So, what do you do after you've had to put your dog down? And you've been holed up in your house, being listless and full of despair?
What you do is you take your nasty, yoga-pants wearing, skanky-hair-having self to T.J.Maxx.
Yes.
And you spend $145 on a dress, 2 workout shirts, a purse, 3 pillows, and a package of drink napkins (because a good hostess is always prepared and a smart girl never buys those full-price).
You realize that this trip to discount paradise is your first foray into the world in quite some time that hasn't been grocery- or veterinarian-related. You also realize that you have done nothing but care for, clean up after, and grieve your dog.
Your husband wasn't kidding when he repeatedly implored you to, "Get out of this god-forsaken house, fer chrissakes!"
So, the next day, you challenge yourself a bit more. You wash and dry your hair. You go to Target and the library. Expanding to more than 1 errand is exhausting. However, you must hedge your bets, hoping that if you run into someone you know, it will be on this clean-hair-having day. Plus, you wore a cute outfit.
The day after that, you have lunch with a friend. This is also exhausting, because being engaged is difficult when you have a hole in your chest. But the hole is different - bottomless, sure. But not quite as raw. Just different.
After lunch, you get your hair cut and colored. Because surely you will be leaving your house on the regular, and it's sort of a public service. Plus, your mama always made you wash your hair when you were a kid and under the weather. She said, "Clean hair can do miracles and make a girl feel so much better."
It was true for chronic tonsillitis, and it's true for all kinds of heartbreak, too.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Blessings.
Sitting in the car in the parking lot of the emergency vet ain't got nothin' on sitting in the car of the parking lot of the holistic vet. Especially after the holistic vet kindly yet firmly tells you that holistic treatments take a few weeks to kick in ... and your dog doesn't have a few weeks. In fact, your sweet pup is so dehydrated that she has maybe a week.
While I sat in the emergency vet parking lot and was all pensive? I sat in the holistic vet parking lot and sobbed. I was matching Lady Doodle in the mucus-production department.
It had been a while since I cried in my car. Much like folks who nose-pick with abandon while behind the wheel, I always feel like my car is a safety zone where no one can see me. But I'm sure lots of people saw me losing my shit. And I don't even care.
We had the option of taking Lady Doodle to the vet school 2 hours away and dropping her off. She'd get knocked out every day for radiation, and maybe some nice vet student would take her home at night. For 3 weeks. And maybe she'd go blind, and maybe she'd get an extra 10 months out of the deal.
Except that sounds horrible. And when you're dealing with a dog who hasn't eaten anything of substance in almost a week? It's time for a reality check.
We celebrated when she'd eat some ice chips.
She wouldn't or couldn't get off the bed. Until she did, and she was ready to do her favorite thing in the entire universe: play catch.
We were so lucky that she had some truly joyous moments in her last days.
Notice the 3-point stance. Girl had always been known for her speed off the line.
Ain't no mucus or fentanyl patch gonna slow this girl down. Look at that focus!
She couldn't stand to put anything in her mouth except for a gooey tennis ball. So we played. And prayed. And cried.
Friday morning, My Guy, Big Doodle, and I took our girl to the vet. She had her blanket, and we all laid on the floor around her. And she just drifted off.
I know she is free - free of pain, free to finally eat, free to play catch with abandon. We were blessed to have such a good bad dog. I mean, she ate yet another library book just last week. We were blessed that she wasn't sick for a long time, and strangely blessed that it all happened so fast.
We are heartbroken and shell-shocked. Blessing or not, she was diagnosed with cancer 5 days before she died. What the holy hell?
All of us - me, My Guy, Big Doodle, and the 2 dachshund terrors - are moping around the house, unsure of what to do. It's different now, and not quite right. We know it was the right thing, the only compassionate option. But we are heartbroken.
While I sat in the emergency vet parking lot and was all pensive? I sat in the holistic vet parking lot and sobbed. I was matching Lady Doodle in the mucus-production department.
It had been a while since I cried in my car. Much like folks who nose-pick with abandon while behind the wheel, I always feel like my car is a safety zone where no one can see me. But I'm sure lots of people saw me losing my shit. And I don't even care.
