MArlies not doing well at all. I don’t feel like correcting spelling. Not even really sure what I’m trying to say. I just feel like there’s no way shes going to get better. And I know that I need to put her down. I spoke to the vet earlier today and he said that the meds can take 5-7 days to kick in. But how is she declining still then? It’s been 3 days so far and she’s way worse than before the meds. Way worse. Like I can’t even believe it. I have spent like 5 or 6 hours today just sitting next to her. She’s been screaming. I can hear the pain in her barks. She’s suffering so much. She can’t even pick up her head to drink the water I put next to her. I have been pouring it into her mouth. She can only lay down on 1 side. I think her neck hurts. She has bled so much from her teat. She has no interest in peanut butter or anything. Just lies there not even looking at me. Her eyes are so bloodshot. She hasn’t had any break. After our walk yesterday night she has been in the same spot for the past 24 hours. I have no idea how I’m going to get her to the vet tomorrow. I think I need help. Right now she’s quiet. That’s good hopefully she gets some rest. Tomorrow isn’t going to be easy. I wish she knew I am ok with her going to the bathroom in the apt while she’s like this. I don’t want her to suffer. That’s it. I always said to myself when she can’t walk around in the morning then it’s time to let her go. She is miserable. And it’s my fault. My fault for not taking her out on those days where I was a fucking idiot. My fault for not taking her to the vet as soon as I saw the first bump. My fault for waiting until after thanksgiving to take her in. My fault for leaving her home alone on Wednesday and Thursday. I should have been so much better. And I hate that she is the one suffering for that. (…) What am I going to do tomorrow?

Me During Marlie’s Final Day

When I was looking into my thoughts on inaction, I rediscovered my writings from the days leading up to Marlie’s death. Without question, this was the worst several day stretch in my life. Even now when I read through the writings, I find myself crying. She was my heart and soul, my little bundle of honey and oats. I remember after a stressful day at work, I would lay with her for just a few minutes and feel better. All the regulars on the path would stop and give her treats when she walked by. She made this apartment feel like home and made me realize I could be better than I was. And I killed her.

It has been 1.5 years since the day I put her down. Recently, I have been finding myself captivated by stories of those who lived life improperly, but through the way they acted in the end when everything was on the line, the arc of their entire lives were made worthwhile. I wonder, could something like this be possible even for someone like me? Do I have a path to redemption in reality and in my own eyes? For some reason, I am feeling that the path can only become visible once I understand my story up until now.

I was raised in an upper middle class home in New York and went to a great public school. Every day after getting back, my mom would make me and my sister solve multiplication tables and other place-mat activities before being allowed to get up from the table. By second grade, I had bet my best friends. We called ourselves the gang and would hang around outside playing wall ball, a game we invented. Every day after school, we would scooter around the neighborhood or go biking. I remember these times fondly. The summer of second grade, I went to sleep-away camp for the first time.

When I got back, things were starting to change. My friends were starting to be interested in girls and one of my friends turned on another saying he wasn’t cool and needed to be cut off. Why couldn’t everything stay the same? Everyone else in the gang cut him off. I felt stuck in the middle and tried continuing to hang out with everyone, blocking off time to spend with my friend who was cut off. I don’t remember if we ever spoke about what was going on, but I remember feeling terrible it was happening.

In middle school, my core group of friends was fragmented due to the splitting of many elementary schools into 4 middle school sections. In this time, I grew closer with a new group of friends. We were disruptive in class and didn’t try, but we did laugh a lot. It was around this time when my dad started coming into my room to have ‘closed door’ conversations where he could let me know that he was disappointed in my performance. He started comparing me to Haley which may have contributed to us not getting along in middle/high school. I remember saying, ‘my friends are getting B’s why do I need to get A’s?’ I don’t remember what he said back.

