Navigating My Grief ... Remembering Payton Wrigley Three Years Later

Payton Wrigley wasn’t just a dog. He was my soul companion, my healing angel, and the witness to my growth journey and transformation.

Our meeting was a divine occurrence … what I can only describe as a “godwink.” I adopted him sight unseen through Dog Guardians, a rescue organization that saves dogs from kill shelters. 

I had him transported from South Carolina. 

He had been abandoned and had only three days left when I learned about him. I was living in Milwaukee at the time and drove to a suburb quite a ways outside of Chicago to meet him.

From the moment we locked eyes, we were soul connected. The bond we shared was unique, profound, and undeniable. In fact, when I went to pick him up … he beelined a path to me (bypassing several other people), sat down right before me, and immediately put his head down on my leg.

Over the decade we had together, Payton helped me rebuild my entire life.

He was there when I ended a relationship, when I left corporate to build my own business, when I moved from Milwaukee to Austin, and even when I wrote my first book and had my children’s book published. 

He walked beside me through my most significant spiritual growth phase, a constant presence of unconditional love and support.

He was so special that even my clients felt his energy. They would tell me about specific moments where Payton had helped them heal too. 

He had that kind of presence … one that transcended the ordinary and touched something deeper in people’s souls. Everyone loved him. 

Three years ago, my world came crashing down around me.

When Everything Changed in an Instant

Unexpectedly and suddenly, I found myself in the emergency vet hospital facing the most painful and difficult moment of my life.

My sweet Payton had a ruptured cyst, which turned out to be splenic cancer that had metastasized quickly throughout his little body.

In less than 24 hours, my baby boy went from being lively, energetic, and healthy to becoming a mere shell of himself. 

He was unable to stand, go to the bathroom, or eat.

The moment Payton wasn’t able to come down the stairs shortly after dinner, I knew something was wrong.

When I called the vet, she thought it might be a kidney infection, as he had just had a physical and was in what we all thought to be perfect health. 

So, I scheduled an appointment with her for the following afternoon. 

I had a speaking engagement downtown, so we set it for 4 PM to give me enough time for traffic.

Yet Payton’s decline escalated. I ended up sleeping, or trying to, on the couch next to his dog bed just to monitor him. It was the most gut-wrenching night of my life. I didn’t know what to do for him.

Around 4 AM, he stumbled, barely, to his water bowl and then proceeded to drink like he’d been stranded in the desert for months. The sound made my stomach turn. I knew something was very, very wrong.

I delivered my talk downtown in somewhat of an emotional blur and raced home as quickly as I could afterwards.

During most of this period of hell watching Payton decline, my sweet boy seemed to vacate his body … or be somewhat lost. There was no spark in his eyes or sense of presence at times.

Yet, when I got home that afternoon, he was waiting for me, eagerly by the front door. I saw the light in his eyes. He was fully present and alert.

For a brief moment, he seemed like the playful puppy I brought home a decade before. That was the last time I felt Payton fully with me.

Afterwards, I felt him slipping away gradually with each passing minute.

The Most Heart-Wrenching Decision

By the time we got to his usual vet, Payton was fading in and out. He seemed to be in so much pain at times and completely checked out during other moments. His eyes were vacant. The light was gone.

When his vet brought out the x-ray, I knew. You couldn’t deny the shaded areas that appeared on his chart. That moment broke me.

I barely heard his vet tell me we had to get him to the emergency hospital immediately. I drove the few miles in a complete blur. I’m so thankful my mom was with me for the journey.

As we sat in the cold emergency vet hospital room, I was faced with the most heart-wrenching and painful decision of my life. 

Apparently, he had cancer we didn’t know about in his spleen that had metastasized into his liver. 

Somewhere a tumor or something else ruptured, as they found both liquid and blood in his stomach and intestines.

He hadn’t eaten or gone to the bathroom for over 24 hours.

The vet told me it came on quickly, nothing I could have seen coming, and that he was in a lot of pain as a result. She confirmed his lifespan would be extremely short and he would continue to rapidly decline. The cancer would continue to metastasize quickly, like pancreatic cancer in humans.

Trying to extend his life would be futile. 

His quality of life would not be good, and he was at major risk. They were afraid he would pass away alone in the middle of the night, or would require multiple blood transfusions just to make it through, only to get another ultrasound that would tell us the same thing.

Surgery wasn’t an option for him.

Trust me when I say, this was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. To make this decision. And it took me hours to do so. I just sat there bawling, helpless. 

It was all so sudden and unexpected.

“How did I not know you were in pain until it was too late? How did we not know this was happening inside your little body?” Both vets assured me we couldn’t have known, but I feel like I still should have seen signs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

In a blink, you were gone. Now it’s been three years since you crossed the rainbow bridge. And to be honest, it still hurts. The grief remains.

In that moment, I didn’t know how I would do life without you.

The Waves of Grief Still Hit Hard at Times

I still wake up in the early twilight hours and remember that my sweet soul puppy is no longer here. It hits me in waves, both massive and subtle ones, often when I’m sleeping, as I wake expecting to see you.

And then reality hits once again.

You’re gone.

The cold hard truth comes slamming up against me and I feel like I can’t breathe. Then the tears come and take over once again.

For the longest time, the nights and early morning hours were the hardest, the worst. Eventually, the days became a little more manageable and lighter. Adopting Ernie Banks has brought me peace and healing as well.

Learning to navigate life without you wasn’t easy. There are still moments where I feel the weight of your departure and still miss you so much.

But now, three years later, while the grief still hits at various times and hasn’t fully subsided, I’m truly at peace with the decision I had to make that awful night. I know it was Payton’s time to go.

What I have come to realize as I’ve navigated this journey is this: grief never fully dissolves. There’s simply more space between the waves.

As the quote attributed to Jamie Anderson goes:

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”

So as I honor the three-year anniversary of your passing, I also honor the new waves of grief that are passing through. I give myself space to feel, to cry, to remember, and to release yet another layer.

And in doing so, I honor the decade of unconditional love you gave me. 

The healing you brought. The transformation you witnessed. 

The lives you touched … not just mine, but so many others who felt your gentle, powerful presence.

You were my godwink, Payton Wrigley. My angel, my healer, my best friend. The rescue dog who rescued me right back.

The waves still come, my sweet boy. But between them, there’s gratitude.

There’s peace. And there’s the knowing that our souls will always be connected … just as they were from that very first moment we met.