It’s not supposed to be this way.
I stand in the long glass hallway of Big City Trauma Center, back to the windows as a throng of humanity streams past.
We knew her life might be shortened when we adopted. Shortened however isn’t supposed to mean short. It’s not supposed to be this way.
I hide behind my sunglasses and choke down my emotions as I send an email to order a tiny urn. I should call, but I can’t talk about it now. It’s not supposed to be this way.
My city is full of world class hospitals. If your family member is small and furry, that’s OK too. We have a kitty ICU, kitty cardiologists, and even kitty thoracic surgery if you want to go that far. It’s still not supposed to be this way.
We have a diagnosis, and the doctors are talking in terms of weeks. It’s. Not. Supposed. To. Be. This. Way.
We will make her as comfortable as we can and cherish our remaining time together. I cannot imagine waking up without her little furry body nestled against my hip, or falling asleep without her sweet crossed eyes staring over my book. We were supposed to have much longer. She deserves much longer. It’s not supposed to be this way.
I gather myself together, rein in my emotions, and head back to work, safe behind my dark lenses for now. As long as that damn harpist doesn’t show up I’ll be fine.
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