I want to thank all of you from the bottom of my very raw heart for your kind notes, comments, e-mails, book recommendations, poems, and personal stories. Every single comment, short or long, was supportive and encouraging and compassionate. I realize I only “know” a small number of you personally, but I do want you to know that each of you helped make a sad period a little easier to bear, and I thank you for it. Sincerely and honestly.
The kids are doing …… ok. Not great, but as expected. They have run through the appropriate stages of grief:
1. Inconsolable
2. Denial
3. Anger
4. Questioning
5. Sadness
6. Acceptance, and
7. When are we getting a new dog?
They keep dipping back into numbers four and five quite often, especially at bedtime. It helped that we left yesterday for Texas, to have Blaine’s family Christmas get together, and that we also got to spend time with dear military friends who recently re-located to Texas. Even better was that our friends have a new-ish puppy, quite lively (understatement of the century) and the kids got to run and play and laugh with him, which I do think helped them find a little joy amidst their sadness. So Renee, thank you, the boys, and Bobo for hosting us last night. And thank Duke for being such a good sport.
Our first dog, a golden retriever named Fosters (why yes, we named our first dog Fosters and our second dog Lager. No, we’re not alcoholics, just white trash who name their dogs after beer) passed away when she was twelve. She and Lager had over eight years together, and were the best of friends. I don’t give two hoots about theology or proof or reason or Biblical application, but I believe in my heart that our pets go to Heaven just like we do, and I have no doubt the two of them are having the biggest game of chase ever run on clouds. Call it corny if you like, but the thought of their reunion has given me great comfort these past few days.
I’ll tell you the full story of how Lager came to be ours some other time, when talking about him no longer makes me cry. Suffice it to say I have no doubt that coming to live with our family extended his life by about fifteen years. Although he wasn’t technically a “rescue” dog, the knowledge that his life with us was better a hundred-fold than the life he had been living, also makes me feel happy and proud he was ours.
In the meantime, we grieve, and we wait until the time is right to get another dog. We will most likely get two -- one hunting dog for Blaine, and one pound dog as well. Having two worked well for us previously and I’d love to do that again. And yes, we’ve already informed the kids that the new dogs will be named Sam Adams and Miller.
White. Trash. (we are)
Showing posts with label Lager. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lager. Show all posts
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Loss
Clyde "Lager" Escoe
(1991 - 2007)
Well, today pretty much sucked.
I don't think I need to elaborate.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
I'm Still Here. And a Wee Bit Cranky.
Well, I’m still here, with computer access. I unplugged the computer yesterday morning to take it to the store for the memory upgrade, and a few minutes later Kellen and Kendrie came running to me, panicking about the computer being “broken”, and the Disney channel online, OHMYGOSH how would they survive without the Disney channel online??? What’s funny is they rarely even play online, but when I told them we would be without a computer for the next three days, you would have thought I had suggested giving away all their toys and moving in with monks, or that I had just sucked all the oxygen out of the house, so great was their distress. So, fine. I said I would take it in Monday while they were at school, and they could play on it this weekend.
But that’s not why I’m cranky.
Last night, after the kids and I watched Ella Enchanted for the third time (Seriously, have you seen it? It was just on Disney the other night and it’s a really cute, sweet movie. Thanks to the power of the DVR, I have no doubt I’ll have every line memorized by Tuesday…. But that’s not why I’m cranky) I went in the bedroom and read another chapter of Ramona Quimby, age 8 with Kendrie. We finished up around 10pm, sort of late for us, and I said to her, “Mommy’s tired. Go tell Daddy I’m just going to go to bed now” and I rolled over and went to sleep, listening to Kellen protest that wasn’t fair, he still wanted to read a chapter of Harry Potter (Yes! I know! Finally, one of my kids has expressed interest in HP!) and how it wasn’t right I read with Kendrie but not him. Great, nothing like a little parental guilt to soothe you right off to sleep. But that’s not why I’m cranky.
For whatever reason, at 2:45 am I woke up, bright eyed and alert. I rarely, and I mean rarely, suffer from insomnia, so the few times it happens, I have very strict rules. I will attempt to go back to sleep for exactly thirty minutes and if I can’t, then I get up and do something. I am NOT wasting precious time lying in bed, staring at the clock, when there are e-mails to be answered and blogs to be read. So I got up at 3:15 and messed around online (What’s up with you Canada ebay people, anyway? Can you not get Nike tennis shoes up there? Is that why so many of you are wondering about shipping?) I give myself exactly one hour, then attempt to go back to sleep.
So at 4:15, back to bed I went, accidentally tripping over the dog on the way. I was very cautious and careful and quiet (well, except for when I tripped over the dog) as I got back in bed, because Blaine DOES have a severe problem with insomnia and I feel terrible if I do something drastic and noisy which wakes him up. Drastic and noisy like putting my head on the pillow, or BREATHING.
I tip-toed back into bed, covered myself up, reapplied lip balm because hello, who can sleep with dry, chapped lips?? I laid there for about four and a half seconds, before realizing Blaine was not in fact suffering from insomnia this evening, but was instead snoring so loud I’m surprised the neighbors twelve miles away hadn’t filed a noise complaint with the local police.
