Nelson Luong, 1994 – 2005. More than we deserved.
Nelson Luong died tonight at about 11:30 from an administered overdose of sedatives. He was suffering from hepatic lymphoma and congestive heart failure. His illness struck him suddenly and progressed quickly.
Nelson lived a long and happy life filled with more love than he knew what to do with, which he returned in spades. He loved rawhide bones and cats. His favorite foods were roasted chicken, mangos and Teddy Grahams. He was afraid of heights, mice and lightning. He never knew a moment’s pain in his life.
I have so much to say about Nelson. I don’t know where to begin. Begin at the end and work backwards:
There was never any doubt in my mind, not even for a second, that my roommate and I had made the right decision. I don’t know if I can explain why to anybody who hasn’t been through this process … and to those of you who have, no explanation is necessary. There comes a point where a strange certainty grips you and you know what needs to be done. There comes a point where this pet, who has given so much and asked so little, needs one last favor from you. There comes a point where you know what must be done.
But when the final needle went into his catheter and the doctor began to depress the plunger, it took everything I had not to cry out. Wait a minute, just wait, are we sure, come on, just one more minute, please, STOP! And after it was over, which took only seconds, I regretted the decision more than I’ve ever regretted anything in my life. There’s an irrevocability to it, a moment when the realization comes that I have just taken a life, but I don’t have the power to give it back. A moment when you realize the full weight of what you’ve done. A moment in which I would have given anything, would have given my life, just to take it back.
That moment nearly broke me.
I began to sob uncontrollably. Literally uncontrollably, as in I tried to stop and couldn’t. Nelson was in the arms of his owner, my roommate, who held him as he died. I leaned in and gave him a kiss on his fuzzy forehead, then I collapsed on the floor in a heap, unaware of where I was, drowning in grief and regret. I howled, I don’t know for how long.
And then, gradually, it passed. The sobs left me in the way that all sobs do: temporarily. I composed myself, then I told my roommate that I would step outside and let her have some time alone. I walked out into the hall, closing the door behind me, and just kept walking. I found myself on the sidewalk in front of the building, not entirely sure how I got there. I reached into my pocket and found my phone. I called a close friend — woke him up, actually — just because I needed to hear his voice. I hung up and went back inside.
Now earlier: When we arrived at the vet’s office, we were told that Nelson would need a catheter through which the fatal drugs could be delivered into his blood. He’d had one from his earlier hospitalization, but we’d had it removed when we brought him home this afternoon. (I write the words: “this afternoon.” It feels like a lie. Surely it was a year ago that we received the terminal diagnosis, a decade before that that we first suspected a problem.)
In order for the catheter to be inserted, it was necessary for us to put Nelson on an examining table, a cold, hard, impervious surface. The person who was doing the inserting remarked that she would have to go get a towel so that Nelson would have something on which to sit. Without thinking, I pulled off my sweater and spread it on the examining table. It had to be that way. In his last minutes, Nelson needed one more thing from me, and I was there to give it.
Earlier still: My roommate is a surgeon, and she was on call tonight. She had to go into the hospital for a few hours. While she was gone, Nelson and I sat on the couch, whispering to each other. I did most of the talking; he was very tired. I prayed for him.
I am not a praying man. I am not religious. I am not a man of faith. But I prayed for him, wholeheartedly and without self-consciousness. I whispered my prayer as he dozed on my chest. I asked God to welcome his faithful servant into his embrace. I apologized to God for not being a very good person, and asked him not to let that reflect badly on Nelson. I asked God to be merciful. And finally I asked God to give me the strength to go on alone.
And then I made Nelson a promise. There were times, during the blackest of my periods of black depression, when the only thing standing between me and a self-destructive impulse was my feeling of responsibility for Nelson. I promised him, tonight, in the quiet hours of the evening, that after he lay down to rest for the last time I would not forget my responsibilities to him. I no longer need to feed him. I no longer need to walk him, or play with him, or bathe him. But I still owe it to him to be strong, to be responsible, to be loving. I owe him those things, and I will not let him down.
And again earlier: Once upon a time there was a dog named Nelson. He was the best dog who ever lived. He was loved by many people, and he loved everyone. He was my best friend, and I will never forget him.
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I’m terribly sorry, me and my cats send condolences.
Lee J. Cockrell
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 6:19 am
He was my best friend, and I will never forget him.
You never will.
Nelson had a lot from you; dogs give their love unreservedly, but to those that give it to them. Remember, but don’t dwell on the pain - he didn’t let that happen in the past, and wouldn’t want that now.
Lysander
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 6:19 am
Probably one of the best-written pet eulogies I think I’ve ever read, Jeff. My condolences - how animals can be so tiny and leave such a big hole in your heart is a strange contradiction.
wg
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 8:04 am
I don’t have words enough, so I’ll just send you some loving thoughts.
Mer
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 8:08 am
My thoughts and prayers are with you. I lost a cat in a very similar way a year ago, and your words have really brought that back to me. I’m so glad that he didn’t suffer. Your eulogy for Nelson was beautiful. I’m truly sorry for your loss.
Sarah
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 8:14 am
I am very sorry, Jeff. Good-bye Nelson. Good boy.
bev
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 8:35 am
I’m sorry for your loss, Jeff, please give my condolences to your roommate as well.
Your eulogy was touching, and as someone who lost their dog a year ago, it brought back fond memories of walks, rabbit chases, green doggie biscuits, and car rides.
I will hug Guinness the cat a bit tighter tonight.
Good boy, Nelson. Good boy.