We had the option of taking Lady Doodle to the vet school 2 hours away and dropping her off. She'd get knocked out every day for radiation, and maybe some nice vet student would take her home at night. For 3 weeks. And maybe she'd go blind, and maybe she'd get an extra 10 months out of the deal.
Except that sounds horrible. And when you're dealing with a dog who hasn't eaten anything of substance in almost a week? It's time for a reality check.
We celebrated when she'd eat some ice chips.
She wouldn't or couldn't get off the bed. Until she did, and she was ready to do her favorite thing in the entire universe: play catch.
We were so lucky that she had some truly joyous moments in her last days.
Friday morning, My Guy, Big Doodle, and I took our girl to the vet. She had her blanket, and we all laid on the floor around her. And she just drifted off.
I know she is free - free of pain, free to finally eat, free to play catch with abandon. We were blessed to have such a good bad dog. I mean, she ate yet another library book just last week. We were blessed that she wasn't sick for a long time, and strangely blessed that it all happened so fast.
We are heartbroken and shell-shocked. Blessing or not, she was diagnosed with cancer 5 days before she died. What the holy hell?
All of us - me, My Guy, Big Doodle, and the 2 dachshund terrors - are moping around the house, unsure of what to do. It's different now, and not quite right. We know it was the right thing, the only compassionate option. But we are heartbroken.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
My Honda as an escape pod.
If you're looking for a parking lot in which to sit pensively in your car, might I suggest the emergency vet?
That parking lot is filled with people sitting in their cars, looking rather shell-shocked. Some are trying to get their act together to go inside the clinic. Others are taking a brief respite from the clinic, making phone calls and surveying the normal world. And others, like me, are trying to decide whether to lose their shit, or just drive off into the sunset. Except they don't know where they would drive to. And they are probably too tired to turn on the ignition, anyway.
We were back at the emergency vet twice today. Lady Doodle needed more pain meds. She now has a lovely patch, like she's trying to quit smoking.
Except that it's evidently super hard-core and I had to sign a release promising that I wouldn't slap it on myself and that I would dispose of it properly and not, like, try to get a toddler to lick it.
So, that was the first trip. The second was for a look-see with a surgeon. The first surgeon said the tumor wasn't a good candidate for "debulking" - because at this point, we've all accepted that there's no clean removal. So, this look-see was with a second surgeon who wouldn't make a decision based on the films alone.
After a 3-minute eyeballing, the verdict was in. Surgery would require removing too much of her palate. It's a no-go.
So, for those keeping score at home ... there's no chemo for this type of cancer. Radiation so close to her eyes might make her go blind. And surgery would basically make her sinuses collapse and fall into her intestines.
Hence my sitting in the car in the emergency vet parking lot.
Now, we do have an appointment with the holistic vet who treated the Geriatric Poodle. Miraculously, this vet had a cancellation tomorrow, and we're in. So, that's positive. We have a plan!
I'm beyond exhausted. And the idea of justifying Reiki or acupuncture or Chinese herbs to my meat-and-potatoes husband makes me want to drink about 27 bottles of wine. Or beer, if that would be easier to relate to.
Instead, I have to come up with a way to explain that these are our options - our only options. And I need to find words that don't make either of our hearts explode.
That parking lot is filled with people sitting in their cars, looking rather shell-shocked. Some are trying to get their act together to go inside the clinic. Others are taking a brief respite from the clinic, making phone calls and surveying the normal world. And others, like me, are trying to decide whether to lose their shit, or just drive off into the sunset. Except they don't know where they would drive to. And they are probably too tired to turn on the ignition, anyway.
We were back at the emergency vet twice today. Lady Doodle needed more pain meds. She now has a lovely patch, like she's trying to quit smoking.
Except that it's evidently super hard-core and I had to sign a release promising that I wouldn't slap it on myself and that I would dispose of it properly and not, like, try to get a toddler to lick it.
