Matters of the Heart

I don't know if I made the right call. Don't know if what I did was the kind, responsible thing to do or the sentimental, ultimately pointless thing. Won't know for a while. Have a feeling the guilt and worry is going to bother me for longer.

Here's the thing: I love my animals. I'm generally a dog person, but I honestly love the vast majority of animals. Can't claim a strong affinity for rats, but I'm not out to get them either. Having said that, I am also a realist. I don't "baby" my pets in the stroller, outfits, and real bed sort of ways. I take the best care I can of them, but I also treat them like the animals they are. Reliable, caring, professional boarding? Absolutely. Doggie ice cream before bed and an armchair to sleep on? Um, no.

Bubba is sick. Really sick. It happened last night after supper -- fast. He was suddenly restless, drooling, breathing heavily, trying unsuccessfully to vomit. I felt his stomach and it seemed full of air. In the two minutes it took me to find the number for the emergency vet his abdomen had swelled a third more and was hard. By the time we got him to the vet he was already in shock. It was a classic case of bloat, the dreaded sudden condition which can cause death very quickly if not treated in time. X-ray, IV, tube down the throat... Boo and I served as the lab techs.

Bubba and his ducky

Today Bubba was transferred to the area critical care and surgical unit. Further tests showed a stomach which was twisted and folded over on itself. The only options were immediate surgery or euthanasia. Given the potential costs of surgery and after care, given the fact that Bubba is a mutt who is in the beginning stages of hip dysplasia and joint fractures, I wrestled with the decision. He's 7(ish; he was a rescue, so we don't know for sure). He may or may not be overcome with terrible pain from the other bone issues and need to be euthanised within a year or so anyway. He may have 5-6 years of good life ahead of him. And the money... The money is of course an issue. The vets were very sympathetic and supportive, but I had approximately 10 minutes to make the decision. I messaged furiously with Jasper. I prayed.

We opted for the surgery.

Because although the practical thing was euthanasia, my heart couldn't take it. This dog helped save me when I was at my worst post-op. This dog has helped walk off frustration, loved me when I wanted to be left alone, irritated me beyond measure occasionally, and always demanded that I care for him. Which has meant I couldn't sit around and be miserable all the time. Because when you take on the care of an animal, you have a responsibility to that animal. So even when the house was empty and all I wanted to do was sit and sob, I had to take Bubba for a walk. And that might not have physically saved my life (although the exercise surely didn't hurt!), it did help save my bigger, non-physical life. I owe him.

Which might all be sentimental drivel; I don't know right now. Oh, God. Forgive me if I've done the irresponsible thing!

Bubba is out of surgery but still in intensive care. We won't know if he's going to make it for a few more hours. I'm just hoping and praying for peace and the best thing for Bubba, whatever that is.

A Down Day

It hits out of nowhere.

Well, not really nowhere because I have PTSD and am fighting an infection which makes me tired and am facing the difficult truth that I a) did NOT develop a new fistula (which means THREE repairs have now failed) and b) I must now make a choice between a really hard surgery and a really, really hard surgery in order to move on with some semblance of life. All around me hard things are happening; deaths, illness, struggles. I feel powerless to help myself, let alone "be there" for anyone else.

So, okay, there's background.

But mostly I think I do a pretty good job of dealing with it. After the initial post-surgery fugue and the inevitable crash when the bad news is first delivered, that is. (Those are really bad days, just ask Jasper.)

After the initial shock, however, after the crying fits and the exhaustion and the utter weariness, there comes a kind of -- well, not acceptance, but sort of an even period of coping. Of just moving on. Realizing that it is what it is and nothing I can do will change it so I might as well get on with things. There comes a sort of equilibrium.

"I'm on the hunt for who I've not yet become,

but I'd settle for a little equilibrium."

-Sara Bareilles, "Hercules"

It's fragile, though, this equilibrium.

Sometimes I know what sets it off. More bad news from the doctor, a horrible news story, that feeling that no matter how hard I try I will never be the mother I want to be. (That last feeling may or may not have been set off today by one of my offspring managing to slip out of the house without brushing her teeth. Again.) Sometimes nothing really sets it off, I just wake up with a weight holding me down, an utter feeling of exhaustion, and the knowledge that today is going to be a Down Day.

In the former circumstance I can more or less deal with it, with help. I can cry and express frustration and talk with people about why I'm upset. In the second, however, I never really know what to say. How do you explain what it's like when everything just feels heavy? When you are so damn tired that even the thought of a shower exhausts you?

These are the days when, if I do make it into the shower, I stand there and cry. For no reason. For every reason. Because-- 

Just because. Because even the shower drains me, and I don't know why.

I hate it; I hate these Down Days. They suck everything into an abyss and I. Just. Can't.

Jasper and I were speaking with a friend once, in the midst of several Down Days, when the bad news just kept coming, when even those we thought understood made it clear they had no clue. We were describing what was happening all around us and to us and in us and I was frantic to be understood, practically frenetic with my need to be understood. And this friend, with infinite love and understanding, looked me straight in the eye and said, "That is really shitty. It is just completely shit."

