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.

Bland, Thick, & Lumpy OR Death By Low Residue

Lord, have mercy.

I do not like bland food. I mean, I really do not like bland food. My mother discovered my penchant for spicy food when I was only two and I single-handedly ate almost an entire bowl of chile con queso she had made for a party. At age five or six we were eating supper when I noticed the meat was different and asked, "What kind of meat is this?" (It was venison procured by my father.) In a fit of God-only-knows-what-he-was-thinking my father answered, "It's Bambi." According to both my parents I merely blinked my eyes once before pronouncing, "Bambi tastes good," and cleaning off my plate with relish.

When I was pregnant with Boo I ate pretty much anything and everything I wanted. The only food which regularly made me sick was plain, un-spiced chicken breast. For some reason people kept serving this to me under an assumption that I could not eat normal food while pregnant. I ended up throwing it all up every. single. time. Bland food and I do NOT get along.

Fast forward to today, three and half weeks post-op after my latest Fun-Filled Hospital Extravaganza, and I am on a low residue diet.

The makings of a typical low residue meal. Yee haw.

A low residue diet, for those of you who have never had the privilege of experiencing one, is a diet designed to both lessen the frequency and thicken the consistency of one's output. By which I mean this: thicker poop and fewer instances of messing one's self. Yes, it is definitely as fun as it sounds.

The reason I'm on this diet is because I had a pouch advancement on June 26th (they cut loose my J-pouch and pulled it down into my rectum) in order to (hopefully) deal once and for all with the @#!$% fistula I've been fighting for the past three years. This was part one of a two-surgery procedure. (For those keeping score, surgeries 12 and 13.) I then had to wait around in the hospital for two weeks, almost completely incontinent -- yes, that was as much fun as it sounds, too! -- until the second procedure on July 10th. During this procedure the ends of the pouch were trimmed and fully stitched in place. Voila! One exceedingly sore hiney and a LOT of poop to contend with.

So. Here is a list of food & beverage options I get to choose from daily: oatmeal, white rice, potato, white pasta, white bread, decaf tea, water, multi-vitamin juice (one small glass per day), Actimel (also one per day), plain meat, very small amount of cheese, banana, applesauce, and avocado. As a treat I can have a tiny bit of hummus on plain crackers, and later today I might try some beets, as I've been handling the banana, applesauce, and avocado without too many problems. Woo hoo, party time!

For extra excitement, I also get to drink a glass of water mixed with Questran-A three times a day, before each meal. This is a powdered medicine which works in the gut to cut down on the acidity of poop, hence helping to cut down on both urgency and hiney pain. (Do not be fooled: Butt Burn is no laughing matter.) This is a good thing. The yucky thing is that while the powder is completely tasteless, it makes the water thick. And lumpy. Thick, lumpy water three times a day. Yum. Boo & Little Toot have taken to counting how long I can keep from gagging after each glass; so far my record is three seconds.

This combination of bland, thick, & lumpy is slowly getting to me, folks. Fair warning: if you don't see me for a while, check the corners to see if I'm sitting in one, quietly sobbing while trying to down a glass of Questran-A enriched water. If I'm not there or, of course, in the bathroom, then I am afraid I might have wasted away. Please make sure my tombstone is engraved with the following: "Here lies Feisty. She survived Ulcerative Colitis, fistulas, 13 surgeries, and innumerable side effects but was finally finished off by Gastronomic Boredom. May she rest in peace and enjoy that Great Baked Brie in the Sky."

The Things Come to Town

If you haven't ever checked out Ironic Mom, you really should go do that now.  It's one of my daily regulars, a site that helps keep me sane by assuring me that I'm not the only one living La Vida Loca.  (Try starting with two of my favourite posts: the one about stripper Barbie and the one about being sexy.)  Recently Ironic Mom's little Things (the alter egos of her twins, William/Thing 1 & Vivian/Thing 2) stopped by as part of their whirlwind world tour, and we treated them to some typical aspects of life here in the Netherlands.  Hopefully we didn't traumatize them too much, but I wouldn't bet on it...

