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.

Umbrellas & Butt Wipes

Here's the current lay of the land:

• Fistula repair definitively failed; another surgery needed.
• Must choose between a muscle graft (MAJOR surgery) and a permanent ileo (major surgery).
• Being sent to an IBD surgical specialist for his opinion on which procedure would be better; referral letter was lost (grrrrr!!!!!!) so appointment isn't until April 15.
• Which means surgery won't be until May. With, depending upon the procedure, a 3 to 12 month recovery period.
• And we're moving in July.
• In the meantime, the fistula is acting up more than it has in about a year, causing much discomfort, some pain, and a blasted evil yeast infection. (@#$!@%)
• The stoma is now tipped flush with my abdominal wall, which means I resemble raw hamburger where it empties. If the surgery isn't until May, I will need a surgical stoma revision in the next few weeks.
• Abdominal & stoma pain have been plaguing me for a week; the symptoms are beginning to look like adhesions... Which also require a surgical fix.

So yesterday was one of "those" days. Tears, frustration, hopelessness. I sent a whiny missive to a friend who also fights with a chronic illness and used a particularly colourful phrase to describe what I felt like I was dealing with. She responded by saying, "I'll bring the umbrella and butt wipes."

I prefer unscented flushables, but chamomile or aloe will also work!

This, my friends, is what is needed on "those" days: a friend who doesn't roll their eyes, get grossed out, tell you to "just deal with it", or smile tightly. Instead, what is needed is someone with a bit of sass, who understands, is empathetic, but doesn't let you wallow in self-pity either. It's a gift, this ability. And these friends are a HUGE blessing.

Today I feel much better, physically and mentally. Here's what I'm doing to continue to fight:

• Writing this.
• Doing laundry (love the fresh smell).
• Making garlic knots. Because I want to.
• Sitting in the sun at some point for 10-15 minutes.
• Plowing ahead with some things I need/want to get done around the house.
• Counting each little bit I get done as a success.
• Writing a letter to a friend who really needs a pick-me-up.
• Praying for those who are in so much more need than me.
• Goofing around with Boo & Little Toot.
• Right now, after I post this, I think I might have another cup of tea and a scone.

And maybe, just maybe, I won't need the umbrella today. (I always need the butt wipes!)

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.

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!

Back to Life...

...back to reality.  Ah, where would we be without bad 80's lyrics?

I'm just two days home from a surprise whirlwind trip to Barcelona -- my Mother's Day gift this year, combined with a late 40th birthday and postponed 15th anniversary, plus a little "Thank God all the surgeries are over....  We hope!"  It was glorious.

Overlooking Barcelona from Parc Guell

 Blessed, yes I am.  With two fabulous university students who cared for Boo, Little Toot, & Bubba, for friends who helped out with random dog and childcare, for a DH who decided enough was enough and we needed some time away.  Who realizes that it is important to mark the Big Things; and when important birthday and anniversary celebrations (for instance) have to be postponed due to a seemingly unending string of illness and surgeries, understands that sometimes the Big Things are stuff like waking up in the morning, breathing, laughing, walking.

Today I'm realizing that all over again.  Because the "reality" part of life is sinking in again: weeds in the garden, childhood meltdowns, an ever-growing to do list, glue that will NEVER come out of the %$@! bottle properly especially when I really need to get these stupid wonderful birthday party invitations ready for the morning.

I miss the giant fish heads.  At least I knew where I stood with them.  (Away.  I definitely stood away from them.)

Fish heads, fish heads; roly-poly fish heads...

Pitiful, isn't it?  Such trivial, every day things.  But when other, harder things are piled on top of them, even these little things grow to monster proportions and threaten to become overwhelming.  Things like someone dear to me undergoing serious medical testing.  Things like depression, a sobbing child, memory loss, a niggling pain a little too close to the last surgical scar for comfort.  Right in the middle of what needed to be a pretty busy day, I shut down.  I sat down and just... sat.  I felt overwhelmed, I was anxious, I berated myself for being lazy, and then I realized the truth of the matter.  I'm afraid.

I'm afraid I won't be able to "handle it", to keep up without being sick.  I'm afraid things that I've lost (like chunks of memory) won't come back and that some things that I've gained (like adhesions) won't go away.  I'm worried I won't be able to keep up the new physio & exercise routine the doctors have set for me.  (Seriously, people, do I look like someone who enjoys lifting weights?)  I'm afraid I just won't be able to do "it".  Whatever "it" is.

And then Bubba sat on my feet, demanding a walk.  And I remembered a little card given to me by a nun many, many years ago when I was having a different kind of fear and worry attack.  The card read, "Courage is fear which has said its prayers."  So I said a little prayer, had a little lunch, took a little walk, ate a little chocolate, and looked at my toes.  My pretty Barcelona-pedicured toes.  They make me smile.

Pretty piggies

Life might indeed be pain, Princess, but life is also support and love and smiling.  Life is having a good cry and a good friend to hand you tissues.  Life is tough, but there are ways to soften it.  And I can either sit around on my ass and feel sorry for myself and let everything crowd in, or I can get up and fight back.  I choose to fight back.  Through prayers, through exercise (grumble though I might!), through helping someone else with their lousy day, through hugging my kids.

As long as it doesn't ruin my pedicure.  Because I quite like my pretty toes.

How do you fight back in the midst of a stinky day?