And I thought, "Yes. Yes, it is." And I began to feel better. Because sometimes, sometimes, everyone just needs someone to acknowledge the poop.

If at first you don't succeed....

...try, try again.

Not that I am particularly good at that. Actually, I'm pretty miserable at it. But here I am, deciding that I need the practice, deciding that I will not let stinky news get me down. With all the poop in my life, after all, I'm pretty used to stinky things.

Surgery number 10 is coming up. I asked for dancing girls or a solid gold bed -- some sort of compensation -- but they apparently won't be forthcoming. What will be forthcoming is another mesh repair for my #@!%&^ fistula. A rectovaginal fistula, which you can read more about here. (Be forewarned, it's gross.) This will be my third attempt at a repair, and my last chance with a "simple" repair; the next step is a muscle graft which, for a variety of reasons, is NOT what I want to do.

Essential tool for trying again.

To be frank, I'm scared. Not of the surgery itself, which I have already been through once, and not about the skill level of the people performing the surgery, because I know them and trust them. Just, because. Because fistulas are notoriously difficult to repair, because I've already had three surgeries associated with this fistula and it is still here, because no surgery is ever a walk in the park. Because I am so damn tired of all of this.

And yet...

And yet, the minute I stop trying is the minute I might as well cash it all in and I am assuredly NOT ready to do that. Not in the least. Besides, who would listen to all of Jasper's bad jokes? Who would ride Little Toot and Boo about chores? Who would make sure that Bubba has a fresh supply of rubber duckies?

So I'm trying again. In so many different areas, I'm trying again.

And, just because we can all use more thrash Praise & Worship in our lives:

TRY AGAIN

© 1989 LIMB RECORDS/LOST AND FOUND, BOX 305 LEWISTON, NY, 14092. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

YOU MAKE ME WANT TO TRY AGAIN.

I THINK IT'S SOMETHING I CAN FINALLY UNDERSTAND. YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE OCEAN, TURN MY PAIN INTO THE SAND.

I THINK IT'S SOMETHING THAT I CAN KNOW. YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE SUNSHINE AND MY TROUBLE'S LIKE THE SNOW.

I THINK IT'S SOMETHING FINALLY TAKING A HOLD. OH YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE FIRE AND MY HURT IS LIKE THE COLD.

I THINK IT'S SOMETHING FINALLY LEAVING A MARK. OH YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE LIGHTNESS AND MY HEART IS LIKE THE DARK.

This and That

First, an update.  Many of you will remember my spotty, scarred old toaster from my last post (Ch-ch-ch-changes).  After the new toaster came to live with us, the old toaster took up residence on our dining room windowsill.  There it achieved the status normally accorded a fine piece of artwork; an impressionist-style sculpture, if you will.  Jasper asked me when we were getting rid of it and I shrugged.  What was the rush?

The truth is, I was having trouble letting go.  Yes, it was a ratty old thing, but it wasn't hurting anybody or taking up (too much) space.  It still worked when treated the right way.  It kind of reminded me of myself, actually.  Scarred up and somewhat spotty, but still capable of working, occasionally, when things are going well...

This symbolism was utterly lost on Jasper, who got tired of waiting for me to act and deposited the sad old thing here:

so long, toaster of mine

That point you see in the lower white portion of the bag on the right is the toaster.  Sigh.  Rest in Peace, beloved toaster.

Second, life has been crazy here -- hence no recent posts.  I'd feel really guilty about that, but I know my reading audience is predominately my mom (Hi, mom!) and a few friends, and I figure ya'll can deal with it.

Seriously, though, between the end of school and lousy weather and massive computer problems and several minor crises, I have not been getting very much done.  This, plus a slump into PTSD-inspired lack of motivation, has left me feeling more than a bit slow of late.  You know, like life is speeding by and I'm only catching glimpses of it as it passes, much too late to do anything about it.  Sort of like this:

me on a bad day last week

Other days it seemed I was in the center of the craziness, perhaps acting as the LSD-inspired director of my own comedic failure.  On these days I found myself thinking of the odd-pipe-instrument-playing Bunnies & Dolls Man we saw in Barcelona:

me on a manic day last week

Having the kids home from school added a whole new dimension to my normal craziness.  And, in tried-and-true motherhood fashion, there were several days where I blamed my insanity on them.

do we get a discount if the parents and/or children are already nuts?

Too make matters worse, my new &%$#@! excellent exercise routine, far from helping me feel better, was only serving to exhaust me quicker and earlier as each day went by.  The lowlights of this were the day I pitched a minor hissy-fit to the amusement of several neighbours as I dragged Bubba away from some other dog's poop which he was trying to eat -- do I not have enough poop in my life? -- and the day I was attempting to train him to run next to me while I bicycled.  That ended with me flying tush over head over handlebars.

the best-looking of the resultant bruises

But then the weekend came and I had a good workout.  A really good workout.  Small and puny compared to others of you, I'm sure, but for me it was stupendous.  I hit a new level, broke through a barrier with my aerobic training, made it all the way through my current weights routine without dying, and proceeded to have a very productive day.  Best of all, the next day's workout was just as good!  And I wasn't exhausted!  The fact that I didn't need a nap or want to go to bed at 7 p.m. for two days straight is, for me, phenomenal.  A not-so-minor miracle.

