(Click here if you wanted a veterinarian’s advice about an old and dying dog.)

Have you ever been driving along, going somewhere and all of a sudden, out of the blue, there you were? You don't remember making that left turn on Coffee or going through the traffic light on Briggsmore. You just don't remember. You're just there! This is known as driving on automatic pilot. Not the preferred way to travel our roads, but I think it happens all the time.

Since 1996, I've had so many dramatic events happen in my life, that in many ways, I have been living on emotional automatic pilot. Of course, this is not a practical or specifically successful way to live. It frustrated and hurt those close to me. There would be occasional, dramatic breakthroughs. When I think of my emotional "breakthroughs," I liken myself to the sulfur pots in Yellowstone National Park, because the outbursts weren't dramatic like a volcano spewing forth a brilliant, hot, fiery substance in a violent grandeur, but rather a slow, smelly miasma, bubbling forth and leaving an off-taste in your mouth. All of a sudden, it was there - welling up from deep inside me. Anger. Rage. Frustration. My daughter called it "flipping out," but I thought of them as "melt-downs."

I believe that living is constant flux. So, when I say that events occurred which altered my life I'm referring to those occurrences outside of the ordinary. My brother died in 1996, my mother died in 1998 and my father died in 1999. Within three years, I lost three significant people in my life. Of the three, perhaps the most devastating was my mother's death. My brother had been estranged from our family for 12 years and although losing him was painful, it was not something that I felt on an immediate basis. My father had been suffering from Alzheimer's for 4 or 5 years and was nearly 88 when he died.

My mother, however, was in peak form. She was an avid hiker and rock climber, who at 72 still went backpacking in her beloved Appalachian Mountains. Her death was a stunner. While my mother was in a coma in ICU, I remember to this day overhearing a comment from one of her doctor's who reflected, "I just can't understand it. She's so healthy. In fact, her cholesterol is better than mine." The Center for Disease Control came to her house to scour it for possible lethal contaminants. It took 4 months for the pathologist to determine her cause of death and only then did they determine e-coli poisoning, because nothing else made sense.

This left me in a state of emotional shock. I began to compartmentalize my feelings about this three-year period. I put these emotions in box, set them aside and rushed on with my life. I purposefully made sure that I was busy all the time. I wouldn't slow down during the day, and I would drop into bed at night like a stone and sleep. That is, of course, until I had what my daughter Lore and I came to call "Omi dreams." Omi is the German affectionate for grandmother that Lore called my mother. These were dreams where my mother would come to me. Talk to me. When I awoke in the morning, I would be physically and emotionally drained and I would struggle through the day. Like an oyster forming a pearl, I would again encapsulate these emotions and move on with my life.

Segue to April 2004. Our dog Honey, who'd been with us for almost 13 years, one day had a strange seizure. She was fine immediately afterwards, but then a few days later, she became listless and quit eating. I took her to the vet's office, where he kept her over night for observation. The next morning, when we went to fetch her, the vet told us that she had not eaten or drunk anything in the 24 hours that she was there. She had not improved. In fact, by his estimation, she had gotten worse. HE strongly suggested that this might be the time to say, "Goodbye to Honey."

Karl and I went to her cage in the vet's office and poked our heads in. Of course, I began crying. We were preparing to let her die. She was limp. She looked worn out. I looked at Karl and uttered, "Okay. Let's do it." And then some mysterious force (don't ask me what), made me poke my head in her cage just one more time. For old time's sake. When I did, Honey looked at me, our eyes connected and she wagged her tail. For some illogical reason, I pushed her food close to her. She ate. Shocked, I pushed her water close to her. She drank. I pulled myself out of the cage. I looked at Karl and we unanimously said, "Not yet!"

We took her home and laid her limp body on her bed. It was the day before Easter. On Easter morning, Honey trotted into the living room and looked at me, as if to say, "I'm hungry. Where's breakfast!" I lit a candle for her at the Fellowship that morning and relayed her resurrection.

That experience made me think of Honey in an entirely new light. No longer was she "just" around. To be petted or ignored as I saw fit or as I needed. Realizing that the boundaries of her life were being reached, I began to look at her with renewed eyes. I began to do something that I should have been doing all along - I began to genuinely appreciate her. To really look at her. To incorporate her needs into my daily routine. No longer just an addition in my life, she became an essential part of my being.