With the start of high school, I started getting in trouble a lot more. Some of it was because I thought it would be funny, some of it was because my friends were doing it, and some of it was because it was an adventure. Something prompted my parents to search my room. they found brake fluid in my drawer and assumed I was huffing paint. I told them I wasn’t, but they didn’t believe me and wanted to have me drug tested. Recalling this gives me a flash of anger. Most of my loves my parents, but I also feel like no-one in the world sees me in worse light than they do. Even now, I feel like in their eyes I’m a disappointment. A short time later, I was arrested with a friend for shop-lifting. After being let go, my parents debated sending me to boarding school. They decided not to. I wrote them a letter saying I’m sorry for being such a fuck up. I never actually told anyone, but I never actually took anything when on the shop-lifting adventures. I think I was there because I didn’t want to come across as weak and didn’t want my friend to go alone.

I went off to college, it was a fresh start. A place to re-invent myself. I decided to be as impulsive and outgoing as I could. For most of the first and second year things felt great. I felt like I was important, but by the end I was starting to feel like maybe people were laughing at me rather than with me. Still I continued slacking and sleeping through class and coasting through life. At the time, I was on the path to becoming a biomedical engineer. This was the best program the school offered and my dad said I should do that. The thought just crossed my mind that maybe I never put in any effort because I was never working toward a goal of my own.

The summer after sophomore year, I was arrested for smoking and driving. At the police station, I was handcuffed to a bench and the officer gave me a choice. I could be placed in a cell, or let go if I told my dad. He gave me a phone. I decided to call. ‘Hey dad, I was arrested for possession of marijuana’. ‘You’re fucking kidding me’. ‘No’. When my dad arrived to pick me up, the officer spoke to him outside. We were silent the entire way home. When I opened the door, I started crying and my mom tried to comfort me. At some point, my dad told me that I wouldn’t be getting any help other than driving me to pick up the car from the impound lot tomorrow morning. Some time later I let him know that I got an ACD, as if that was good news. He didn’t care.

When I got back to school I tried continuing where I was, still be the most fun person in the room. But I was starting to have panic attacks. There were full days where I would skip class, smoke, and waste time in the dorm room. When I went drinking, I usually blacked out. This continued for the rest of college. I would joke around with my roommates how after the debauchery would end.

Now I was working a full time job. It turned out I was rather good at it. Even as a trainee, I was already becoming a point of contact for helping the other new recruits. I was given a soft promotion to be a software engineer. I had finally gotten the job I had been working toward. My first project was working on a way to dynamically generate automation in production to help with client issue diagnosis. The base was completed quickly, the project drew on way longer than expected. I started feeling anxious when being asked to give project updates. This was my first project, and I was failing. I was working 16 hour days, trying to get the project finished and periodically, I found myself waking up at 10 or 11AM, ordering food and watching tv and movies and doing nothing productive the entire day.

I went to visit my friends in the ‘gang’ a short time later in a planned trip to West Virginia. It was a 5 day trip, I drove down. I remember one of my friends said ‘you haven’t changed.’ I think he meant it in a positive way, and I took it that way at the time. But something about it bothered me. I drove back and arrived at 3:30AM. The next morning I honestly don’t really remember how I felt. I guess the right way to put it is my existence was holding on by a thread. When I went to WV, I had left my laptop charger at the office. But I felt I didn’t have the energy to get it. I sat in the apartment for the entire week, didn’t answer any messages, and just sat around watching TV and ordering in food. What was going through my mind? I guess that it was only a few days. I would pick everything up next week. Everything will be fine.

On Friday, my building manager knocked on my door. I opened and she told me that my dad was trying to call. I turned on my phone. Within a few seconds, 100 texts came in. I called my dad, he couldn’t understand what happened, said my boss had called him wondering if everything was okay. I told him I think I had giardia and felt too sick to do anything. Even calling work to let them know. Friday afternoon, I drove into work blasting the heat in the car on the way there to work up a sweat, grabbed the laptop charger, and went back to the apartment.

I felt like I was being crushed by the world, but I couldn’t tell why. Just waves of panic which came periodically. There would be days where I would have intense panic attacks. But I couldn’t tell why they were happening. One day, I had one during a meeting and literally froze for 20 seconds when I was asked for a status update. I looked at my hand and it was shaking. Maybe this was my breaking point. I don’t know. I only knew that things couldn’t continue how they were. Something prompted me to try meditation each morning.

