Poor Puppy!

He's been here for 3 1/2 years now, and it's taken some time, but Sylvester and I have learned to live well together. 

He almost always uses his inside bark when trying to catch my attention, and it's been ages since he clawed at the back door. (Much.) He is learning not to jump on visitors and to not grrr loudly at the other dogs we encounter on our daily walks. (I do let him use his voice and talk at them, but grr-ing and barking tend to start a conversation I'm sure the surrounding houses don't care to listen in on.)

I buy new toys once he's done extracting the squeaker from the old ones, he encourages me to laugh as we play tug.

He's firmly claimed his place in my heart.

Last weekend, he started biting at his right hind paw. A quick inspection showed it to be tender, but I couldn't see anything stuck in there to cause pain. I enlisted the help of my neighbor, who has much younger eyes than I; he could see a bit of blood, but also no thorns or other foreign objects near the sore pad. 

This was Saturday afternoon. (Of course it was Saturday afternoon, when the vet's office is closed until Monday. This is how these things happen.)

I watched him with concern over the weekend. We pared our walks down to minimize irritation. He got quieter and quieter, spending most of his time lying with his head resting on his paws and his eyes half closed. Poor puppy!

I called the vet first thing Monday morning, and described the issue, only to be told they had no openings that day, but would fit me in on Tuesday morning. If I felt he needed to be seen urgently, I could call an urgent care clinic, but she felt it safe to wait.

I don't know much about dogs, and wanted him to be seen by vets who knew him and his history. I didn't want to (potentially) place his care in callous hands that just wanted to churn him through the system. (I've heard stories.) So, I made the appointment, and impatiently waited. 

By Monday evening he was declining to eat. *worried sigh*

I went to bed, then woke in a panic at 2AM, convinced I'd made the wrong decision, and sure he was in dire straits. I got up to check on him, he was sleeping peacefully. I tried fruitlessly for over an hour to calm myself down, then gave up. I got up, scooped him from his rug on the floor, and put him, against all the rules, onto my bed. I put my hand near his body, so I could feel his warmth and breathing, and finally fell back into a fitful sleep until morning.

The vet, once I got there, was wonderful. He got on the floor to be at Sylvester's level, and checked him over thoroughly. He also couldn't find the cause of the irritation; we figured that whatever had caused the injury had worked its way out, but based on the fever he was running, left an infection behind. I left the office feeling much better than when I'd arrived. Sylvester had gotten an antibiotic shot (thus avoiding the pills which would further upset his stomach) and two types of painkillers.

From there on, he got a little better each day. He started eating a little more; spent less time quietly resting in a corner. The sensitivity in his paw lessened. He became more alert, and resumed his habit of barking at noises which he thinks need my attention. Yesterday morning, when we came back from our walk, he wanted to play for a bit!

I had my puppy back!

I am so grateful the vet spent all those years in school learning how to treat dogs. For the antibiotics which turned a life-threatening infection into a nuisance. For the pain pills which helped him heal comfortably.

So grateful there are people around me who know things I don't, and that I can call on them for aid.

Good Is.

Act As If

I've long been a "fake it 'til you make it" kind of gal.

Back in the olden days, when I was working and raising kids, there were days when I woke up and just. didn't. have. the. oomph. to get the things done.

Not getting the things done was not going to be helpful, nor did I want to show up to my kids and job grumpy and groaning, so I'd put on the best face I could muster and soldier on through.

It worked.

Most days, as I'd go through the day, the smiles would gradually become more genuine, the piles of things less daunting. I wouldn't need to keep faking it, because the stuck-in-the-mire part of me had shaken off her boots and kept going and had made it to a drier part of the path.

It worked. And. It was not the kindest way to treat myself. There's a militant undertone to the phrase; it is stern, harsh, scolding. "Pick yourself up by the seat of your pants and get moving!", it says. It doesn't leave much room for self-compassion.

I've been working on having more compassion for myself and my trials, changing the tone I use when I talk to me. And so, these days, I do a lot less faking it, and a lot more "acting as if".

It's a subtle shift. 

I still wake up without. the. oomph. I need to get the things done. But rather than letting the metaphorical taskmaster, with her starchy uniform and disapproving scowl, out of her room, I seekl out my inner coach; she has her hair in a messy bun and is wearing her workout clothes.

"I know you don't have the oomph to start the day, but how about you get out of bed and act as if you do? You don't need to tackle the whole day, you can take it one step at a time. If you'd like, I'll take some of the most daunting steps with you."

