Papagni Pages

Tag: saying goodbye

  • The Loss of a Family Member and Dear Friend

    His eyes continue to haunt me. The portals to his soul, the way he communicated with me, their intensity. We were a family of two, just Paco and me, and now, just me. Remembering Paco is easy. What is difficult for me is the void he has left behind. He was always there: beside me, sitting on the edge of the dining room rug facing the kitchen watching me cook, hoping I was scrambling him an egg, perched on the terrace in the doorway where he could watch my every move, on the bed at my feet, curled up between my legs on the sofa or trotting by my side on the sidewalk.

    Yes, Paco trotted. People passing us by would notice him and marvel at his skills. He came to me this way. It was a strong, confident, regal trot. Paco was about 10 inches tall, 20 inches long and he only weighed 9.25 pounds. In early days, my fear of stepping on him was ever present. But he was smart enough to stay clear of my big feet. I know, everyone thinks their dog is smart, but Paco had more than intelligence, he had insight and understanding and a tremendous amount of patience.

    I wrote about how I acquired Paco some time ago, so I won’t revisit that part of our history. I will just mention that when he joined me in Portugal he was skin and bones, weak, and fighting several serious illnesses. When Maria, his vet, told me he might not make it, I wept shamelessly in her office. He was less than a year old and weighed under four pounds. I got him home, held his face in my hands, and asked him to fight with me. I said, “If you live, we will have a life of adventure, lots of friends, and good food.” He rallied and fought for six years, until a strong and resistant bacterial infection took him from me last week. Six years that I will forever cherish.

    After admiring how handsome he was, the first thing people who met him would say is, “He’s such a sweet dog.” Paco would give himself over to you within the first 10 seconds of meeting you. He made everyone feel special. He would pass along that contagious joy, lick you a thousand times, and glance over at me to let me know that he could love me and love others as well. One of his jobs (he embraced responsibility) was to greet people at the elevator outside of my apartment. No matter who it was, they were treated the same, with a warm welcome. My Amazon delivery guy looked forward to my stop and specifically asked me to order more things so he could see Paco. He was seldom met with fear and if he sensed it, he just backed away.

    The thing about a dog that is not always apparent to non-dog people, is that dogs see all of you and sense how you are feeling emotionally. If you live alone and have a pet, your emotional needs are often met by your pet — certainly the case for me. Now, I’ll have to rely on myself or close family and friends.

    This has been very difficult to write. I find myself stopping and starting quite a bit.

    As I write today I’m feeling a great deal of anger. It seems very unfair to me that Paco was taken so soon. It was apparent to me early on that he was probably beaten as a puppy. If I went near a stick of any kind, he cowered. If I raised my voice, he made himself very small. And after the abuse, he was dumped in the woods to fend for himself, where he could die of starvation or an animal attack. And then, after being rescued and only a few years later, a bacterial infection he didn’t have the means to fight stole his life. Yes, I am angry; I’m angry at those who abandoned him and I’m angry at this fucking infection.

    But I’m not supposed to dwell on any of those things. I’m expected to just be grateful to have had him in my life and focus on the future. Nobody wants to be around a grieving person. I sense it all around me, just move on Chris.

    I’m not ready to move on, escape, get away, hide my feelings. I want to remember Paco all day everyday until the memories are all beautiful and comforting. For now I need to see his struggle, his cries for help, his pain. I need to see it, so I can understand his absence in my life; so I can accept his death.

    I have had a couple of people suggest that I consider another pet. I don’t want to disparage those who go this route, but that is not who I am. For now, I cannot imagine the ability to love another dog. I would be comparing, resenting, and spending way too much time trying to erase memories. I need time.

    I’ve been told that I did a very unselfish thing by euthanatizing Paco. That stopping his suffering was the most loving thing I could have done. These are nice words; comforting words, but I know in my heart I could have done more. Six vets confirmed his diagnosis, but maybe a seventh vet would have provided another remedy? Maybe that invasive surgery in Lisbon was the answer? Maybe if I had waited a few more days, his condition might have improved? Were the plants on the terrace the source of the infection? Of course I know on an intellectual level, these are not all rational thoughts, Nonetheless, it’s where my brain goes these days. Processing a loss is an important piece of the grief puzzle. Allow me doubt, allow me time.