Honey lived approximately 8 more months. During that time, I changed my life to help her. I no longer took long trips away from home thinking she'd be safely at home on her own. I no longer left her for more than an hour or two. I would take her with me on short jaunts around town when I wouldn't be leaving her alone in the car. To the post office; through a car wash. Through Starbucks. And she absolutely adored driving through fast food joints. Sometimes, I would just drive her around for the heck of it. She relished the adventure; she would poke her extra large nose out the crack in the window. Her olfactory nerves would twitch with joy and eager anticipation. That tail of hers would wag. She was happy.

As time went by, however, Honey's physiology made these outings less frequent. By that time, for a variety of reasons, we'd changed vets. The vet visits became more frequent. Her movements became more deliberate and she had a hard time getting in the car. At 70 pounds, I could barely manage to lift her. So our routine evolved. As she reached each new phase, the evolution continued. Finally, one day Honey could no longer stand on her own. So, I began picking her up. This was hard for me because I had just gotten out of surgery and my abdomen was in repair. But I did it anyway. In our many years together, Honey had learned to anticipate my needs. She'd wait for me at the door; she'd plop down by the computer in the morning where she knew I'd follow my morning routine. Now, it was my turn. I anticipated her needs. I would pick her up every few hours, get her water or food and help her with her needs. We had switched roles.

Our new vet, whom I adored, worked with us the whole time. He called every few days to see how she was doing. Medications were offered and given. During one visit, when I was sitting on the floor crying, holding Honey in my arms, this kind man commented, "I would cry too, but I'm not supposed to!" He treated both Honey and me with dignity, respect and kindness. He assured me that I'd know when her end was near. He reassured me that we were lucky that we could give Honey a comfortable, loving farewell. That we lived in a society where we could anticipate her needs and prevent her from needless suffering.

When she finally quit eating for good, I called his office. It was his day off, and he wasn't supposed to be back at work for another 5 days. The kind voice on the other end of the phone reassured me, "I'll call him and have him call you back." A while later, the vet called. I relayed the situation, and he told me to bring Honey to his office at noon. On December 11, 2004, Honey's life ended. The people who loved her and who cared so much for her surrounded her and said a fond "Goodbye."

I use Honey as a metaphor. As that symbol of something in your life that changes your emotional environment. During her last 8 months, her circumstances awakened in me a deeper appreciation of life and what I can expect from living. In other words, her death (or her dying process) gave my life new meaning. An interesting gift from that old gal to this old gal. This time with her taught me many things. I had many hours to reflect. Honey's progression enabled me to maintain a closeness and an awareness of her impending demise that I had not had with my brother or my parents.

My brother had been estranged from our family for so long, twelve years, that I did not learn of his melanoma until two days before his death - I was in California and he was in SC. It was too late to be with him. It was too late even to talk with him. As a child, I had adored my brother unconditionally. He was the handsome, older guy (eleven years older) who would hide caramels in his school desk, all the while knowing that his ultra-nosy kid sister would scour his desk drawers to find those treats. He'd laugh with a twinkle in his eye at his pesky little sister. He married when I was nine, and more or less, left our family for good. His death was a blow to me, but since he hadn't been in my life in any significant way for a very long time, I muddled on. Initiate Autopilot.

As I said before, my mother's death was a different case entirely. In a matter of two weeks she went from vibrant, enthusiastic human to dead. Gone. Fini. By the time I flew from CA to SC, she was, for all intents and purposes beyond communication. This was my beloved mother; a person who I venerated. She lay in a coma for two weeks before the doctors advised me to remove her life support. My time with her was done. I was stunned. I couldn't believe that a person who had been so ALIVE (with capital letters) could now be dead. She had planned a 5-week trip in Europe with my daughter. At her house, I held her round trip plane ticket in my hand and wailed, "How can this be? I have her plane ticket." Autopilot kicks into high gear.

Now, my father had been slowly deteriorating 4 or 5 years prior to his death. So, his death in 1999 was not a shock nor was it unexpected. He was nearly 88 when he died. The sad part for me was that I hadn't come to terms with my relationship with him until it was too late. Too late did I realize was a magnificent man he was. I remember the short, balding guy who stood 3 hours in line in 1970, while I waited to cast my vote in my first-ever election. Waiting in line, Dad felt it was his duty to convince me that Nixon was THE MAN. For three, solid, miserable, wet South Carolina hours he stood with me. If he could have walked in the booth with me, he would have. At that time, however, I was so I was focused on his Republican politics than the notion that he took 3 hours out of his busy life to be with me passed me by. Sure, politics was important to him, but his ushering me in the world of responsible adulthood was even more important to him. He made sure that I realized just how important voting was. Reflecting on this now, his actions now tell me more about how important I was to him than his politics.

