We lost her
- Paul
- Feb 22
- 3 min read
Lucy did not survive her surgery last week. She went in bravely and with pure trust. She never had a reason not to trust us. The vet, with skill and mindfulness, removed a 70lb tumor from her uterus.
The tumor was 1/5th of her body weight. Now we know why even when she ate vigorously, her spine protruded and you could count her ribs. With the tumor removed, she looked like one of those inflatable christmas figures you see on lawns in the suburbs, but where most of the air had been let out. Initially, the prognosis looked great though. When the anesthetic antidote was given, she came round. She looked me in the eyes, confused, but as proud as ever. We talked about how incredible she will feel without a beach ball in her belly compressing all of her internal organs.
The vet thought she might live for a dozen more years.
But then she started bleeding. It was determined that she was bleeding internally. They had to open her again. Her platelets were not functioning to clot the incisions. Even her veins were not holding blood. It seemed that the tumor had required so much of her, that once removed, her body had no resources left to recover with.
To say we are devastated is an understatement. If you want to know what it’s like to lose a pig you’ve come to know, all I can say is it's like losing a dog. I don’t mean that as a trick to get the reader to understand, or as a literary device. I mean literally: it is exactly like losing your family dog. Like a dog, Lucy would greet me when I came home. She would roll over for belly rubs and grunt happily when I complied. Freya, my heart dog, rests her head on my chest as a form of intimacy. Lucy would raise her head towards mine so I could breathe into her mouth. It was her check in. Her form of intimacy.
The average American consumes 27 pigs in their lifetime. But very few meet one. That’s a real shame. I have been nothing but enriched, improved and elevated by knowing Lucy as well as I have. She was an absolute delight…
I’m trying to stave off the feeling that I let her down. We really truly did the best we could. When the sadness subsides, I hope to find the gratitude that lives on the other side of sadness. Gratitude that I had this rarified opportunity, to be caregiver to such a magnificent being.
My daughter Maya, when she heard the news, sent me this poem. If I was better than I am at writing poetry, I would want to have written this for my Lucy:
Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
This is how the heart makes a
duet of
wonder and grief. The light
spraying
through the lace of the fern is
as delicate
as the fibers of memory
forming their web
around the knot in my throat.
The breeze makes the birds move from
branch to branch
as this ache makes me look
for those I’ve lost
in the next room, in the next
song, in the laugh
of the next stranger. In the
very center, under
it all, what we have that no
one can take
away and all that we’ve lost
face each other.
It is there that I’m adrift,
feeling punctured
by a holiness that exists
inside everything.
I am so sad and everything is
Beautiful
By Mark Nepo
Sail well, dear girl.
We'll be creating a memorial for her at Rivendell. Let us know if you would like to help with that.
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