Ready. Or Not.

Yesterday, when I brought Leo in for his final round of chemo, I had a feeling the news would be bad. There's lethargic and there's LETHARGIC, and the sound of Leo dropping to the floor over the last few days after a rigorous ten foot stroll to his water bowl echoes in my head and makes my stomach churn.

The news was bad -- his cancer has returned with a vengeance and his liver is jam packed with bloody tumors. In the interests of full disclosure to the patient, I suppose, the oncologist brought Leo with her into the little room reserved for bad news as she explained my options. Suffering, rupture, extreme lethargy (worse, still, than LETHARGY), very little time -- those were the words ringing in my ears as I decided it was time to put Leo down. He was ready, I thought. I was ready, I thought.

Back home, after getting Leo settled back in his favorite resting spot at the top of the stairs, I went out for a drive. I didn't want him to see me crying. At some point, with tears clouding my brain, I made a u-turn in what I thought would be a futile attempt to avoid a line of unmoving traffic. As it turned out, the decision was a good one, and the road block that had caused the back up was literally lifted as I arrived back at the corner. A sign, I thought, that I should trust my instincts, and that my decision to put Leo down was the right one.

Not so much. Later in the afternoon, when I arrived home from running some errands, Leo greeted me at the door with his tail wagging and his wizened snout pressing firmly against my bag of groceries. He practically inhaled a large chunk of French bread, then literally skipped to the back door. We went outside, he ran for his tennis ball, and we played fetch. Okay, so he needed to rest between trips, but we played fetch. Even Manny seemed too shocked to try to steal the ball. Hmm.

I called the vet to explain I was not ready, mostly because Leo did not seem ready. From the beginning, I knew in my heart that Leo would let me know when it's time, and, yesterday, after hearing his imminent death sentence, Leo let me know, in no uncertain terms, that it was not yet time. There was still half a quiche in the refrigerator, waiting to be devoured. Who knows? Tomorrow there could be burgers!

When I woke this morning and checked on Leo, he interrupted his slumber briefly to thump his tail. I realized I had misinterpreted the whole traffic dilemma. It wasn't about making a right decision; it was about making the u-turn. Sometimes, it's okay to change your mind.