The Worst Goodbyes: Part 2
Today, I'm sharing my story of losing Peanut, she departed on Feb 16, 2019.
Note to readers: This story includes the difficult themes of unexpected diagnosis, guilt, and death.
Peanut was a sassy, independent pig that came into my life as a wee babe, alongside her mom, Skittles. Skittles’ goodbye story was shared in The Worst Goodbyes: Part 1.
The two were a duo that shared space, years, and activities together, until Skittles passing in 2018. And suddenly, not only was I missing one of my companions, but Peanut was missing the being that walked every minute of life with her.
Having lived a life with Skittles as her companion and recognizing that guinea pigs are deeply social animals, Penelope came into our lives 5 weeks after Skittles’ departure and wow! Did she every mix up the scene.
I went from one sassy, independent gal who turned quiet as her world changed to two sassy independent gals that kept each other rambunctious and young.
On a cold January day, Skittles and Peanut came to work with me for their annual veterinary health checkup. There was nothing to be concerned about, besides imminent aging. Peanut was healthy as could be. Until the electrocardiogram results came back. The irony? We were testing the new machine and wanted to check out some guinea pig data (as you do at a veterinary clinic).
It turned out that Peanut’s heart activity did not match that of a health guinea pig heart, such as Penelope’s. With further x-rays, more information came, telling us that Peanut’s lungs held some fluid which was compromising her body and breathing.
As I think back to this day, so many thoughts are running through my mind: Why didn’t I see the signs? If I did, why did I normalize them as ‘aging guinea pig’ realities? What could I have done differently for her? How long did her discomfort go unnoticed?
As January turned into February, it seemed like finding this information our about Peanut’s hearts and lungs changed her health. I know that is not the case, but truly felt like her body failed more quickly after we received the news. On the evening of February 16th, her breathing appeared to become more laboured based on how her chest moved, quickly and somewhat irregularly. But she was still cruising around, sassing with Penelope and eating, so I thought there was still time. I assured myself that I would take her to the vet clinic the following morning for a check up and some enhanced care.
And, she never made it. When I awoke the following morning, she was still in her enclosure, with Penelope curled up near by. No breath, no heart beat, no more sass. Just the lingering warmth of her body that remained.
I did the really difficult thing of wrapping her up in a warm blanket, and taking her to the vet clinic. I managed her aftercare including collecting her pawprint and placing her in next resting place to await cremation. It was both torture and a gift to be able to care for her in this final way.
My grief for Peanut did not linger as long as expected, simply because our life completely changed in a very different way that exact day when Jersey entered our lives. I have harboured years of guilt for allowing Peanut to get to a place of such laboured living, when she truly deserved the care and comfort of euthanasia, sooner. She passed struggling for breath while I slept soundly on the other side of the wall.
As the time passes, I think of her less frequently. But she commonly scampers across my mind each time a companion animal guardian contemplates the romantic notion of having their companion pass peacefully at home. In my case, I think, “what peace was there for Peanut?”
My grieving was different with Peanut, less forceful and more of an undercurrent as I continued working, supporting Penelope, and navigating life with our new tornado of a puppy. And my guilt lives on in this way too, as I feel that Peanut deserved more love, thought, care, and remembrance than I gave her.
I share this story to acknowledge that we all have deeply personal and complex stories of loss, and I hope something in my experience helps to validate or heal a small part of you.
Brenn Clark, MSc (she/her)
Founder & Support Practitioner, Compassionate Creatures