So, that was the first trip. The second was for a look-see with a surgeon. The first surgeon said the tumor wasn't a good candidate for "debulking" - because at this point, we've all accepted that there's no clean removal. So, this look-see was with a second surgeon who wouldn't make a decision based on the films alone.
After a 3-minute eyeballing, the verdict was in. Surgery would require removing too much of her palate. It's a no-go.
So, for those keeping score at home ... there's no chemo for this type of cancer. Radiation so close to her eyes might make her go blind. And surgery would basically make her sinuses collapse and fall into her intestines.
Hence my sitting in the car in the emergency vet parking lot.
Now, we do have an appointment with the holistic vet who treated the Geriatric Poodle. Miraculously, this vet had a cancellation tomorrow, and we're in. So, that's positive. We have a plan!
I'm beyond exhausted. And the idea of justifying Reiki or acupuncture or Chinese herbs to my meat-and-potatoes husband makes me want to drink about 27 bottles of wine. Or beer, if that would be easier to relate to.
Instead, I have to come up with a way to explain that these are our options - our only options. And I need to find words that don't make either of our hearts explode.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Coping mechanisms. And vomit.
I'm here to share a very important message with you. And that message is this:
It's never to early for wine.
I came to this conclusion after days of trying to get Lady Labradoodle to eat. She hadn't eaten since Saturday morning. No food = No meds.
Yesterday, I took her to the emergency vet, where a very patient tech suctioned out my girl's nose and then shoved 2 pain pills down her throat. Literally. Lady Doodle was not having it, and she bit the pills, which are bitter. This then made her foam at the mouth and hyperventilate. In the waiting room. Like she had rabies.
A rather scary Daniel Day-Lewis lookalike watched the entire episode in abject horror. What? Do copious amounts of dog saliva not fit with your method-acting ways?
Three more valiant attempts from the tech and the pain meds were in the pissed-off doodle. I think this is the reason why I was able to trick her into eating this morning. When everybody got a treat for coming in the house, and she actually ate her treat? I just kept the treats coming. Psych! And by "treats," I mean "pieces of stale prescription kibble leftover from the Geriatric Poodle that I now pass off as treats because I can't waste them and really, we're talking about dogs anyway."
Lady Doodle ate the food! Yay!
Except by this afternoon, it was clearly time for another pain pill. But she wouldn't eat. And she wouldn't have anything to do with the pain pill. Which I learned when she put it in her mouth and promptly spat it across the room ... into Foxie Doxie's waiting maw.
My dachshund ate a painkiller designed for a dog that outweighs him by 65 pounds.
So, Foxie and I locked ourselves in the bathroom. I rolled up the rug and syringed hydrogen peroxide down his throat. Then, we waited.
Lady Doodle has chondrosarcoma, a cancer of the cartilage in her palate. She won't eat, she's a general mess, and we are just starting to investigate our options. My husband is a wreck. I am trying to hold it together. And sometimes, holding it together involves camping out in a bathroom, waiting for your dachshund to throw up.
It was then, sitting on the toilet that's always running because we live in an old house where everything is just a tiny bit shitty, that I had an epiphany.
Wine. Is good. Now. Right now.
And then Foxie ralphed up frothy, voluminous barf, and I cleaned it up. Then, I poured a glass of Riesling.
It's never to early for wine.
I came to this conclusion after days of trying to get Lady Labradoodle to eat. She hadn't eaten since Saturday morning. No food = No meds.
Yesterday, I took her to the emergency vet, where a very patient tech suctioned out my girl's nose and then shoved 2 pain pills down her throat. Literally. Lady Doodle was not having it, and she bit the pills, which are bitter. This then made her foam at the mouth and hyperventilate. In the waiting room. Like she had rabies.
A rather scary Daniel Day-Lewis lookalike watched the entire episode in abject horror. What? Do copious amounts of dog saliva not fit with your method-acting ways?
Three more valiant attempts from the tech and the pain meds were in the pissed-off doodle. I think this is the reason why I was able to trick her into eating this morning. When everybody got a treat for coming in the house, and she actually ate her treat? I just kept the treats coming. Psych! And by "treats," I mean "pieces of stale prescription kibble leftover from the Geriatric Poodle that I now pass off as treats because I can't waste them and really, we're talking about dogs anyway."
