I’ve put off writing this. I’ve tried and tried to return and finish. If you knew how often I replay these moments in my head, you would wonder why it’s so difficult for me to put it down on paper. Perhaps it’s because words mean so much to me and writing this account makes it real. My grief counseling group often talks about journaling as a way of coming to terms with the feelings we experience. This piece isn’t poetic. It’s messy. There isn’t a bow that ties it up at the end. I wasn’t magically healed or done grieving at the end of this. I just really needed to get this out to help process my grief. So here I go. On the topic I never ever wanted to have to write. Here’s the story of Winston’s death.

I had trouble making plans. My dog Winston’s hemangiosarcoma kept me prisoner. But my husband’s work requires ample notice for vacation days so we picked a week six months in advance in June with the thought we would figure it out when it got closer. We tentatively made travel plans to Michigan. Big national park travelers, we’d go see the national lakeshores. We’d take the dogs – if Winston’s health allowed it – if he was still alive by then. I had even bought trip insurance to cover an Airbnb cabin in case we had to postpone or cancel. I would soon find out the insurance doesn’t cover a dog’s death and dogs don’t count as “travel companions.” You will be given no such refund even after you write the host, file a claim, and provide the euthanasia, cremation, and several vet clinic receipts. Note that the next time you book Airbnb. I think I’ve had my fill. Now back to the story.

A week before the trip I finally let myself believe it would all be OK. Winston had two clear scans at his restaging appointments (ultrasounds and X-rays to check for cancer metastasis) in both late January and early May. His next was in August.

On a Friday afternoon, we began our drive up to Michigan City, Indiana. We would visit Indiana Dunes National Park and take the dogs to the beach before continuing our trip up north to Michigan. We stayed the night in a Hampton Inn. They gave us a pamphlet detailing the closet vets, pet stores, groomers, and boarders. I remember the delightful chaos of walking Winston and Ivy through a public place like that. The people would shriek with excitement. He was so handsome. Ivy, too. But people just adored him. And he loved it. My husband Nathan would often let Winston greet the people, especially if they had dogs or kids as Ivy is a bit of a wild card and we liked to play it safe with Winston. We talk often about missing that dependability, that buffer.

The dogs both ate and slept well. In the morning, we prepared for the day at Indiana Dunes. We arrived early long before any crowds and heat. We parked and walked to the West Beach and picked a nice spot. A German Shorthair Pointer and his owners, a nice man and wife, would join us soon after, and pick a spot next to us with plenty of space in between. The dog was on an e-collar and exceptionally trained. Ours were on leashes. Ivy swam in the cool lake water. Winston put his toes in and kept watching the birds fly, ears up studying them. We put up a shade tent for him to lay down in and opened all the windows. The breeze was nice and cool, and he comfortably napped in it with his chin in the sand and a water bowl within reach. Nathan fell asleep on a big blanket. Ivy laid in between us. The day was perfect but we didn’t stay long. People started filing in more and more as it got closer to lunch time and I wanted to avoid any hot weather. We stopped for a quick bite to eat and a beer at a nearby brewery and got a table in the shade.

We soon headed back to the hotel where Winston napped on the pull out bed and Nathan went to sleep again cuddled with Ivy on another bed. There was an antique store right near our place and I raided it for a half dozen antique English Setter figurines. That evening we headed back to Indiana Dunes again. This time we did a short boardwalk trail and then went to another dog-friendly beach spot. The sun was setting over the lake and I saw Winston with his ears up people watching. I snapped his photo – thinking to myself, this looks like heaven, having no idea Winston would be leaving me soon.

The next morning, we started our drive to Traverse City, Michigan. We took a detour on our way out to drive through the University of Norte Dame’s campus and stopped at another brewery. They gave us a nice, cool spot inside, the dogs got water bowls, we split a burger and drank a beer. I was anxious to get back on the road so we continued on.

Not long after, we arrived at our destination – an antique roadside motel that had been renovated with incredible charm. There was a wood-burning sauna, a private beach, kayaks, outdoor games – you name it. That afternoon, we walked the dogs to the beach. The water was so clear and blue. The weather perfect. Ivy swam. We took several photos and videos. I’m so glad I did.

Back at the hotel, we pulled out another sofa bed for Winston. Nathan ran to a local brewery for takeout food and a growler fill while I stayed with the dogs. Everything was as it should be. We were on vacation in a beautiful spot. Winston was with us, healthy, eating well, taking his pills happily.

On the next morning, I woke early before Nathan and got the dogs ready to go out. I walked them down to the beach and out on the dock. The sky was pink. I recorded only a few seconds of video of Winston and Ivy together. And then we walked back to the room.