Is it the exercise beginning to pay off?  The prayers I've been uttering much more regularly again?  A lifting of the depression?  Grace being extended?

Probably all of that, and more.

And I needed all of it as Bubba blessed my day this morning by puking all over the living room rug just as we needed to get out the door for an appointment.

still pretty cute for being such a pain in the hiney

Oh well; here's to more of "this" and less of "that".

Some changes are coming to Feisty Broad; a re-vamp of the site will hopefully make it more user-friendly.  Actually, to heck with user-friendly.  I'm hoping it will make it more Broad-friendly!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

For some reason my mother and my husband's cousin think we need a new toaster.  I don't see it, personally.  Sure, there are a few superficial dings on the poor thing, but it still works!  Mostly.  You just have to jiggle the browning knob in the right direction and keep an eye on your bread in process -- don't flip for longer than 20 seconds -- and it's all fine.  Even Little Toot has the process mastered.  So why should we get a new one?

Our much-maligned toaster

This one has character, and history.  Not an incredibly long history, but history nonetheless.  It was purchased in haste about six days after arriving in the Netherlands, as Jasper ran through the store grabbing the absolute essentials.  This was two days after I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery (my fifth) and a day after finding out our belongings were being held hostage in Rotterdam due to a paperwork problem.  The many white spaces are from me scrubbing the blasted thing to rid it of the sticky feeling the plastic casing seems to attract; the deep gash is from my mother moving a hot pat too close to it during one of my hospital stays, and the flame-shaped mark is from one of the university students who stayed here while we were in Barcelona; she turned the gas up high in the burner next to the toaster.

Like I said, it has character.

But mostly I'm used to it.  I know its tricks, know how to treat it, know what to do with it.  It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can deal with it.  Who knows what a new, pretty, proper toaster might do with our bread?

Unfortunately, fate has dealt us a cruel blow.  K, the above-mentioned cousin, and her husband and beautiful son are moving from Belgium -- where they have lived a mere two hours away from us for the past three years -- back to Canada.  We're sad about them leaving, sure, but the real issue is that K has bequeathed her new, pretty, proper toaster on us.

What am I supposed to do with this?

It's not sticky, won't melt, and actually toasts bread.  What the heck am I supposed to do with it???

Change is hard, even when it is good, or even needed.  Some of us are better at rolling with the punches, taking what comes our way.  Others of us need time to adjust.  And sometimes, whether we want the change or not, whether we're easy-going or uptight, change is just downright hard.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been asked several times how I'm feeling, how the latest surgery turned out, what I'm able to eat now, what the next step is.  I made no secret going into this surgery that I was hoping and praying it would be my last, that I had had enough, that I was ready, willing, and prepared to do whatever need be afterward to be healthy and -- hopefully -- avoid further problems.  Now, on the other side, I have to live up to those words, to that desire, and it means some changes which I'm finding difficult.

The hardest outward change is the exercise.  I've always tried to exercise and be healthy.  At various times in my life I've run, walked, done aerobics, biked.  Most recently I've done Pilates and yoga, a lot of walking and biking, and basically trying to be more active.  Now, however, my internist has informed me that the exhaustion I have been increasingly fighting for the past few years is not "simply" due to illness and stress, although those are obviously major factors in the equation.  She thinks my body has aged too rapidly due to all the surgeries and medications over the past eight years.  In short, my body thinks it is 50 or so, while I, in actuality, just turned 40.  Of primary concern is my bone density, despite the amount of calcium I ingest.  The treatment?  Intensive weigh-training three times a week, in addition to my other exercise, a careful diet, maintenance meds, and so forth.

Yeah.  Um, weight-training.  This is so not how I want to spend a significant chunk of time three days a week.

The harder change, however, is the internal change.  Because, as bizarre as it may sound, I have gotten used to Sickness Mode and even Crisis Mode.  I know what to do, how to make myself rest, how to not plan too far ahead (and not from a healthier "be here now" perspective, either!).  I know how not to get too excited, how to be careful, how to monitor every tiny change in my appetite, sleep, output (that means poop, people), mood, hormones, emotions.  I know the ups and downs of PTSD intimately.  And as much as I want out of these modes, as much as I want my life back -- or, dare I hope for it? -- even a better life, this way of thinking about things, this way of life, has been "normal" for so long that I am not even sure I know how to change it, or if I can -- or if I even totally want to.

Of course I want to.  It's just that I've gotten used to the stickiness, gashes, and melted spots.   I'm used to it.  I know its tricks, know how to treat it, know what to do with it.  It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can deal with it.  Who knows what a different life might bring?

Wait, I got a bit confused there.  Was I talking about my health or my toaster?

Either way, change is happening.  And change is, in this case, not only wanted but needed.

So here's to change: may it bring health, may it reside in strength, may it not hurt too, too much, and may it not forget the lessons I have learned and benefits I have gained.  To change!

What internal barriers to needed change are you harboring?