Lady Doodle ate the food! Yay!
Except by this afternoon, it was clearly time for another pain pill. But she wouldn't eat. And she wouldn't have anything to do with the pain pill. Which I learned when she put it in her mouth and promptly spat it across the room ... into Foxie Doxie's waiting maw.
My dachshund ate a painkiller designed for a dog that outweighs him by 65 pounds.
So, Foxie and I locked ourselves in the bathroom. I rolled up the rug and syringed hydrogen peroxide down his throat. Then, we waited.
Lady Doodle has chondrosarcoma, a cancer of the cartilage in her palate. She won't eat, she's a general mess, and we are just starting to investigate our options. My husband is a wreck. I am trying to hold it together. And sometimes, holding it together involves camping out in a bathroom, waiting for your dachshund to throw up.
It was then, sitting on the toilet that's always running because we live in an old house where everything is just a tiny bit shitty, that I had an epiphany.
Wine. Is good. Now. Right now.
And then Foxie ralphed up frothy, voluminous barf, and I cleaned it up. Then, I poured a glass of Riesling.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
And did I mention my giant zit?
It's been kind of a rough week.
Thanks for the kind words about Lady Doodle. We are still waiting for the pathology reports, and she is busy creating uh-mayzing snotsicles. Seriously. You have not lived until you've shared a home with an 80-pound dog who has foot-long snot stalactites hanging off her muzzle.
Obviously, we're trying to look on the bright side. Sure, she might have a nasal tumor. But dude, this snot thing is a serious talent. Like, "America's Got Talent" talent.
To add to the general ambiance of awesome, we received 20 inches of snow in the span of 5 days. While my hearty Iowan heart finds this to be a sign that we've gotten our money's worth and had a real winter, the reality of living someplace where this sort of precipitation isn't normal is another thing entirely. Folks here are FREAKED OUT.
Plus, if we're honest?
This was our driveway Tuesday morning. The garage is to the right, and the camera is facing the street.
Yeah. That's supposed to be a driveway.
It took My Guy and I several hours - plus a kind neighbor with a snow blower - to make the drive passable. My Guy got to use his chainsaw, which is obviously a win. However, I am still unable to move from all the cutting and limb-moving and shoveling and hitting-trees-with-a-broom-like-the-old-lady-I-am-in-hopes-that-no-more-branches-break.
And speaking of being an old lady? Facebook is en fuego with talk of ... my 20th high school reunion.
I could handle the snotsicles. And the snowmageddon. But throw in a reunion, complete with people bitching, "Oh, nobody liked me, so I won't go and none of you will care" or "Does it have to be on a weekend? I don't know if I can get off work?" Well ... fuck. Just FUCK.
The world is clearly coming to an end. Much like R.E.M. predicted, I feel mostly fine. Mostly.
Thanks for the kind words about Lady Doodle. We are still waiting for the pathology reports, and she is busy creating uh-mayzing snotsicles. Seriously. You have not lived until you've shared a home with an 80-pound dog who has foot-long snot stalactites hanging off her muzzle.
Obviously, we're trying to look on the bright side. Sure, she might have a nasal tumor. But dude, this snot thing is a serious talent. Like, "America's Got Talent" talent.
To add to the general ambiance of awesome, we received 20 inches of snow in the span of 5 days. While my hearty Iowan heart finds this to be a sign that we've gotten our money's worth and had a real winter, the reality of living someplace where this sort of precipitation isn't normal is another thing entirely. Folks here are FREAKED OUT.
Plus, if we're honest?
This was our driveway Tuesday morning. The garage is to the right, and the camera is facing the street.
It took My Guy and I several hours - plus a kind neighbor with a snow blower - to make the drive passable. My Guy got to use his chainsaw, which is obviously a win. However, I am still unable to move from all the cutting and limb-moving and shoveling and hitting-trees-with-a-broom-like-the-old-lady-I-am-in-hopes-that-no-more-branches-break.