Tom Bridge
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 9:29 am
Jeff
All my memories of Feathers end came flooding back to me again. Not as sharp as when it happened and now the happy memories far outweigh the loss.
Your writing of Nelson has been so moving and Nelson lives on through it and through you and your memories. May they become the warm spot you can always turn to …
Shalom
Darleen
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 9:37 am
I know this has been a very difficult ordeal for you. It’s difficult any time we loose a loved one, whether that loved one is a person or a pet. Just know that you have friends here in the cyber-world who are willing to help you bear the load.
My thoughts are with you and your roommate, Jeff.
Robbie
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 9:46 am
Just as I was reading this, my cat escaped and ran outside up to a tree then jumped over the neighbor’s fence and made a break for it. I credit you, Jeff, with giving me some long-gone high school track-days 200 meter dash-speed to catch that cat!
Or maybe it was Nelson that I should credit? Seriously…where did that speed come from?!?! I wasn’t even out of breath.
Kelly
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 10:13 am
I am sorry for you and your roommates loss. My thoughts are with you.
Cindy
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 10:51 am
Good dog.
B. Durbin
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 2:29 pm
I am very sorry for your loss.
Fourputtinski
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 6:19 pm
Poor puppy.. I’m very sorry, Jeff.
ninme
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 6:22 pm
Condolences from myself and my little dog.
Terribly sorry, Jeff.
Ryne
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 6:57 pm
Words are inadequate to comfort you in your time of loss. And yet, words are necessary to comfort you in your time of loss.
Grieve, man. You have every right to. ‘Tis a sad day.
But I gotta tell ya: you keep making me cry, and I’m gonna Knock. You. OUT!
Boyd
Thursday, April 7th, 2005, 11:12 pm
Sorry to hear about your loss.
Bribo
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 8:16 am
Jeff,
Really sorry to hear about Nelson. I know this day will come for me with my dogs and I will react just as you have.
Howard
Howard
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 10:43 am
Jeff,
Really sorry to hear about Nelson. I know this day will come for me with my dogs and I will react just as you have.
Howard
Howard
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 10:43 am
I’m so sorry to hear about Nelson. I lost my greyhound Flash in mid-January, so I know what you are going through. Take comfort in knowing that Nelson lived a very long, happy and comfortable life, and that his suffering was mercifully short.
My thoughts are with you,
Dan
Dan
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 11:43 am
Dear Jeff,
Deepest condolences. And what a beautiful tribute you wrote. I still remember the day Boomer, our 14-year-old bichon frise, died in our home at the foot of my parents’ bed like it was yesterday.
Fondly,
MM
Michelle M.
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 5:35 pm
I don’t know if this will help, but this is what I posted a few years ago when I had to make the choice.
“One empty crate - it sits alone, in my mind, in my house.
You are gone now, so far away.
Only three weeks you were in my heart, such a short time it seems, yet forever you will be remembered.
The tears I cry are for you, your years of hurt and fear, without love.
You tried so hard to love and be loved, but fear is a cruel predator of the innocent.
Yes, I understood what happened that day. I knew it was your fear, not your heart, that made you hurt your family. I love you anyway.
Now there will be no more fear or pain, only freedom and joy, as you play through endless fields, rejoicing under a new sun.”
Hang in there.
Ally
Friday, April 8th, 2005, 10:33 pm
Good god man, buck up and try to be at least a little bit of an adult. That little dog has earned at least that bit of respect. Weeping and flailing, falling down and shouting recriminations at your room mate is all very theatrical but proves what to whom? If what you’ve written is true it demonstrates to me that you’ve a rather fragile constitution and are doing more than a little projection. That dog lived a long, happy life and the final crisis was eventually handled properly. Pull yourself together and stop being such a tremulous little adolescent. It’s alright to be and behave as a man, it doesn’t mean you didn’t love that dog.
Duane
Saturday, April 9th, 2005, 2:58 pm
Fetch the stars, Nelson.
I’m sorry for your loss, Jeff.
Right Thinking Girl
Sunday, April 10th, 2005, 11:00 am
I used to think people mourning a lost pet was a bit overboard. (Hey, they are easily replaced, right?) Until we had our family pet die a very tragic death. It’s rough, so very rough.
I feel for ya.
King of Fools
Sunday, April 10th, 2005, 9:29 pm
I’m so sorry, Jeff. You were lucky to have each other for a while.
RIP, Nelson.
michele
Monday, April 11th, 2005, 5:04 pm
I am very sorry for your loss.
From ‘A Dog’s Prayer’
(http://www.petloss.com/poems/maingrp/dogspryr.htm)
…And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit
to deprive me of my health or sight,
do not turn me away from you.
Rather hold me gently in your arms
as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon
of eternal rest…
and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew,
my fate was ever safest in your hands.
—Beth Norman Harris
ClusterChuck
Monday, April 11th, 2005, 6:11 pm
That was really an amazing eulogy. I’m really sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing it.
TalkLeft
Monday, April 11th, 2005, 11:18 pm
What a beautiful eulogy.
sue
Wednesday, April 20th, 2005, 1:20 pm
I know that it is years later when it comes to your loss, but I just wanted to offer more condolences. I just lost my dog, “Little”, and I know what you were feeling when you wrote this. Even now, I’ll bet it is difficult. I still talk to her and tell her “goodnight” (just as I always did), and it has been over two months since I had to let her go.
You did the right thing, and I hope that you have found some peace and happiness.
Valerie
Wednesday, August 13th, 2008, 3:58 pm