Nathan was stirring at this point. I got the dogs fed and gave Winston his pills. He ate a full bowl and took them as normal. He was sitting on the sofa bed watching our every move as we started readying for an adventure. We wanted to go to Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. Winston cocked his head as I snapped his photo. I couldn’t find a treat so I got him a piece of his kibble, which he happily ate. Then we all loaded into the car. Winston and Ivy in our backseat. We had decided instead of in the back hatch where they normally rode, we would put all our luggage there for more space and be able to see them instead. I’ll always be thankful for this decision.

Before leaving Traverse City to head on to the lake, we stopped at a cafe to grab a coffee and a couple to-go breakfast sandwiches. Nathan stayed with the dogs in the car and I waited for the order to be complete inside the restaurant. When I returned, I handed the food over to Nathan and he quickly finished his. I always am much slower to eat and was barely a couple bites in when Nathan said he would go ahead and back out so we could be on our way.

He went to turn to back up and also survey the dogs. It was at this time I heard his voice and my heart and soul knew this was the moment I had been anticipating the last 10 months. This was the beginning of the end. This was the moment I had been so afraid of. It was happening.

“What’s wrong, Winston? What’s wrong?” I heard Nathan say.

I didn’t even look back at Winston. I flew instantly from the front passenger seat to the backseat where Winston and Ivy were laying together. Ivy on the left, Winston on the right behind me. With his positioning, Nathan had easy eyesight of him when he turned around. Winston was having a seizure. I held him as he shook.

I want to pause here to say that when I was 12, my sister was thrown from a horse and she was not wearing a helmet. I watched the horse bolt riderless and I ran to find her laying on the ground seizing in our back field. I was the one who ran and called 9-1-1. It had been a perfect day before it all came crashing down. It felt like I was right back in that moment. The universe was reminding me, “If it feels too good, don’t get used to it. The worst moment of your life will soon follow.” After that moment, my sister would be in a coma for 10 days and hospitalized for weeks. The traumatic brain injury left her with epilepsy still to this day. OK back to the story.

I gave Nathan my phone and asked him to drive to the nearest clinic. We were chaotic, fumbling, and panicked. I was relaying my phone pass code. He was forgetting he had his own phone. We were losing our boy in a random breakfast cafe’s parking lot in Michigan.

I shouted for him to give me an emergency red pill. If your dog has hemangiosarcoma, you know what this is. They are stored in the middle of your Yunnan Baiyao medication packages. They are used to stop an emergency bleed. So often with this cancer, you hear of dogs suddenly collapsing from a tumor bursting. I had started keeping them everywhere I could think of. My purse, my glovebox, Nathan’s car, my parents’ house, at my work even though Winston never went there, anywhere I could think we frequented to have them on hand. Nathan grabbed the package from the glovebox and I shoved one down Winston’s throat. I had no idea if this was an internal bleed – but I thought, it couldn’t hurt. They typically are used to buy you enough time to get to a pet hospital for a more peaceful passing.

Nathan found a vet clinic five minutes from us and drove quickly there and I continued to hold Winston through the shaking in the back seat. He parked while I stayed in the car with him and Ivy. Inside, he explained the situation to the techs. Short-staffed, they sent us away to an emergency clinic. They wrote the address on a piece of paper that I still have in the floorboard of my car. I still can’t bring myself to touch it.

We drove another five minutes to the emergency clinic. Nathan parked so haphazardly in the entrance of the parking lot and this time, picked Winston up and carried him in. I stayed to move the car and to bring in Ivy. When I arrived, Nathan and Winston were in the lobby with the other patients. A woman brought him a clipboard of forms to fill out while Nathan continued to hold a seizing dog in his lap. I should have known right then that this wasn’t the place for us. They brought us back and a tech starting accessing the situation. Her tone was harsh so I met her with kindness in return. My Midwestern default setting, I suppose.

I tried to give her Winston’s medical history, his diagnosis, his medications, and she would stop me each time saying “it wasn’t the time for that.” I kept apologizing saying I am sorry, I’m clearly shaken up and emotional. She offered up nothing in return to my apologies and continued to ignore me. When she never circled back to ask about his medications, I desperately blurted out that he was on Vetoryl for Cushing’s, Yunnan Baiyao, and Turkey Tail. She quickly retorted with judgement in her voice, “What is that? Some kind of holistic treatment?” No, it’s THE treatment for dogs with this disease after chemo I wanted to reply, but I remained silent and just nodded.

“So he didn’t defecate during his seizures? Hmm… ” She started questioning as if we made the whole thing up.

At that point, I wanted to get out of there. I did not feel good about this place. This person. She kept typing on her computer for a very long time.

She finally turned to face us and said, “What outcome do you expect from this … with a dog with hemangiosarcoma?”