And speaking of being an old lady? Facebook is en fuego with talk of ... my 20th high school reunion.
I could handle the snotsicles. And the snowmageddon. But throw in a reunion, complete with people bitching, "Oh, nobody liked me, so I won't go and none of you will care" or "Does it have to be on a weekend? I don't know if I can get off work?" Well ... fuck. Just FUCK.
The world is clearly coming to an end. Much like R.E.M. predicted, I feel mostly fine. Mostly.
Monday, February 25, 2013
In defense of my too-many-dog-having ways.
Despite copious antibiotics and my best white-trash, steaming-in-the-shower efforts, Lady Doodle still sounds like Darth Vader and a vacuum cleaner had a baby.
She's a bit congested.
My Guy and I have gone back and forth ... she sounds better. No, she sounds worse. She's waaaay better! She kept me awake last night!
This morning, I took her back to the vet. We didn't have an appointment, but sat and waited for them to work us in.
The vet identified an abscess on the roof of the baby girl's mouth.
We moved on to the emergency / trauma vet.
I sat in that waiting room from 1:50 until My Guy came to take me to dinner at 6:20. During that time, I made friends with an 18-year-old dachshund and got French kissed by a gorgeous lab-pit mix.
After a quick getaway for sustenance, My Guy and I sat in that familiar waiting room until our girl was ready to go home around 8.
She has an Oreo-sized mass in the tissue between her palate and her nasal passages. Her distinctive snorgle comes from the fact that 80% of the passage from her sinuses to her throat is blocked.
The mass didn't break up easily. We are waiting a few days for pathology, but the vet feels the signs point to cancer.
Having her muzzle all messed with has left Lady Doodle with a Rolly Fingers-esque curled mustache. It's a distinctive look, really.
She's currently asleep with her head on my foot. I've lost feeling in that appendage.
I feel rather numb all over, actually. Except I want to take back every time I've ever said that 4 dogs is too many. Four dogs is perfect. Any fewer than 4 dogs is inadequate.
She's a bit congested.
My Guy and I have gone back and forth ... she sounds better. No, she sounds worse. She's waaaay better! She kept me awake last night!
This morning, I took her back to the vet. We didn't have an appointment, but sat and waited for them to work us in.
The vet identified an abscess on the roof of the baby girl's mouth.
We moved on to the emergency / trauma vet.
I sat in that waiting room from 1:50 until My Guy came to take me to dinner at 6:20. During that time, I made friends with an 18-year-old dachshund and got French kissed by a gorgeous lab-pit mix.
After a quick getaway for sustenance, My Guy and I sat in that familiar waiting room until our girl was ready to go home around 8.
She has an Oreo-sized mass in the tissue between her palate and her nasal passages. Her distinctive snorgle comes from the fact that 80% of the passage from her sinuses to her throat is blocked.
The mass didn't break up easily. We are waiting a few days for pathology, but the vet feels the signs point to cancer.
Having her muzzle all messed with has left Lady Doodle with a Rolly Fingers-esque curled mustache. It's a distinctive look, really.
She's currently asleep with her head on my foot. I've lost feeling in that appendage.
I feel rather numb all over, actually. Except I want to take back every time I've ever said that 4 dogs is too many. Four dogs is perfect. Any fewer than 4 dogs is inadequate.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Clutter be gone! Except for the clutter that should stay!
When I took a severance package from Corporate Behemoth, lots of folks asked me what I was going to do next.
"Not this" didn't seem like an appropriate response, so I said I was going to clean my basement. Which was true. Except that I ended up starting a gig with Mega Corporate Behemoth a mere 2 weeks later, so ... yeah. No basement.
But now is The Time of the Basement.
Cleaning the basement is a time-honored tradition in my family. My mom lives in abject fear that she will die with a cluttery basement, leaving me and my brother to sort through a giant hoard o' crap. And so, she will undertake occasional basement purges. We have been known, as a family, to clean the basement together for quality time. Some families go to Disney World; we go to the crawlspace.
