I was not a part of Riley's life when he took his first little puppy breath, but I was present for his last one.
On Tuesday, November 14, 2017, Riley left our world. I had always hoped to finish this book while Riley was still here, but I write slowly.
Riley's passing was as I had always prayed it would be, peaceful. After years of cluster seizures all I ever wanted for him was to go quietly, not fighting the monsters that had chased him all these years. His last few days were all about him, which was not unlike almost every other day, but still more so.
I worried for several days that I would wake up one morning to discover that Riley hadn't. On Sunday night I sat down on the floor next to Riley, pillows propped on the wall, iPad in hand, and watched him sleep. He had not moved even a centimeter since I had brought him that morning from his "constitutional". His breakfast had only been half eaten, and he'd not had anything since. Not even water. He had found a comfortable position that morning, and in that position he had remained. We set up a pallet on the floor so I could sleep next to him. His daddy asked me if I would. I have woken up countless times to find him on the floor next to Riley during a seizure episode, or even if Riley was just uncomfortable, so of course I would this time. On Monday, I started giving Riley water with a syringe. Just a little at a time, but consistently. He was slipping into what most of us would call a coma. Not moving, just breathing. We both cancelled work that day. I stayed on the floor all day next to him. That night, we put down a twin mattress so I could sleep a little easier. Hardwood floors are just that, hard wood. We also turned Riley so he could be on his other side. I had lifted him to give him his seizure meds and the side he'd been laying on was warm. Once we flipped him, the panting stopped and he seemed more comfortable.
On Tuesday morning, it was obvious that we were reaching the final stages. It's hard to describe, but you just "know". His daddy left us alone and Riley and I spent the next three hours together. I rubbed his tummy; massaged his ears; talked and sang to him softly. I moved behind him and put his head on my lap. I continued to stroke his back and side. I lowered the lights so the room was cool and darker.
Riley's body started shutting down. I stopped rubbing and left my hand over his heart. It was so strong. He had the heart of a lion. I watched him take a big breath, his eyes dimmed, but that heart kept beating. One more breath. His heart still pumping so hard. And then it stopped. Just like that.
In literally an instant, life was gone. We would never again see his ears flop when he ran, or that sweet little smile of his. No more grumbling to demand a hug, or singing for his breakfast with the rest of the Tanksley Thundering Herd.
He died easier than he lived. For that I will always be grateful. Anyone that lives with an epi warrior, as we call them, will understand. With every seizure that hits you worry your warrior will not survive it. So many don't. To be able to lie quietly, surrounded by those that love you, and slip away is the perfect ending.
Riley was with us almost exactly nine years. Nine incredible years. Our entire lives revolved around him - his med schedule, rearranging work during a seizure episode, traveling him with needed. We will never be the same without him, but we are richer for having had him.
Our hearts are broken, but we are blessed.
