Mar 30, 2023·edited Mar 30, 2023Liked by Anne M Ishii

Golda died recently after months of medical interventions and weeks of hoping and debating whether she was more alive than dead. After one canceled appointment for in-home euthanasia, we finally knew without doubt it was time and rescheduled. The grim reaper turned out to be an elderly Jewish man named Amir recommended by our nanny's uncle, who cremates pets for a living. Amir was compassionate. Before setting about his work, he solemnly sat apart while we cried our eyes out at Golda's side on the bedroom floor, where she'd lain flat for hours. At last approaching with an uncapped syringe--the first shot, a tranquilizer--Amir turned to me. "And your name, it's Irma?" I get this kind of thing a lot, usually followed with a delighted "I have an aunt named Irma!" But Amir said, "My grandmother was named Irma. She died in Auschwitz with the rest of my family." I haven't cried over Golda since.

But then again: When we were in Poland desperately trying to get the kids home after all the trauma around their birth, Golda, back home, ate a bathroom trashcan full of tooth floss, sanitary pads, toilet paper, etc., and needed emergency surgery to clear a bowel obstruction. Sasha said, pleading with the vet over the phone to take special care, "You have to understand. I cannot be there because we had to evacuate our babies from Kyiv, but there is nothing in the world more precious to us than Golda." Ha. Love.

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Oh gosh I'm so sorry about Golda! I didn't realize you guys had a dog but that's lovely she had you all. <3 <3 Love.

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