May 23, 2025 – As soon as I woke up, I checked on Goldie, my 14-year-old chihuahua. I wanted to stay and cuddle with my sweet little girl because she’s not been feeling well, but I had to get to my ultrasound appointment. Two weeks earlier, my doctor informed me that my liver enzymes were elevated.

“What causes that?” I asked him.

 “Obesity, diabetes and excessive alcohol consumption.” This is not helpful. I weigh 83 lbs, I’m not diabetic and I’ve been sober for 32 years. He tested me for hepatitis which came back negative, then ordered an ultrasound of my abdomen,  “just to be on the safe side.”

When I get to my appointment a pretty, young med tech asks me why my doctor ordered this test.

“I have elevated liver enzymes and he just wants to be on the safe side.’” I tell her, like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. What if something is wrong with my liver? What if I have cancer or cirrhosis?

The pretty med tech has me lie down on the exam table, lifts up my shirt, then squirts gel all over my belly. With a doorknob-shaped tool in her right hand she pushes and presses into the area where my liver lives: beneath my ribs, above my stomach on my right side. She does this repeatedly for what feels like an hour. What does she see? I know med techs are not allowed or qualified to give out test results, but I don’t care, I want to know.

“How’s everything look?” I ask.

“Your doctor will contact you with the results within a week,” she says keeping her eyes on the screen.

“You’d tell me if you saw something really bad, right?” I study her eyes, hoping they’ll reveal something, but she doesn’t flinch. What’s she looking at? Tumors? Lesions? Cancer???

I remind myself that my doctor only ordered this test  “to be on the safe side.” But what about that pain I had a few days ago near my liver? Could that be cirrhosis or cancer?

No, no, no, if I had either of those, I’d have other symptoms like jaundice skin, swollen belly, extreme fatigue…Yeah, you’re right. And I’ve never felt healthier in my life, so shut up.

The med tech continues her exploration of my belly, moving to the left side now. What’s over there? Again, it feels like an eternity as she glides the knob back and forth over my slippery belly in search of cancer. Enough already!

I need to get home to Goldie, who actually has liver cancer. In the past week she’s gotten so weak. Her once voracious appetite has vanished, and no matter what I put in front of her: steak, chicken, tuna, beef jerky or her favorite Frito’s corn chips, she just looks away. Occasionally she’ll raise her beautiful little blond head and look at me with those big brown eyes, like she’s saying, “I’m hungry Mommy,” but won’t eat, not even a bite, so I’m worried.

As soon as I get home from my ultrasound, I wrap Goldie in a blanket, gently put her on the front seat of my car and take her to the animal hospital where I work. My vet had recommended IV fluids and an appetite stimulant. After parking my car, I carry her inside and carefully place her on the exam table. Two vet techs, Karen and Alyssa, rush over to get her ready for IV fluids. Next the vet, Dr. Hillary, a smart, warm-hearted woman starts to examine Goldie and discovers her gums are very yellow – jaundiced from the liver cancer. She looks concerned. Goldie can barely keep her eyes open. It’s obvious that IV fluids aren’t going to help.

“Is it time Dr. H?

“It’s up to you Martha.”

“Do you have time now?”

“We always have time for you and Goldie.” Her kindness touches me, and I can no longer hold back my tears. Dr. H reaches out her arms and wraps them around me. Alyssa and Karen begin preparing Goldie for euthanasia, but after a minute Alyssa stops what she’s doing and gives me a hug. Karen does the same.

Once the IV is set in Goldie’s front leg they ask me where I’d like to sit with her for the injection. In my office? In one of the vet’s offices? Being surrounded by all these people who have known and loved Goldie for 7 years feels right so I ask to just stay where we are.

I think back on the deaths of our previous dogs. Some have died of natural causes at home in my arms, which was profoundly spiritual and powerful, and some were euthanized. Whenever my husband and I have done this,  I’ve been too terrified to stay in the room, but today I don’t feel afraid. Being with Goldie as she takes her last breath is exactly where I want to be. My coworkers feel like family. All of them are crying just as hard as I am. One of the techs, Juan, who lovingly gave Goldie regular baths, wheels in a desk chair for me to sit on, and Alyssa hands Goldie to me, bundled up in a pretty pink blanket. I sit down and cradle her in my arms.

“Take your time saying good-bye Martha,” Alyssa encourages me.  Over the  next ten minutes the front desk staff comes back to say goodbye to Goldie. They each give me a hug. I look into Goldie’s eyes. I’m relieved to see she doesn’t look scared.

Dr. H comes in and asks if I’m ready. I nod, and she injects Euthasol into the port in Goldie’s front leg. Within seconds Goldie is gone, and I feel gratitude and peace, not guilt or remorse. I know she’s in a better place.

I scratch Goldie’s lifeless neck, kiss her little forehead and head out to my car, where I hold my face in my hands and wail. I can’t believe she’s gone, but I know I did the right thing and I’m going to be okay.