My mom can't throw out anything that belonged to me or Poochie, as the desire for clean is matched with a respect for stuff. This is why it took my folks the better part of a year to clean out my grandparents' house ... and why they lost their shit when certain unnamed members of the extended family saved stuff from that house that shouldn't have been saved at all. Stuff like used bars of Dial soap.
My people were not amused. My parents will not abide by your crap!
So, I was actually looking forward to cleaning my basement. When My Guy and I combined households 2 years ago, we did a ton of purging. However, there came a point between the Craig's List sales, mass remodeling, and wedding planning that we just kind of gave up. So, the storage portion of the basement became kind of a catch-all.
But no more!
I organized paint supplies. I purged suitcases. We got a whopping $14 for the 5 boxes of books we took to Half-Priced Books.
That was the easy stuff. Then there was what can only be described as Random Shit.
Random Shit includes:
We got rid of the Christmas decor. But ... I packed up the CDs and jewel cases and didn't bother to match them up. I'm a basement-cleaning renegade! And I justified keeping all the lipsticks because, well, I might get invited to a costume party, and then I'll need a purple-hued lip color. And that stuff doesn't really go bad, right?
See, it's not hoarding when it's your stuff and it's good stuff, right?
OK, I don't actually believe that. But since we moved, My Guy and I have streamlined and donated So. Much. Stuff. And since we have room in our basement to store both the CDs and the jewel cases, the world is not going to end and our house isn't going to get condemned if I don't spend hours matching them up.
Also? If those free Clinique lipsticks get me on "Hoarders," then surely that will translate into a Kardashian-like fame. And that fame? Will surely translate into never having to wait at our local Mexican restaurant.
Calculated risks, people.
"Not this" didn't seem like an appropriate response, so I said I was going to clean my basement. Which was true. Except that I ended up starting a gig with Mega Corporate Behemoth a mere 2 weeks later, so ... yeah. No basement.
But now is The Time of the Basement.
Cleaning the basement is a time-honored tradition in my family. My mom lives in abject fear that she will die with a cluttery basement, leaving me and my brother to sort through a giant hoard o' crap. And so, she will undertake occasional basement purges. We have been known, as a family, to clean the basement together for quality time. Some families go to Disney World; we go to the crawlspace.
My mom can't throw out anything that belonged to me or Poochie, as the desire for clean is matched with a respect for stuff. This is why it took my folks the better part of a year to clean out my grandparents' house ... and why they lost their shit when certain unnamed members of the extended family saved stuff from that house that shouldn't have been saved at all. Stuff like used bars of Dial soap.
My people were not amused. My parents will not abide by your crap!
So, I was actually looking forward to cleaning my basement. When My Guy and I combined households 2 years ago, we did a ton of purging. However, there came a point between the Craig's List sales, mass remodeling, and wedding planning that we just kind of gave up. So, the storage portion of the basement became kind of a catch-all.
But no more!
I organized paint supplies. I purged suitcases. We got a whopping $14 for the 5 boxes of books we took to Half-Priced Books.
That was the easy stuff. Then there was what can only be described as Random Shit.
Random Shit includes:
- Ugly, never-used Christmas decorations that My Guy's ex-wife bought
- Approximately 9,863 CDs, none of which were actually paired with their jewel cases
- Approximately 9,863 empty jewel cases
- Every free lipstick I've ever received from Clinique Bonus Time
We got rid of the Christmas decor. But ... I packed up the CDs and jewel cases and didn't bother to match them up. I'm a basement-cleaning renegade! And I justified keeping all the lipsticks because, well, I might get invited to a costume party, and then I'll need a purple-hued lip color. And that stuff doesn't really go bad, right?
See, it's not hoarding when it's your stuff and it's good stuff, right?
OK, I don't actually believe that. But since we moved, My Guy and I have streamlined and donated So. Much. Stuff. And since we have room in our basement to store both the CDs and the jewel cases, the world is not going to end and our house isn't going to get condemned if I don't spend hours matching them up.
Also? If those free Clinique lipsticks get me on "Hoarders," then surely that will translate into a Kardashian-like fame. And that fame? Will surely translate into never having to wait at our local Mexican restaurant.
Calculated risks, people.
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