The show must go on

No, this post has nothing to do with Queen’s memorable song—or maybe, in a way, it does. After all, “inside my heart is breaking.” The song came to mind while searching for the right title for my post, and it just stuck.

Last Wednesday, March 26, I lost my sweet Lucy—five weeks and five days shy of her 17th birthday, which would have been on May 5th. Almost seventeen years together!

It was in February during a rough weekend blizzard that she stopped eating, and by Sunday evening, she couldn’t move. It was a long night. I took her to the vet the very next day, Monday, February 17th. The results came back with the worst possible news: kidney failure. The vet, gentle but firm, suggested we put her down then and there. I couldn’t. So I brought her back home.

I drove back sobbing, the weight of it all pressing down. And somehow, as if she heard me, Lucy got up once we got home. She started walking. A miracle. A spark of hope in the darkness. But hope can be cruel.

Lucy couldn’t eat. No matter what I tried—baby food and every trick in the book—she wouldn’t eat. And I knew, without food, our time together was running out. So I fed her the only way I could: one syringe at a time with liquefied food, olive oil, aloe vera water, electrolytes, stomach pills and drops for her immune system. Every two-three hours or so. It wasn’t easy for either of us. But we had each other.

Every morning and every night, we curled into each other and snuggled tight. And sometimes, during the day, she lay on my desk. Her frail little body still found the strength to jump up, just to be close, just to look at me with those beautiful piercing green eyes while I was working. She held onto me. And I held onto her.

I knew the end was near. But knowing doesn’t mean being ready. And I wasn’t. Not that day. Not that way…

Last Saturday, I had tickets to Trimania. I’d never been and was curious to experience it. It also felt like the perfect place to hand out postcards for my upcoming performance. But the thought of going felt impossible. I had to push myself out the door.

After I wandered through the six floors and exchanged a few words with familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years, I left. I couldn’t bring myself to hand out postcards to strangers. My heart wasn’t there.

I rushed home with only one thought: Lucy. My mind, still numb, still clinging to the idea she’d be there, played its tricks. Until I opened the door. Until I stepped into the silence. Until the weight of an empty house wrapped around me.

Last Sunday, I couldn’t bring myself to blog. I grieved her loss in silence.

I know I’m not ready. My heart is still heavy, tears are still falling down. But maybe… maybe Lucy made room for me so I could focus on “Rhinoceritis in the Making,” furiously approaching.

Maybe she made room for the next chapter because, as the song goes, “the show must go on.”