The Things arrived the evening before my scheduled stoma reversal, so they were tucked into bed early to rest up for the big op the next day.  Next morning they accompanied me to the hospital and were ushered into the spacious 4-bed room I would be sharing with various and sundry noises and smells people. They were thrilled with the view out the window, especially catching a glimpse of Fort SintPieter, which I assured them we could visit after the ordeal was over.

We then unpacked, loading up the bedside table with post-op essentials such as lip balm, tissues, good books, and trashy magazines.  The Things happily settled into the bed, much agog with my stories of tea served in real china, staff people who tend the gift bouquets brought in, and proper duvets to sleep under.

They were less than thrilled, however, when the nurse came with the gown to change into as they realized that my warning "if the Dutch are comfortable with nudity in the situation they think you are as well" was all too true.  They quickly devised a scheme to retain their modesty:

The amount of laughter and ribald comments which greeted them soon changed their minds.  They decided "when in the Netherlands, do as the Dutch" was a good policy, combined with a bit of "see no evil":

After this happy compromise we settled down to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  When the transport came to take me down, they blew kisses and wished me well, looking forward to some uninterrupted channel surfing.  When I was brought back up not too much later in a considerably foul mood they were irritated along with me that the op had been bumped.  We threw our stuff into our bag, went home, and drowned our sorrows in chocolate.

Next day we headed over to the dog park at Sint Pieter's.  The Things were a bit worried by the chill wind and the signs of rain in the sky and asked to stay in the car.  We had to be very strict and Dutch with them, saying, "Jullie zijn niet van zuiker gemaakt!"  (You are not made of sugar!)

At first they hitched a ride along with Boo.

But after a bit, seeing how much fun everyone was having running around, they chose to ride along with Bubba.

They had a grand old time, and got to see Fort SintPieter (relatively modern at 1701) up close and personal along with Boo, Bubba, and F.

Our next big outing was to Efteling, the Dutch amusement park which inspired Disney Land.  The Things happily trucked along with Boo and Little Toot, oohing and ahhing at all the rides.

We hoped a fast ride on the wooden roller coaster Joris en de Draak ("Joris and the Dragon") would fluff out their hair but, alas and alack, it didn't.  It was a lot of fun anyway!

They greatly enjoyed wandering the beautifully landscaped grounds; what could be more Dutch than tulips and windmills?

All the walking and screaming on rides gave the Things quite an appetite, so we stopped off for a snack of fritjes (french fries) before leaving.

Thing 2 preferred the curry ketchup, but Thing 1 was partial to the mayonaise (pronounced mah-o-naze-uh).

A few days later was Queen's Day, a nationwide party in honor of Queen Beatrix.  The Things jumped right into the spirit, cross-dressing up (always guaranteeing a laugh in the Netherlands) in orange for the big party in downtown Maastricht.

Like all good Dutch citizens, we bicycled downtown.

We joined right into the throngs of people laughing, dancing, selling things, performing, chatting.  The Things' favourite was the drum band.

We were also able to share the spectacular view of the Maas, with stunning new pedestrian bridge and the older drawbridge in the background:

The Helpoort ("Hell Gate", 13th century), the oldest city gate in the Netherlands, was a big hit as well:

All this Dutch-ness was fun, but a bit overwhelming.  The Things began to feel homesick, so that evening we gave them our latest copy of Our Canada to read and played some Tragically Hip for them to listen to:

The next adventure was my operation, which miraculously took place as scheduled this time around.  The Things were very comforting in their post-op sympathy, joining me with bandages, tea, and warm compresses:

On their last full day with us the weather was gorgeous so we decided to go on a nice country wandeling (walk).  We went to the top of one of the local plateaus (this is the southern Netherlands!) to check out the wildflowers in bloom.

The Things recognized Queen Anne's Lace from back in Canada right away and had a little frolic in the Forget-Me-Nots as well:

Check out that amazing blue!  (Oh, and the flowers are also pretty...)  Next was hunting up native wild orchids which grow here in Limburg.  The Things were thrilled to find two varieties, a pale lilac orchid:

and a brighter fushia-purple one:

We admired the views from top of the plateau together, with the city of Maastricht in the distance:

Then it was time to head home, for our last meal together.  We made it a celebration and served up a traditional Dutch springtime supper: white asparagus and boiled potatoes with a creamy butter sauce, ham, boiled eggs, and applesauce.  The Things loved the "Dutch White Supper" as Boo & Little Toot call it.