I felt like I was constantly suffering and in a state of panic. My hope was maybe deep breathing and focusing would help make me more relaxed during meetings and before going out. I started with 5 minutes each morning. But I found that it took until the end of the 5 minutes before I started to feel any benefit. I increased the time to 15, then 20, then 30 minutes. Usually I would focus on my breathing, in and out, like the waves of the ocean. In and out and calm. It didn’t help much in the outside world. But at least I had a 15 minute window where I wasn’t miserable which was a great relief.

I felt like I was making progress. I kept reaching for deeper states of meditation in the hope of finding something, though I’m not sure what. Each morning, I would try to be more relaxed, more calm, more focused, less clouded than the day before. I wasn’t always successful, but I felt like I was getting better until one day something strange happened. This morning, it felt like the voice saying when to breathe in and out wasn’t my own. Not in the schizophrenia sense (not that I have any idea about schizophrenia). I actually don’t know what sense it was. But I decided to start listening. It would take some time, but at around the 15 minute mark, I would usually start to feel his presence in the in and out. I decided to start talking to him.

Talking is the wrong word. More like obeying. But the more I listened, the louder and more detailed his voice became. He started giving me things to do in meditation. Imagine a turned on light bulb and focus on the light. Place yourself into the light. I also started noticing that periodically during the day, that same voice would start saying ‘don’t do that’ when I was about to do something I would regret. ‘Don’t masturbate’. ‘Don’t order so much food’. ‘Don’t lie’.

I started trying to listen to this advice. I started keeping track of the number of days I successfully was able to keep ‘faith’ on the whiteboard. 1, 2, 3, 4, fail. 1, 2, 3, fail. I started to realize that I wasn’t in control of my body. But one thing I did notice was the longer I was able to hold out, the better I felt overall. My failures were usually caused by something not going how I wanted it to. Slept too late in the morning? ‘Well the day is already messed up, may as well let it all go and start tomorrow’.

Around this time, I was also feeling a pull toward adopting a dog. I started looking around online at shelters. I knew that a puppy would be too much for me so I was looking for older dogs in shelters. It really is a terrible thing that older dogs would ever end up in a shelter. Somehow, in my search I stumbled upon Marlie. I decided to drive to the shelter the next day skipping work to do so. I remember sitting in the playpen with her seeing how we meshed. She was hesitant at first, but by the end I was scratching her tush. She loved those.

I had already decided I was adopting her, but formalities needed to be addressed. I needed recommendations from friends vouching for me and a letter of approval from my building. My friends were happy to help, though a bit surprised that I was blindsiding them with it. At first, my building said no. But I wasn’t willing to accept that and eventually they agreed.

I had no idea what I was doing. On our first walk, she started barking at another dog we saw. I got on my knees and hugged her and the other dog owner looked at my like I was crazy. There were sometimes 15-20 minute stretches where I would lose her and be running around yelling for her. This was scary especially in the winter. I remember thinking ‘guess I fucked this up too’. But eventually we always found each other. Some time after adopting her, I started noticing blotches on my bed sheets. I didn’t really know what to make of it but eventually I noticed that Marlie was bleeding from her teat. I told a few close friends on the loop about it, they suggested I see a vet, but I said I would wait and see if it goes away. There was no change in size for many months.

She was an older dog, but had a strong prey drive. One morning on the loop, she caught a rabbit. I ran over to her, and she let it go. But I think it’s leg was hurt. I told myself, okay she let it go we can continue and released her. She grabbed the rabbit again and I pulled her off. This time the rabbit was immobile on the ground, only looking up terrified at me. I was pulling at my hair. Around this time, I was trying to understand how people are capable of doing terrible things. How could somebody stand on top of the towers at concentration camps eager to gun down anyone who tries to escape? Sure Marlie had caught the rabbit the first time, but the second time I knew it was hurt and let her continue. Honestly, I still feel the same impulse with Pico, but I try to be aware of it to make sure I don’t act on it. Anyways, I saw the rabbit looking at me terrified. I didn’t know what to do.