    Another harsh reality: Paco started getting sick 16 months ago. I had just had shoulder replacement surgery and recovery was challenging. His infection was more difficult to deal with because my arm was in a sling — back and forth to the vet; healing, hope, and disappointment, over and over again. And then in November 2025 I needed to have my gallbladder removed, again making it difficult to attend to his illness. Paco’s infection continued to return after multiple antibiotics, other strong medications, several surgical procedures, and again, many trips to multiple vets.

    Over the last few months, when the infection was in his middle ear, eustachian tube, and nose, he had problems breathing at night when the mucous would build up. Early on I could flush out his nose and give him some relief, but after a while, it didn’t help. I was giving him sedatives, steroids, and pain medication. All of these helped in the beginning of the infection, however, they became less and less effective over time. I would have nights with constant interrupted sleep and the pain of seeing Paco in distress. I trusted his doctors, but being a realist, I knew in my heart that this resistant bacteria would eventually take his life.

    All of this consumed me psychologically and emotionally. I talked to friends and family who were sympathetic, but who had no real answers. I also posted his symptoms and diagnosis on several animal help sites. People with good intentions, shared similar experiences or offered their sincere sympathy.

    And here’s where I reveal my real feelings, feelings that continue to plague me with guilt. There were times when I would hope (I don’t pray), that Paco would die in his sleep so that both he and I would no longer experience the suffering. I should add that at times I would have these thoughts in the wee hours of the morning and then see the vet the next day after a flushing procedure under anesthesia, only to be hopeful once again. This cycle repeated four times over several months. There were two times during this period where I considered euthanasia, only because I did not know what else to do.

    I noticed that I was beginning to make some bad decisions about other things happening in my life; my mind was often foggy and a feeling of hopelessness was pervasive. I’m really good at hiding pain and discomfort, but some people noticed my anxiety and would ask me about what was happening. I was reluctant to dwell on the situation; too much sharing pushes people away.

    There were several individuals who were more involved and harder to share the news of his inevitable end. His groomer/sitter has been a part of his life for years. In addition, I have two very close friends with a dog that Paco spent a great deal of time with. Nina (pictured with Paco) loved Paco. They were like brother and sister; respectful of one another, tender, and always happy when they were together. Especially delightful to watch considering their size difference. Nina’s parents were also very much in love with Paco. They were involved in his life so much that I recently named them as his guardian should something happen to me. Sharing the news that Paco was being euthanized was agonizing, but the right thing to do. There were goodbyes on his last day. We’re all remembering Paco together and their presence in my life has made a very difficult reality, a bit less painful.

    Some final words before I go: because of Paco’s serious issues when I rescued him, I was always acutely aware of his compromised immune system. I was often so filled with fear that I’d lose him, it became emotionally challenging. There were a few times when I was certain our time together was over, only to be proven wrong; making me grateful for the time that followed. I’m fully aware of where I am in the grieving process. I know that like Dana, Ashley and Giorgio, my dogs that came before Paco, I will someday just think of him and smile. But like people in our lives, every so often, someone comes along that stands out above the rest, Paco was that someone for me. I know he was a dog, but he was my soulmate and best friend. Knowing that Paquito touched so many in his short life gives me great comfort. Remember him, that’s what will keep him alive.

    “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

    — Anatole France

  • You Can Go Now

    I’m not proud of it, but it had to be done. I held my mother’s icy cold hand and I whispered, “You can go now mom.”

    Mom and me. I know, I’m working that stache.

    “Why don’t you feel good about this? Wasn’t it the kindest thing to do?” If my intention was to have my mother pass in order to end her suffering, that would have been kind; however, that was not my intention. In truth, I thought it was wrong to keep her hooked up to a respirator and I knew she’d try to hang on for as long as she could; mom was fiercely stubborn. We had a complicated relationship and I was tired of the drama; I was done. Before you start hating me, I’d like you to consider a few facts. For one, my mother had been in and out of hospital for several years and near death numerous times. She was resuscitated and even though she told my stepfather that she did not want to be, he went ahead and ordered it anyway. She had not completed the paperwork in hospital, no surprise to me or my siblings.