All in all, it was a fun visit and a very pleasant distraction for me through the process of this last surgery.

The Things are now off on their next adventure, but you can continue to follow them along via the Ironic Mom website.  Het was een leuk tijd, Thing 1 en Thing 2; hartelijk bedankt en tot ziens!

Little Things

Yesterday was my two-week post-op appointment.  I drove because I'm not capable of biking too far yet.  Unfortunately, the parking garage was shut down due to to construction and I landed in the midst of a huge snarl of cars, delivery vehicles, bikes, workers, and out-lying overflow parking.  The frustration began to rise; I was going to be late.  I hate being late.  "Calm down," I told myself.  "The staff knows this is going on, they won't hold it against you."

I wove my way through the overflow parking, dodged past the smokers gathered in the no smoking area immediately outside the hospital doors, and trucked it through the hallways as quickly as I could.  The receptionist at the poli chirurgie (surgery desk) greeted me with a large smile and a commiseration about the parking situation.  My breathing began to normalize and I gave myself a mini-lecture along the lines of "you really need to calm down about little things like parking delays and be happy that you're doing well and this appointment will lift restrictions and you can move on with life".  The receptionist looked up, frowning, and informed me that someone had called and cancelled my appointment.

Me at Christmastime after my sixth surgery, trying to smile for the girls

and be happy so they wouldn't worry about how poorly I was doing.

Obviously, I didn't quite pull it off.

That was all it took; the shaking started.  I countered that I certainly hadn't called and cancelled the appointment, the receptionist insisted that I must have, I asserted that NO, I certainly had NOT and YES I needed to be seen TODAY and not in another two weeks at my four-week post-op appointment (which mysteriously was still on the books).  We went back and forth for a few minutes, both insistent, and then she sighed and told me to have a seat and she'd ask a doctor what he/she thought should be done.

Collapsing in the nearest chair, I leaned forward so the tears which had begun to stream down my face would be less noticeable.   Too late.  After I wiped my eyes with a tissue, commanding myself to breathe slowly, I looked up to find several people gawping at me.  One woman had an expression of muted horror on her face; only one man, an elderly gentleman, gave me a small smile of sympathy.

Welcome to the world of PTSD.  It was months after my first surgery (the one which saved my life and then almost killed me again) before I could enter the hospital back in Kingston without suffering a full-blown panic attack; years before I could enter without having to do deep-breathing exercises.  Such a little thing, a clerical mistake with an appointment, but because it is linked to such big, complicated things -- illness, fear, pain, death -- it opens the door to a terror which is, much of the time, hidden deep within me.

In the afternoon -- having been seen by a sympathetic surgeon who proclaimed me doing well and lifted the post-op restrictions -- I took Bubba to the dog park.  The sky was blue with great, blustery clouds tossing across and there was a brisk wind up on the hill; it was glorious to walk around, pet the dogs, gaze at the flowers and the city in the background.  Bubba bounded off through the long grasses; half the time all I could see was his tail bouncing along.  The wind blew harder, whistling in my ears, and a black streak rushed past me, then turned and came back for a pat and a snoepje (dog treat).

Bubba

We rounded the far side of the hill and came out on the top of the plateau.  A pack of dogs was happily rolling around and Bubba raced off to join them.  The pack took off: running, jumping, rolling, wrestling, running again; it was a great mess of quivering canine happiness at being out in the sun, playing.  I broke out into loud laughter at the delight of it all.

Such a little thing, a bunch of dogs playing, but because it is linked to nothing complicated or hard -- because it is such a little, simple, wonderful thing -- it took my breath away with the sheer joy of it.

The other dog owners nearby turned to look at me, every single one of them smiling, and then we all stood and watched our dogs and laughed, long and hard, until the tears came to our eyes.

What little thing brings you joy no matter what else is going on?