Nathan and I glanced at each other. I calmly collected myself and I responded something like, we just want to make sure he’s OK and comfortable and we’re doing everything possible for him. She offered nothing in response to that. She said she would go get the vet.

I was hoping for a different experience with the next person. The vet came in casually and said Winston seemed fine now and asked what we wanted to do. They had given no treatment or tests. We both looked at each other and said, OK, we’d like to go.

We paid the $200 bill. A bargain to be released from those four walls. We sat in the parking lot and I left messages with our regular specialist and primary care vets, Veterinary Specialist Partners and Kentuckiana Animal Clinic. We headed back to the hotel to regroup and wait for advice. Winston did seem fine now, but I wanted him looked over by someone else still. We felt hope start to blossom in us again. Maybe this was a fluke? A one-off?

We got back to the hotel and Winston settled in our bed now. We each took turns sitting with him. Normally a touch-me-not, Winston had started accepting our company in the last few months. Now especially. At this point, Dr. Clark at VSP returned my call and I explained what happened at the emergency clinic. Dr. Clark responded with what she would have done if we came into their emergency clinic. She recommended bloodwork immediately. With that advice, we called the very first clinic back and asked where to go to next and if there was another option locally. They said to try Omnivet, which had only been open a week. As we were calling this place to let them know we were going to come, Winston began seizing a second time then. I quickly videoed it because I was made to feel like such a fool that we brought him into the last place, I wanted to have proof. I wanted to be able to show the techs and vet and say, “LOOK – I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP. THIS ISN’T ALL IN MY HEAD.” Something I acknowledge I was sensitive to after navigating anticipatory grief the last several months.

The seizing brought all the feelings back from earlier. We felt the dread and fear wash back over us again. This wasn’t a fluke. This wasn’t a one-off. This was real and it was happening again. Now.

We left in such a hurry from our hotel that we forgot to close the door – let alone lock the thing. Left it wide open.

Nathan drove frantically to Omnivet – a 10-minute drive or so from where we had been staying. For the first time all day, the staff opened the door for Nathan. They were ready and waiting for us. Nathan carried Winston in the back and I took the time to park the car and get Ivy out. I led her back into a room with Nathan. They brought us ice water and coffee, and I was asked to come up front and share our contact information. I told the ladies at the front desk that Winston had been diagnosed with hemangiosarcoma and both of their hands flew to cover their mouths. They breathed out empathetically, “Oh, I’m so very sorry.” They knew. They got it. The whole last year it was the people who had been through it before that “got it” and helped get me through this. Their understanding of what I was going through followed by kindness, I’ll always remember.

When that was done, I returned to the room with Nathan and Ivy. She sat calmly when she realized she wasn’t the one being treated. The vet was already in and I caught him up on Winston’s medical history and medications. He seemed thrilled about how detailed and knowledgeable I was. What a 180 from the last place. I showed him the video of Winston’s seizure. He kept popping in and out as Winston was just outside the room on another table. They were running all the blood tests, they were giving him medication, they were caring for him. I felt such a relief. He was where he needed to be.

The vet returned again at one point to say Winston was seizing on the table again, but that it was a good thing. They could watch and test, gather more information from it. They gave us a prescription for Keppra, a seizure medication, and some nasal medication that is used to sedate dogs with seizures. They gave us directions to a nearby pharmacy and said they were open late if anything else came up. I sat in the back with Winston while Nathan ran inside the Walgreen’s. Ivy sat in the front seat. I’m pretty sure she devoured my half eaten breakfast sandwich at some point because I was never able to find it again not that I was hungry anyways. By the time Nathan returned with meds in hand, Win started seizing again. We gave him the Keppra and the nasal drug, and called back Omnivet. They told us we could pick up more for the night, which we did.

When we finally returned to the hotel, it was then we discovered we had left the door wide open. Thankfully nothing was disturbed and nothing was stolen. We worked diligently to remove the flies and cool the room down again. We tucked Winston back into our bed once more. With the Keppra now in his system, we felt another sense of relief. We felt like we could breathe again. This would get us through. Add that to Winston’s regular medications. We can juggle another drug. Easy peasy. We just need to find a way to get him back to Kentucky to our regular vets. We canceled the next Airbnb thinking we would try to return home and get him treatment.

But those feelings were fleeting. Winston started seizing again. They began every two hours and lasted two to three minutes at a time. Nathan would hold his head every time. We talked him through every one. We told him how much we loved him, how well he was doing, how he could come find us, show up in another life, how special he was. We shared memories and moments we treasured. We laughed and we cried. All of us laying in bed with him – me, Nathan, and Ivy and his stuffed animal mammoth.

