I grasped his hands, and was startled by a fierce grip. He was shrunken and frail on the hospital bed, and I didn't expect such force. His eyes were shut, and I spoke his name, hoping to connect with a farewell. His clutch was so tight it hurt, and I momentarily pried my fingers from his. They shot to his face and caged his eyes, as if warding off something. He was in a morphine mist, clutching at phantoms. His mouth gaped.
I renewed my hold more firmly, over the backs of his hands to prevent the crush, and spoke again. His right eye, rheumy and pallid, opened, and his hands forced mine toward his face. I resisted. Then succinctly, in measured tones, I talked of my gratitude for our long and storied friendship, how fine it had been. The eye closed. His overall demeanor seemed to be distress, agitation — in a word, suffering.
I said goodbye and released him, and as I left the room, his shadow wrestling resumed. Death was near, but dallied for another two days. After almost nine decades on the planet, and six years of illness, I wondered if he'd hoped for a smoother finale.
Only a few days before I'd held another dying being — our dog Oscar. I'd brought him to the vet for what I believed was a relatively minor gastrointestinal issue that he'd experienced once before; the symptoms were identical. The vet asked, "Can we take an X-ray?" Sure.
A glance at the image was sufficient: an elderly dog vs. a massive abdominal tumor, probably malignant. The vet outlined an option of "exploratory surgery" and vague percentages, but I could hear between the lines. I knelt on the floor next to Oscar, tears seeping. He looked at me. I looked at the vet. He said, "You don't have to decide now." I shook my head, unable for a moment to speak. I took a deep breath.
"No … it's time … I won't put him through major surgery at his age."
"Fair enough," he replied. Perhaps I was projecting, but the vet seemed relieved.
A sedative, and I cradled my old friend's head — "I love you, Oscar" — while he quietly eased out of awareness. Another injection, and a few minutes later he was in the back of "his" truck, heading home.