I Am (Sorta) Ready

A year ago April, my little dog Caliente died in my arms after a long illness and heroic efforts to save her. She was a sweet, kind, silly and devoted little bit of life force that touched my heart and my person daily for over ten years. Losing her left a void in my heart, and by my side in my chair.

I think I am now ready. No, not to have another dog, but to change my introductory description of this blog. I have not been able to delete 'an old Chihuahua'. Today, I will.

I poured out my pain on this blog as she progressed in her illness, and I wrestled with my decisions and tried to decide how much help is too much, how much medicine is futile, how I could bear to make the ultimate decision for her. It seems appropriate that I address the pain of deleting yet another reminder of her mark on my life.

I have given away the doggy beds, the electric warming pads, the toys, collars and laser pointers she loved so much, except for a few raggedy toys she shared with her sister, Gordita, and her foster mother, Lacey the Beagle, both of whom predeceased her in the two years prior. I was moved to tears when I found her pirate shirt last weekend in my Wii bowling bag that matched mine. I have washed the blankets she slept on in her warm little crate. She has slowly been leeching out of the topsoil of our daily lives.

And, I have noticed, fought, acknowledged, and finally accepted the fading. Today, another.

I won't let her be gone, nor will my family. She is here, along with the others that made our pathetic humanness more bearable, more fun, more joy-filled. Just, now, not in the blog description.

I want a puppy!

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Am I crazy or what?  Well, wait, don't answer that.  What I mean is; I recently lost my beloved doggy, Cali.  And I miss having a dog of my own.  Winston is here, and helps, but he is not my own.

In fact, this is the first time in nineteen years that I have been dogless.  Lousy timing, considering my recently emptied nest.  At first, I thought these feelings seemed treasonous to Cali's memory. I felt guilty and undeserving of the selfless regard that she held for me.

But, then, I began to realize that Cali was all about love, and her biggest concern was me.  She looked directly into my eyes until her last moment on earth, no matter who held her or what was being done to her.  We had an amazing connection.  

I think she wants me to be happy, even if that means watching me from afar as I hold another doggy.  She is a benevolent spirit in my heart.  She was a kind and forgiving fur person in life.  

At least that is what I tell myself as I think occasionally about getting another dog in a year or so.  That she would understand.  That she knows that, as long as I am dogless, there is a piece of my heart missing.  That, if she were here, I would not be so lonely.

Cremains

I went to the vet today and brought home Caliente's cremains, her 'ashes'.  The were in a tiny flowered tin about  2x2x3 inches, maybe three or four ounces of earthly leftovers.  

As I left with the little white bag holding the tin, I didn't make it to my car before I crushed the bag to my chest and began to cry.  I wonder when the tears will ease.  They come so easily and often unexpected.

When I got home, I blogged, then put her on the shelf in my bedroom with the other two doggy friends we have lost in the past three years, Lacey the Beagle and Gordita, Cali's sister.  A little line up of powdered love.  Love in a tin.  Ashen memories.  I had a sudden wish that these were little mixes, like cake mixes.  'Instant Dog Love; just add water!'  And there would be our girls, all fresh and new.

Doggy smell

My Cali girl's bed still smells like her.  Someone had placed her cozy blanket-lined airline travel carrier in the guest room when a chick brooder full of chicks was carried into the house.  I panicked until I found it, covered with the red, white and blue quilt that kept her warm and muffled house sounds when she gratefully retired each evening.  I uncovered the carrier and was greeted by the soft musky smell of my puppy.  I opened the gate, lay on the floor with my face pressed into the blanket and felt the tears come.

I am grateful for still being able to smell her doggy smell.  Its like a little gift she left behind for me to return to again and again.  I will keep her little nest intact as long as I can smell her, as long as I need the connection, as long as I can.  Thank you, sweetie.  I miss you, too. 

She's gone, my God, she's gone...

Cali is gone.  She was euthanized today at 1400.  She told me she was done.  She needed me to be her champion, her hero, her savior.  I did the best I could, aching and resisting all the way.  It came down to a choice between her suffering and my needs.  She won, using a desperate combination of obvious fatigue, tenting skin turgor, and painful sighs.  My needs are pitifully inadequate in comparison.  Dear sweet girl, you deserve a better level of existence.  I believe it awaits you.  