    When I say that my relationship with my mother was complicated, I believe an explanation is warranted. In many ways, throughout my youth and twenties, I was the parent. My mother was a heavy smoker (even during her pregnancies), a gambler, cheated on my father, a thief (insurance fraud and groceries to name two), and she did psychological damage to all four of her daughters. Three out of four of my sisters had eating disorders due to my mother’s unhealthy weight obsession. I was constantly reminding her about the hazards of smoking, begging her to cut back on that and gambling, and soothing a great deal of her self-inflicted pain. So when I said, You can go now mom, it was after many years of shame and disappointment, as well as a strong belief that modern medicine was prolonging the inevitable. Some people will say that I judged her harshly; others will say that it does not matter how awful she was, I should not speak ill of her. You can be certain that my living siblings would attest to my account of our upbringing and the chaos she rained upon us as adults.

    When she was alive she would actually say, “I know you’re going to write a book about me when I die.”

    That was her way of telling me to wait. The irony is that I loved her. When family members would scorn her, I would jump to her defense. But deep down I believed that she was selfish, disingenuous and should probably not have given birth to children. True, she had an abusive father and she got pregnant when she was 16 years old, but that does not excuse the poor mothering; she knew better. I’m certain she knew better.

    So when I told my mother that she could go, she had a week prior contracted an incurable blood disease in hospital, and she was in a medically induced coma. My niece was with me in the room and witnessed my mother’s reaction. Nicole was close to my mother, her grandmother, and she agreed that my mother would be better off letting go. Being that mom was in a coma, I expected her to continue to lie still; what I was to tell her was more for me than for her. After I whispered, “You can go now mom,” my mother violently shook her head from side-to-side. I’m not going to lie, it was unexpected and scary.

    We shared this with her doctor, who shrugged and said, “It could have been an involuntary reaction or she could have been in the middle of a dream.”

    Nonsense. My mother heard me and she was letting me know she didn’t want to die. The whole damn affair was extremely frustrating. Frank, her husband, had been ill for quite some time. He had dementia and other issues and he was in no position to be making decisions about mother’s life. The hospital was concerned about liability and nothing else. My mother remained in a coma for two more weeks until my stepfather gave the go ahead to pull the plug. Frank was not my favorite person in the world and considering how much he supposedly loved my mother, it was ironic that he spent most of her memorial service flirting with a younger blond.

    As you can see, I haven’t been able to just shrug-off the experience at her deathbed. It’s been almost 10 years and I still see mom shaking her head violently. Perhaps I remember her obstinance more than her actual reaction. These demons we carry around are quite strong and they show their potency at times when we are most vulnerable.

    Despite my resentment and anger, I miss her dearly. She gave birth to me and mothered me for over 50 years; if I didn’t have strong feelings, I’d be an amoeba. I miss how she eagerly took my calls, how she put up with my badgering about the past, her unapologetic sense of humor, her ability to make strangers feel better, her fighting spirit, the happiness she would always try to portray, the grace in which she dealt with losing two children, when she worked as a bartender until 2:00 a.m. every night to ensure there would be food on the table, her support for my education, the way she dealt with my sexuality, her reputation for being one of the best poker players in North Carolina, and her sloppy, but well intentioned cooking.

    Perhaps I did want her to leave us peacefully and without guilt, perhaps that was my intention after all.

    I dream about her a lot — another sign that her life and death matter. I do forgive my mother, but I have not forgiven myself. The takeaway for me: dream of her for the rest of your life, that way she will remain with you. And for you: None of us should throw stones, especially when personal perfection is so far from reality.

    ____________________________________________________________________

    Nothing like homemade pizza. Two tips: 1)pizza freezes well and 2)use parchment paper on your pizza peel and you won’t have to worry about the dough sticking to it — remove parchment halfway through the cooking process.

    Lockdown continues in Portugal. I’ve given up guessing how long this will last. Most planned holidays have been scrapped or rescheduled. Cuba in April is precarious; hoping the U.S. in May sticks.

    Question of the week:

    Does something from your past haunt you? How do you cope with it?