We stayed connected on the phone with both our vets at VSP and Kentuckiana, and then throughout the night, we kept texting with VSP who said to start doubling up the Keppra, but it didn’t touch what was causing them. The seizures started increasing to every 15 minutes. Then there was no gap in between them. They just kept going. It was sometime around 3 am when we were doubled up on Keppra, out of the nasal meds, and came to the realization we just wanted him to feel any bit of relief. We began counting the hours down until we could get him back to Omnivet. We started exchanging tearful looks and half sentences about what arriving there would mean in the daylight.

Each time he began to come out of a seizure, I would ask him, “Where’s Mom?” A hide-n-seek game we had played for years and years. Each time, he whipped his head around me to still find me. But each seizure, it was starting to grow harder for him. I didn’t want to ask and him no longer know. I didn’t want him to no longer be able to see me. I had always heard the saying: it’s better to let them go a day early than a day too late. I never got what that meant until now. I pulled up a checklist for pet parents considering euthanasia through a Google search. Winston would no longer be able to be alone without us. He wouldn’t be able to walk. Use the bathroom on his own. That is if he ever stopped seizing.

By 7:30 am ET, we hadn’t slept the entire night and I called VSP back to leave a message with Dr. Clark to ask her advice. I got connected with the receptionist.

“My name is Emily, and I’ve got Winston, and he’s got …”

“Oh, I know Winston,” she said warmly.

That made me feel so much comfort hearing those few words. We were far from home, but they knew Winston. They really knew him. And they knew us.

I explained Winston kept seizing all night and we were trying to make a decision of what to do next. She said, this sounds like an immediate situation, let me go grab Dr. Clark right now.

When Dr. Clark answered, I asked what she would do. She had been with Winston every step of the way as his health problems intensified from Cushing’s on and on. She knew him. She knew every medication. Every symptom. And she carefully said she thought it was time to let him go. She was concerned that because the medication wasn’t touching the seizures that there was a tumor in his brain. She said she didn’t think we had weeks left, maybe days if not hours.

We did not resist and we did not crumble into a million pieces. Instead, we got ourselves ready, got Ivy ready, got Winston ready. We wanted him to get relief as soon as possible. We were making the most unselfish decision we knew. We wanted him to stay, but he was ready to go. Winston could barely walk. His balance was gone. If we didn’t support him on both sides of him, he would fall.

We had been worried Winston would defecate during his seizures and had laid towels down in the bed, but he never did. But the good boy, the best boy he was, on our trip out to the car, had waited to pee and poop until he was outside. We held him up as he went. He could barely function. After, Nathan picked him up and carried him to the backseat. I sat in back with him. Ivy in front again. Nathan drove. We called Omnivet on the way and asked if they could help us help Winston and help us say goodbye. We sent a couple texts out to our families and close friends saying we were going to let him go this morning.

I don’t know if it was the lack of sleep or the act we were about to commit, but we were in a daze when we arrived. Nathan carried Winston back into Omnivet and once more they opened the door for him. They led us into the comfort room of the clinic with couches, blankets, and tissues. We brought in Winston’s dog bed and his mammoth. A good friend of mine had prepared me for this moment, telling me all the questions they would ask, wanting me to consider my answers carefully. Told me to think about the logistics – did I want Ivy there? Did I want his collar on or off? I am so thankful because I had trained my brain for a moment when your brain wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else. We had always pictured this to happen at home, but I’m so thankful we didn’t have the memory there after all. That we could leave some of this trauma behind us.

Winston laid in Nathan’s lap and I went back to the car and brought in Ivy. She ran up to Winston and greeted him so happily for the last time. We gave Winston several treats. He had been on a strict diet for months because of his pancreatitis. It suddenly didn’t matter any more. Ivy laid next to him calm now. The vet came in and we asked once more what he would do. He agreed he thought it was time. He also shared he called a colleague that morning and asked his opinion and they also agreed it was time.

He asked if we were ready to proceed and we responded saying we would never be ready, but yes, we could go ahead. He explained the process. A tech joined with digital forms for my consent and I checked yes in all the spots I had trained my brain to check yes to.

And we held him and told him how much we loved him, how lucky we were to be his parents, and how cool it was that so many people knew him and loved him.

And just like that he was gone so quickly. I had tried to memorize and hold on to every moment for the past eight years with him and somehow I didn’t hold on hard enough or long enough because it was over before I knew it.

We sat with him for a long time and cried. Ivy smelled him deeply, but I’m still not sure she knew he was gone. At one point I got up from the floor and went to ask for some scissors to cut some of his hair. As I went to leave the room and open the door, out of habit because he would always try to follow, I looked back at his now vacant body, held up a hand, and said, “Stay, Winnie, stay.”

But there was no need. He wasn’t going to suddenly spring up and follow me. He was already gone.