You will be sorely and constantly and truly missed.  You are my heart, you know my soul.  Your velvet ears have absorbed a million kisses and a million and one secrets of my soul.  I kissed them over and over as your tiny body cooled.  Emily said, 'Mom, kiss her ears while she's warm,' and I did.  These wise words from the girl, now doing woman's duty, who lost her sweet doggy less than two years ago.

It reminded me of when my ninety-three year old father-in-law died.  He was a DNR, Do Not Resuscitate. But, when the time came, my husband and mother-in-law were frozen, looking at me for answers.  I was not yet a nurse, but I had traversed the previous three years with him as an end-stage Alzheimer's patient caregiver, and I knew what he wanted and I knew what he would return to, if resuscitated.  I said, "He is a DNR."  The relief in the eyes staring desperately was palpable, measurable from a distance.   The hospital team and I arranged him on a bed, removed the ECG electrodes and cables.  As he lay in the hospital bed, I said, "Hold him while he's warm".  The words seemed harsh, but galvanized my husband to approach the body of his father and take it into his embrace, a hug that he says he will never forget.

I felt today like, if I held onto my puppy's body, some of her life force or energy would find it's way into me, through heat or smell or osmosis, and I would be a better person because of it.  I drank her doggy fragrance in, and poured my tears onto her soft fur.  She felt and smelled like ten years of love and tolerance and humor and laughter and forgiveness and virtue and purity.  She smelled like my Cali-girl.  I will so miss her and all she represents.  She embodies goodness in a crazy world full of badness.  She has been my antidote.

More later, I don't know when...

This sucks!

As I look back on my blog entries of the past week, I see a long list of 'Cali updates'.  Perhaps boring for the reader, but it sums up the focus of my thoughts and mental energy since Cali has been ill.  She is in the hospital, but yet with me, behind every conscious thought and every rote movement I make.  I can be deep in thought and analysis of a patient condition or personal conversation or charting vital signs, and suddenly, my tummy gets quivery and scared and my heart feels all achey.  Tears are just offstage, waiting in the wings to rush out.

Additionally, my hip continues to ache almost constantly, and give peaks of pain upon movement.  I chose not to go to work today, in order to stay off it for a few more days until I work next.  

All in all, it adds up to some very bad, no good, rotten, less than great days, as I used to tell my kids.  A gently sarcastic way of saying, 'This totally sucks'.  And, let me tell you, it does.  Suck.  My kids are safe and happy (as happy as college aged over achievers can be), I love my job, my marriage is solid, and I am grateful.  But, the rest of it sucks.  

Cali update; Sunday

Last night, the veterinarian surgeon called and said that Cali had gone into respiratory distress, and had to have thoracentesis performed, that is, needle drainage of the pleural space.  The labs on the fluid indicated huge quantities of protein.  She was transfused with protein and albumin, in an attempt to hold the liquid part of the blood in the vascular spaces.  Dr. Vornock suggested we visit at 0800 today to make a decision.  I cried a lot and slept poorly.

When Emily, Garrett and I arrived at the OSU hospital, we were told that Cali had rejected her transfusion, and was in respiratory distress again.  She has also begun vomiting again.  She said that she has been placed on broad spectrum antibiotics 'in hopes'.  The vet admitted that she is in 'uncharted territory'.  Studies indicate that post-op day 5 is the peak of complications in biliary surgery, and this is it.  She said that we could assess her during our visit to see if we think she is ready to quit fighting.  With heavy heart and hollow stomach, I went into the ICU.

Cali was sitting with her back to the cage front, enclosed in an oxygen environment.  When she heard my voice, she turned around, tried to walk to me and get out , and wagged her tail and licked my hands.  I put my face near the round port and she licked my face with her dry, pale pink little tongue.  The vet and students laughed and celebrated.  They were so impressed with her enthusiasm.  We took turns loving on her, but she looked past everyone else and gave me constant, direct eye contact. Finally, she leaned against me  and eventually fell asleep contentedly curled under my hand with her head on my hand.

She told me she is not done yet.  She said she wants to get this behind her and come home.  The kids and I concurred; she lives to fight on.  The drive home was better than the drive up.