Walk the puppy, show up at today's exercise class. One movement leads to another and usually, the oomph I need makes a belated appearance. And. On the days it doesn't, and I have leeway (which is many of them, given the current givens of my life), "acting as if" leaves room to slow down and take a break. A guilt-free nap, even. 

I work on being kind to others. Perhaps it is time (and past time) for me to know it's OK to also be kind to myself. Worst case, I can "act as if" I am. What's it going to hurt?

She Is Growing Well

She'd come down for a month during COVID - 16 years old, struggling to make sense of the world after her mom's death eighteen months earlier. She was having trouble in school; was in danger of not passing her junior year, not because she couldn't understand the concepts but because she was not completing the work.

I worked with her to set up a schedule of rewards based on some (admittedly arbitrary) milestones. The rewards weren't huge - ice cream, a trip to the bookstore - and they didn't need to be. She just needed a tangible reward for her efforts.

My heart ached as I watched her settle in and work to reach her goals - her troubles had too many parallels to my own too-young goodbye to my mom. I knew I couldn't fix things, but I could provide clear and consistent boundaries and expectations, tempered with the above rewards - and the framework worked as I had hoped. She completed enough work to pass on to her senior year. I was proud of her!

We have kept in touch through phone calls and occasional visits since her return home to Minnesota, but haven't spent any chunks of time together. I have watched from afar as she forged her own path over the next few years. She graduated high school, and since she didn't yet know what she wanted to do, put college on hold. I was concerned as she drifted from job to job over the next few years; was thrilled last year, when she got to a place where she was ready to enroll in college. She's been doing well there. (There's something to be said for taking side roads...)

She came back to visit last week - we spent a delightful few days together. We spent an afternoon as ladies of leisure - sitting by the pool after yoga, just enjoying the afternoon. We shopped some, spent a lovely afternoon at the Nelson art museum. We talked a LOT; I caught up on her life's doings. 

We shared memories of her mom, my youngest sister, Libby. She asked if I thought her mom would be proud of where she is today. Tears spilled from the corners of my eyes as I assured her the answer was yes. I know that yearning - the wish to see Mom's smile of pride, to have her arms hold me securely one more time. I still feel it, and it's been 49 years.

As we stood, and I gathered her into my arms, I swear I felt Libby's spirit flow through me as she held her baby for a precious, healing, moment.

Love Is.

Drug Break

I've been carrying a heavy load of fatigue with me everywhere I go for the last month or two. This is where language fails me - I don't have enough synonyms for 'tired'. I'm tired, and it's not the sort of tired that gets better with sleep. My brain WANTS to work, and it. can't. quite. figure. out. the. next. step. (Eventually, the stuff gets done, but it takes a hot minute.) 

I liken it to floating in a pond of fatigue (from the drugs), depression (in my world, it comes hand-in-hand with the fatigue), and grief (because I have done all the things I know how to do to help with the side effects. What I'm experiencing now will be my life for however many years, and that's a hard truth to accept.)

I'm no longer fighting to escape the pool, nor am I drowning in the uncomfortable emotions. Rather, I'm floating in it, working to accept what is, to learn to live within its limits.

Caffeine helps - it is my best friend, gives me the oomph I need to take one more step. Exercise helps - moving almost always lifts the fog for several hours. 

I talked to my oncologist about this when I saw him last month, and he told me I could take a break from my drugs, to see if that would help. I didn't make him offer twice.

I stopped that evening, hoping I'd feel better soon. Define soon. The first week went by, no change in my energy levels. (Dr. Google did warn me it would take a couple of weeks for my system to begin to rebalance itself. Heck of a time for them to be right.) The second week, same result. Last week, I started to see some improvements, just before I was supposed to restart the drugs on Friday. *sigh*

I checked with the oncologist's team - they said I could take another week off without interfering with the efficacy of the drugs. *Whew!*

Saturday morning, I woke up and checked in with myself. Something was missing. I was still tired, but the brain fog had lifted overnight! My head was clear. I had enough oomph to tackle my entire to-do list in one afternoon. (OK, there wasn't much on it, but it still felt good.)

Yesterday, there was a break in the heat, and I was able to get out in the yard for several hours, doing some much-needed maintenance in the flower beds, clearing weeds from both the beds and my brain. And I woke up AGAIN this morning with a clear head. No small blessing, this. 

I know it's a temporary break, and that's OK. Maybe I'll have some residual effect from the break once I restart the drug regimen on Friday. I can hope. I'm going to talk further with Dr. Hu. If I know I can get a chance every so often to climb out of the pool and get reacquainted with my old self, it'll be easier to make it through the days where my best option is to whittle back the doings of my days and focus my limited energy on the "important thing" - whatever that is. 

One step at a time.