting an ultrasound. The nearest facility was about 45 minutes away and the staff were very rude - saying I had to drop Sassy off for 8 hours just to get an ultrasound (and they do not have an oncologist on staff). I finally made the decision to drive her up to DC for evaluation by the oncology team directly. But she died that weekend before we could get to DC for her appointment.

I'm told by the oncologist that it sounds like the cancer was back and had I gotten to DC earlier even, they could have tried different rescue chemo protocols but the outlook would not have been good. Part of me is relieved that she is no longer suffering b/c you could tell the vet visits and so forth were starting to get to her pscyhologically. The other side of me says that I could have done more. I could have.....

-not moved
-rushed her to the emergency vet that last night, yet another strange new facility, I didn't.....not realizing she would die in the night...

I ramble on here, swimming in perhaps incoherent details to those reading about Sassy for the first time. But I guess that is the point -- guilt of this kind is sort of a living hell, a constant feedback loop that plays over and over in one's mind, torturing and stabbing at you anew each time.


The four steps that Allen suggests for breaking the guilt cycle include:

1. Choose not to rehearse guilt.
2. Choose to accept what cannot be changed.
3. Choose balance.
4. Choose forgiveness.

Clearly I am still in the process of wading through these insightful suggestions. In particular, by this very post alone, I find myself 'rehearsing guilt.' I re-play the story in my mind over and over again, finding new nuances each time. I know Sassy would want me to forgive myself because I know she would forgive me. Right before she died, she squeezed my hand three times with her paw. I see this as her final act of love, a final act in a short life filled with nothing but love. As I struggle, I wonder if I can emulate the love lessons she tried to teach me all the way until the very end.