I picked up a big stick and hit it on the head. But it was still alive, but dazed or severely brain damaged. I rewound up the stick and this time came down with much more force. The rabbit was dead. When this was happening, Marlie was looking at me with a scared look. After, she started eating the rabbit while I chain smoked 2 cigarettes on the park bench, my hands still shaking.That evening, I noticed the area surrounding Marlie’s teat had grown 5 times in size. Now it was the size of a tennis ball.

I took her to the vet the next morning. At the vet I was trying to rationalize. ‘She ate a rabbit yesterday, maybe it’s inflammation?’ The vet told me it was a tumor and wanted to schedule surgery the next day. I told him I wanted to think about it and would call him. I was crushed. I knew all along that it was there and pretended it didn’t exist. And now I had a choice, surgery or let it progress. I decided to do the surgery, but my dad said that he thought that was a mistake. Marlie was already 12 years old and in declining health. Who knows how she will respond to invasive surgery. I agreed and let the vet know I was not doing surgery. I prayed the tumor was benign.

Things continued as normal for some time, maybe a month or 2. I honestly don’t remember. One day we got back from the morning walk, and one of the most terrifying things I’ve experienced happened. I look back at Marlie, and her eyes are glossy and crooked. I thought she was having a stroke. I called the emergency vet and brought her in, but by then it had passed. They believed it was a vestibular episode and prescribed some antibiotics. In older dogs sometimes it is an infection and sometimes it is a neurological issue. It happened again 1 or 2 more times, but this time I knew what it was so I was a bit more prepared.

During Thanksgiving, Marlie had diarrhea on the hotel floor. I knew, and everyone could tell she was declining. My parents offered to go with me to put her down in December. I didn’t say anything. When we got back, things were different. The first day she was noticeably slower. I took her to the vet and they said she had arthritis and prescribed her medication for that. I remember for the evening walk that day, I actually thanked God. I felt like maybe there was some hope that things would get better. The next morning she still wasn’t doing well, but the pills didn’t have time to kick in yet. We shortened the walks but continued as normal.

The next day was Wednesday. I wanted to go into the office for a few hours to get some things done. But there was something different with Marlie this morning. It was like she couldn’t keep herself upright. She kept resting her head against walls. At the time, I ignored this and went into the office. When I got back to the apartment it was catastrophe. There were smears of blood on the walls, the lamp was knocked over, and Marlie was laying on the ground. She couldn’t get up. I kept trying to pick her up, get her on her feet for the evening walk, but every time she flailed out. I carried her outside using the harness as leverage.

I called the vet, how was she still getting worse? I was giving her the meds. He said it can take time. If she isn’t better by tomorrow bring her in. That night was the worst of my life. All of this is to say my life has largely been a disappointing tale. Shirking responsibility, neglecting what is most important, allowing fear to hold me back, and wandering aimlessly. I would say now I am doing better, but I am still finding myself doing all of these at some times. My apartment lease is about to expire and I am being overcharged and I haven’t diligently been looking for a new place, I have been getting requests from recruiters for job interviews which I know I should take, I have been catching myself doing busy work instead of focusing on what is most important.

What is my path to redemption? I tried looking at what religion means by redemption, but I am finding it too abstract to really understand. I do know that the further I drift from what I know I should do, the worse and more foggy I feel. And things seem to get better for myself and everyone around me the closer I stay to the path. But what does that mean? A few days ago, I set the personal rule for myself of no more ‘dilly-dallying’. Things like refreshing email, and checking for notifications. But even today, I have been finding that I am having trouble with this. It’s like I want to waste time to avoid doing what I should. I also told myself no more checking work notifications before getting out of bed in the morning so I can focus on improving myself, but I have been catching myself doing that again also. Even this morning I rationalized it away, though I don’t remember what I said.

I feel that I know what I need to do. I need to restructure my life so that what is most important will be the priority but in a way that I don’t slip off the path. Recently, I have been making 1 personal change every morning to make tomorrow a better day than today. But I have also found that as the ‘needs’ of the day have increased (ex: more work), I have been struggling with keeping my changes. No matter the consequences I must stay on the path.