it isn’t your fault
“Did I do something to cause this?”
It was the first question I asked Dr. Tobias, Moxy’s cardiologist, after he revealed the full extent of Mox’s diagnosis: congestive heart failure, Stage C (there are only four stages); after he showed me the x-rays propped against an eerie glowing backdrop highlighting a heart grown too big; after he pointed out the leaky mitral valve causing fluid to back up into Mox’s lungs, little light bursts across the screen.
Moxy was back in my arms at this point, relieved his part in the exam was done. My tears had dripped down to his fur the entire time Dr. Tobias had spoken, and now hearing my question, he turned from the monitor to regard me directly, peering over his glasses. We were standing so closely together, I could see his blue eyes widen in surprise.
“No,” he said, after a moment. “You couldn’t have caused this. It’s usually a genetic condition, common to the breed…”
I interrupted him. “Not from giving him the wrong food? Too much exercise? Not enough exercise? Or not coming in sooner…?” My brain was already scanning the long list of all the things I must’ve done wrong in the nine years Mox and I’d been together. It had to be my fault. If it was my fault, maybe I could still fix it, figure out a way to not be having this conversation.
Dr. Tobias shook his head. His voice was kind, yet firm, as he said, “There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”
I let the line of questioning drop, but I still didn’t believe him. Somewhere along the way, I’d messed up. I should’ve taken his heart murmur more seriously. I should’ve brought him in for more EKGs. I should’ve gotten a second opinion about his cough the first time I heard it.
Panic drove me to completely overhaul Moxy’s diet and daily regimen once we knew his condition. I read countless holistic animal health books and articles, consulted with multiple vets and experts, took him to acupuncturists and specialists, and bought organic treats, supplements, and a purified water fountain. I learned how to make homemade dog food. I obsessed over his resting respiratory rate, his heartbeat rhythm, his fluid intake. I covered our hardwood floors with yoga mats, lowered our mattress to the ground (he also had back issues—because why not?), and researched things like canine hydrotherapy, cryotherapy, and stem cell therapy.
But it was never enough. I could never escape the guilt and self-blame. He was sick because I’d failed him.
Or at least that’s what I believed for a long time. Even after I lost him.
It was an ever-present shadow in the back of my mind—a very old, old way of relating to and interpreting what was happening around me, of trying to make sense of the senseless. And eventually I started to see how it bled into other areas of my life. In other words, it was my method for trying to maintain the illusion of control. And I had none.
I may have taken it to the extreme, but I don’t think my reaction is uncommon. If your more-than-human soulmate is not in optimum health—if they’ve been diagnosed with a serious progressive disease, if their age is starting to show, if they’ve had some kind of accident that’s injured them severely—you might also be tempted to blame yourself. It’s all too easy for your mind to remember all the times you weren’t at your best, like a twisted highlight reel. Did you miss the signs things weren’t okay? Did you accidentally give them food that was spoiled or did they ingest something they weren’t supposed to? Did you have an (unbeknownst to you) toxic plant in the house? Did you forget to give them medicine? Did you skip some annual vet visits because they were too stressful and/or expensive? Did you accidentally leave the door or window open? Did you neglect the joint supplements?
God, if I could reach into your head and spare you from this shame-filled, intrusive thought pattern, I would do it immediately. It makes everything feel so much harder. It robs you of your peace. It’s so heavy, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, feeling responsible for everything. And you’re already dealing with too much: having to say goodbye to your beloved too soon (it’s always too soon).
Here’s what I know: back then, you couldn’t have told me a damn thing. Dr. Tobias tried. My ex-partner tried. My family tried. My work colleagues, vet assistants, and friends all tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault, that I was doing (or had done) everything I could for Moxy. And so I know that’s true for you, too—no one can convince you it’s not your fault this happened to your pet. Only you can do that for yourself. Which means you’ll keep suffering and replaying these dreadful thoughts until you come to the place where you’ve had enough, where you have—somehow, some way—managed to see through the massive web of illusion to where true responsibility really lies.
After many months of digging myself ever deeper into the guilt ditch, I found the two truths—the only two truths—that I could use to build the ladder to get myself out of hell. They are:
Being honest about my intentions toward Moxy. Were there (plenty of) times where I messed up, where I wish I would’ve done more or been better? Yes. But I could honestly say there was never a time when I didn’t love him, and there was never a time where I wished him harm or didn’t want the best for him.
Having clarity about what is, and is not, within my control. What was it that kept Mox’s heart beating, his nails growing, his blood flowing? What was it that determined a cell would be for his liver or a strand of fur? What was it that kept the trillions of intricate processes necessary for sustaining life in his body in order? What was it that brought him into my life to begin with? What was it that kept him (or me) breathing, without reminding?
To bow to this force—or whatever label you attach to it—is to find yourself rightly situated in the universe. You show up, you play your part, you do your best, all the while recognizing Life is being lived through you, and through your pet. You are not in charge. You never were.
Maybe these thoughts will help you, too. Maybe they’ll ease your burden, let some air in, and bring you some semblance of relief. Because, dear friend, it’s not your fault.
May you find the will and the strength to believe it.
Let some air in—come talk to us.
