Monday, May 11, 2009

Murphy Baute
01/04/2002 - 05/05/2009

I am sorry for my silence; it is not without cause. Last week, my seven year old little boy died in my arms. There are some who will mock, diminish or disdain the love I have for Murphy. I ask those to please keep any such thoughts to yourself. I have no children. Murphy is my son.

John took Murphy to the vet on Monday, one week ago today. Murphy had been having diarrhea since Saturday morning, which hadn't gotten better, and by Monday afternoon he seemed to be in clear discomfort. The vet discovered he had extremely enlarged lymph nodes and made an initial diagnosis of lymphoma. They aspirated the lymph node, and told us to return in the morning so that they could run blood tests and complete the testing on the aspiration.

Late Monday evening it was clear that Murphy was in a severe state of distress. We found an emergency clinic in Christiansburg that is open 24 hours and took him in. They were able to do blood work and x-rays while we waited, and diagnosed him with Stage 4 Lymphoma that had extended to his liver and all lymph nodes. All information indicates that treatment against this type of cancer provides, at best, a very brief respite (via intense chemotherapy) before the cancer returns. The vet gave us some pain medication and steroids, and recommended an oncology consult ASAP if we decided to follow through with the chemo.

We administered the medications, but Murphy continued to steadily decline overnight. We were able to arrange for in-home veterinary care, and a very kind vet came and helped us let Murphy go, at home, in our bed, in my arms, at about noon on Tuesday, May 5, 2009.

I have no words to describe the depth of my pain. All I have are questions that will never be answered. Was he in pain? Did he feel safe? Could I have done more? Should I have fought harder? How could I let him go? Will I ever stop feeling the unbearable clenched pressure in my chest? Why didn't I spend more time at home in the weeks before he died? Why can't I dream about him? Did he know that I loved him? Was he afraid? How can I be here, acting normal and even laughing?

I am so afraid. I am afraid of losing him. I am afraid of forgetting him. I am afraid of not honoring him. I have been afraid to share my sorrow and thoughts and memories... Because I could not bear it if any one disrespected his memory. I have been afraid that if I share the pain of his loss with those who didn't know him, who couldn't suffer it to the same extent, who couldn't possibly understand, that it will diminish it somehow.

I cannot be silent. He deserves so much more. This is the last thing that I can give to him. My continued and neverending honor, respect, and sorrow.