Walking into yesterday, I knew it was going to hold significance.
I was scheduled to walk through a concept I have spent months researching, developing, and writing about—trying to determine whether it was novel enough to be considered as an enterprise capability and meaningful enough to pursue for publication.
Yesterday, I got my answer.
I received the green light to move forward.
When the call ended, I immediately called my boss to follow up. She congratulated me, expressed her confidence that I would deliver, and had been beyond amazing throughout the discussion.
After we hung up, I laid my head on my desk, completely overwhelmed. I thanked the Lord, and I wept.
I have spent months reading, researching, exploring, writing, and developing artifacts—including a five-part white paper series. The weight of that moment was palpable. It was probably one of the most significant days of my career.
And it was about to become one of the most devastating days of my personal life.
May was only a warm-up for yesterday.
I am not asking the Lord why. I trust Him when He says that all things work together for good. I have spent enough time in the valley to see Him do what only He can do. He has healed incredible hurt, walked me through some of the most painful moments of my life, and picked me up and placed my feet on new paths when others had already counted me out of the race.
So even though my heart is broken, I know this grief is a reflection of how deeply I loved my baby, Duncan.
Yes, he was a four-legged, furry, 36-pound ball of pure fetch energy—but he was also a beloved member of our family.
Duncan had been with Ricardo and me since December 2015. We adopted him just seven days before Fancy took her last breath.
Fancy was a 65-pound chocolate Lab who had belonged to Ricardo before we began dating and eventually married. Duncan saw us through her passing, and later through the unexpected loss of his sister Lulu.
He even helped keep us warm during Snowpocalypse. Under an emergency heat tent, his little body wedged between Ricardo and me gave us enough warmth to sleep before we made our great escape from San Antonio to my sister’s home in Calallen.
He had gotten sick over the weekend. We were worried and almost took him to the emergency hospital Saturday night, but we waited until Monday to see his regular veterinarian—the same vet who had cared for him since we adopted him.
Dr. Tommack and her staff have always been incredible.
Dr. Tommack discovered Fancy’s lymphoma simply by palpating her abdomen. She helped us navigate those difficult waters. When we asked how we would know it was time to let Fancy go, she gently told us, “You’ll know.”
She was right.
I carried those words with me when Lulu became sick. The final blow came when her specialist called to tell us she had a gastric bleed. I was getting dressed when Ricardo delivered the news. I remember placing my hands on the bathroom counter as my body gave way beneath the weight of the decision I already knew we had to make.
Through tears, I told Ricardo we had to let her go.
Yesterday, the first call I made after speaking with my boss was to Ricardo.
The moment he answered, I knew something was terribly wrong. He was crying. I braced myself and asked what had happened.
Two tumors.
One in Duncan’s heart and another in his stomach.
Ricardo told me he had spoken with Dr. Tommack, and we had been advised to let Duncan go before he experienced further suffering.
Within hours, a day filled with professional possibility became a day of profound personal loss.
We made arrangements for both me and Lola to go to the hospital to say goodbye. My nephew Timothy came through for us. He met us there to help with Lola and to say his own goodbyes.
Timothy has been such a blessing, and we have been fortunate to have him close during this season. He later took me to pick up dinner and stayed to eat with us. The tears came and went as we talked.
Lola stayed quietly on the blankets Duncan had been lying on during his final days.
We know she knows.
She was able to say goodbye while Duncan was still awake and alert. After he was gone, she sniffed his body, then turned and lay beside him.
It was heartbreaking, bittersweet, and strangely beautiful.
When Lulu passed, we had not thought to give Duncan the opportunity to say goodbye. We knew we would not make that mistake again. This time, we were intentional about giving Lola and Duncan that final moment together.
Our house is quieter today.
We are four legs short of the familiar pitter-patter that normally fills our mornings.
Duncan was my habitual fetcher and licker. He was absolutely obsessed. When his desire to fetch began to disappear over the last few days, we knew something was wrong.
We just never imagined it was cancer.
Last night, I walked into our bedroom and saw his empty kennel. The tears immediately began to flow.
I know it will be like that for a while—all the firsts without him.
The first morning.
The first time opening only one kennel.
The first time walking into a quiet room and expecting him to be there.
Lulu’s passing was devastating because it was completely unexpected. We knew we were probably living on borrowed time with Duncan, but we had still hoped for a few more years.
On Sunday, when Duncan was under the weather, we made the conscious decision to stay home with him and attend church online. I am so grateful we made that choice.
He appeared to improve after Monday’s veterinary visit, but by yesterday morning it was clear that he was not doing well. He would not eat, and Ricardo took him back to the vet. A series of tests eventually sent them to the emergency hospital.
Ricardo was a rock star. He made sure Duncan received the care he needed and figured out what we had to do to cover the cost.
Praise the Lord for pet insurance—a difficult lesson we learned through Fancy’s illness and one that later saved us with Lulu. Duncan had been insured since he was two years old. We will only be responsible for his deductible, and his policy covered his care through his euthanasia and cremation.
This morning, I am trying to muster the energy to get out of bed and face the day.
Our baby girl is wedged against my back, where she always settles after her morning routine. Ricardo has always handled the mornings. When I heard him open only one kennel today, I realized yesterday was not the terrible dream I had hoped it might be.
This is our new reality.
It will take time to establish a new routine and settle into this version of normal.
Eventually, the tears will come less often. One day, thoughts of Duncan will bring more smiles than sorrow.
I look forward to that day.
For now, we are walking through the grief of losing a member of our family whose presence had woven itself deeply into our lives and into our souls.
Yesterday reminded me that life does not always allow us to experience joy and grief separately.
Sometimes we are asked to hold them both.
To celebrate what God is opening while mourning what we have lost.
To be grateful and heartbroken.
To rejoice and weep.
And perhaps faith is trusting that God is present in all of it—on the mountaintop, in the valley, in the achievement, in the loss, and in the quiet house the morning after.
Rest peacefully, sweet Duncan.
Thank you for nearly eleven years of fetch, warmth, companionship, protection, laughter, and unconditional love.
You were such a good boy.
And you will always be part of us.
If I had my way in designing heaven, it would include the furry members of our families who loved us so deeply and faithfully—the ones waiting to greet us again with wagging tails, familiar faces, and all the joy they brought into our lives.
And my hope is that heaven’s design includes you, Duncan.
Today, I’m holding on to Psalm 147:3:
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