This is the same man who spent nearly 30,000 hours of his life volunteering in the Dorn Veterans Hospital of SC. [40 hrs./week 50 weeks/year = 15 years.] In fact, he spent so much time volunteering, that they named the hospital chapel after him. Fortunately, he learned of this honor before his dementia kicked in.

Once my mother was gone, my father became my responsibility. After conferences with gerontologists, I decided to have him spend his remaining years in the Veterans Hospital that he loved so dearly. The only responsibility that I had was to wash his laundry every week. Now that was a trick since the hospital was in SC and I lived in CA. A friend telephoned a multitude of dry cleaners and laundries - to no avail. Desperate, I finally talked with a friend of my fathers who worked in the hospital. I asked her if she could find someone to do his laundry. I offered to pay. She looked at me and remarked, "I'll do his laundry. You don't have to pay me. For all that he's done for me, I would have to do his laundry every week for 25 years to pay him back."

And that was how it was. So, where was this man when I was growing up? How did I miss that significant aspect that was him? Was I too stuck in my position not to see the beauty of the rose but only the thorns? His death gave me plenty of time to reflect. Autopilot steady course.

So, when Honey was dying, I put those hours of reflection I had with her into play. I decided that I would give myself up to the opportunity to share myself. Once and for all. To be the better sister. To be the better daughter. To be the better human. I decided to watch her and help her. To give myself the opportunity to share the final path that she was walking. That final path that I had missed with my brother, mother and father.

Being with Honey made me appreciate the time that all of us have together. Our time is not infinite like I had once assumed. True, we all intellectually know that we'll die. We all realize that our bodies will not go on forever. But I know that I never thought about it emotionally. How could I prepare myself emotionally for the death of someone I loved, if I wasn't conscious of just how precious life was. How can we say "goodbye" when we never really say "hello"?

Being with Honey helped me realize the specialness of life. How we all work in concert with one another to support and care. As her end came nearer, she became more and more needy. I took that opportunity that I had to help her in small ways. Feed her by hand when her supper dish just seemed too far away for her. Hold her and talk soothingly to her when she seemed confused and lost. I went outside with her every time she went outside. Rain, wind or sun. We walked together. Her hearing was as keen as ever. I talked endlessly with her. Nothing important. Just words. Warm, soft, loving word. Towards the end, one of the greatest joys for her was for me to pull all 70 of her doggie pounds onto my lap. She would lay there with her soft underbelly exposed, and I would gently scratch her tummy. She would sigh gently, thumping her tail and tell me that "all's right with the world." A simple joy. Easily dispensed. Yet much appreciated. This journey with her was calm and loving. I gave; she accepted. She gave; I learned.

I made life and death decisions for my mother, my father and Honey. Those are pretty heady responsibilities. Fortunately for me, my mother and father prepared the way for me. They expressed their desires clearly and without exception in living wills. As a result, I was able to fulfill my responsibility as a daughter without pause - no matter how painful the responsibility was. With Honey, the responsibility was shared, but I knew that everyone looked to me to make the ultimate decision. Was it hard? You bet. Was I able to do it? Sure.

Lastly, my tenure with Honey taught me the ability to be patient. That quiet, hobgoblin virtue that I constantly seek but seldom capture. But the patience that I learned was not just patience in deeds, but also, patience for myself. To allow myself to be fallible and flawed. This go round, I learned to take things slow. When Honey moved deliberately, by necessity, I had to slow my gait to a creep. I would stand as she wondered. I watched and waited; watching her world slowly, inevitably grind to a halt. These slow times forced me to find calm. To learn the miracle of waiting; reflection; ruminating. I couldn't rush her; so I had to slow down.

So, am I still traveling on emotional autopilot? Not so much anymore. At least I don't go there often. Accompanying Honey on her journey helped me settle some emotional baggage that I'd been carrying with me for a long time. I liken my grief to carrying a backpack filled with stones. As time goes by, you give more and more of the stones away, to people you talk with, during moments of reflection. As the stones get removed, the weight of the pack gets lighter and lighter. I will always carry the pack, because it's a part of me, but the weight lessens. Being with Honey gave me time to slowly unload that pack. To reflect on the issues that I had been carrying inside me and to let them go. I recognized my vulnerabilities and came to terms with my losses. In turn, this letting go, enabled me to view each day more clearly. To enjoy the sparkling light of life and to consciously travel my own path more attentively.

[Delivered 22 May 2005. Debra Heins is a member of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Stanislaus County. Among many other accomplishments, she has a Master's degree in Social Welfare.]