Normally, Blaine sleeps (when he DOES sleep, that is) the sleep of the perfectly still, perfectly silent. I will sometimes put my hand on his chest to make sure he’s still breathing. But occasionally, when he lies on his back, thanks to all the surgeries and reconstruction of his sinus cavity, he’ll get going with a cacophony of snores and grunts and wheezes and moans that make it literally impossible to sleep in the same bed. The same room. The same small country.
BC (before cancer) I would have just punched him in the shoulder and told him to roll over, but now, I’m loathe to wake him because once he’s up, no matter the time, he’s up. Sleeping is such a problem for him that I NEVER wake him if I can help it. So, I did what I’ve done more times than any human should in a happy marriage --- grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed for the living room, resigned to sleeping the rest of the night on the sofa.
But that’s not why I’m cranky.
I walked into the living room …. And my senses were immediately assaulted -- WTF??? Is that SHIT I smell????
Yep, sure enough, Lager had pooped in the dining room. Good grief, this is NOT what I wanted to clean up at 4:18 in the morning, but I went into the kitchen to get paper towels and rags, and turned on the light ….
My senses were assaulted again, this time my vision. Remember I had gone to bed early and Blaine, the man who always cleans the kitchen at night, the man who would make a better housewife than me, had done NOTHING the night before. The roast was still in the crockpot on the counter. The cookies I had baked were still sitting on the cookie sheet on top of the stove, not covered. Unwashed dishes were on the counter, in the sink, book bags on the table, shoes and socks on the floor --- My god, Jerry Springer would have a field day with this sort of white trash living.
I admit, because he normally does such a fantastic job cleaning up after dinner, I am a spoiled princess who is accustomed to awaking to a clean kitchen. To have to consider cleaning the kitchen, AFTER cleaning the dog poop??? At 4:20 in the morning??? Uugh.
But that’s not why I’m cranky. Although down on your hands and knees, scrubbing dog poop off the hardwood floor in the middle of the night, doing everything you can to hold back your hair-trigger gag reflex, is certainly enough to make anyone cranky.
No, if I’m being honest, I’m cranky (and extremely sad) because I know its coming.
Blaine and I always said if we ever had a dog that went blind, or couldn’t control his bowels or bladder, we would put him down. Lager *does* have a big nasty tumor on one eye, but he’s not blind. Deaf, yes. And arthritic. But not blind.
And it’s not that he’s **lost control** of his bowels or bladder, as much as he’s either getting too old, or too confused, or too lazy to wake us. He never has accidents during the day when we’re home, but this was the second time this week he’s had problems while we’ve been sleeping. A few night’s ago, I woke to the sound of water running, only to realize he was urinating in the middle of my bathroom rug.
Bless his old heart, I can’t be mad at him. He’s sixteen and a half years old -- how can I be *mad* at him? But by the same token, I am really bothered by these accidents, which, let's be honest, have been happening more and more the past six months or so. Not a LOT .... but still. I mean, it’s gross, and nasty to clean, and stinks to high heaven, and not hygienic. The kicker is, he’s not in any pain, or suffering in any way. Sure, he’s old and tired and sleeps a lot and not as energetic as he used to be. But he still interacts with us every single day, and begs for table scraps, and wags his tail and bounces around the living room and bumps us with his nose to let us know he wants to be petted and loved on.
And loving him? Oh my gosh, I can’t even imagine the reaction of my children when something finally happens to the old boy. They will be crushed, devastated, decimated. And so will Blaine and I, even if we’re grown ups and don’t want to admit it.
So how can I even consider putting down a dog that is old, but otherwise healthy and happy, just because I don’t want to clean up after him? I mean, it sounds so selfish when I say it like that.
Which is worse? To consider putting him to sleep, just because I’m lazy, knowing the emotional trauma that will inflict upon the children who love him, or to hope that I come home one afternoon and find him dead in the living room, passed away peacefully? I don’t wish him dead, for pete’s sake, he’s been a part of our family since 1992!
I’ve always looked at people whose dogs were bumping into the walls because they couldn't see, or having to drag their back legs behind them in little carts, or taking thirty pills or insulin shots or whatever a day, and wondered why didn’t they just put those poor animals out of their misery? Now I get it. When an animal’s NOT miserable --- just old --- the miserable thing is even contemplating it. We don’t put any of our other family members to sleep, just because taking care of them gets to be a hassle, and I consider a pet we've had for fifteen years to be a family member.
Ewww, but poop? In the dining room?
This conundrum, people --- THIS is why I’m cranky.
It's now almost 6am. I've been up since 2:45. Maybe the answer will come to me in a dream, during the NAP I'm so desperately going to need later today.
But that’s not why I’m cranky.
Last night, after the kids and I watched Ella Enchanted for the third time (Seriously, have you seen it? It was just on Disney the other night and it’s a really cute, sweet movie. Thanks to the power of the DVR, I have no doubt I’ll have every line memorized by Tuesday…. But that’s not why I’m cranky) I went in the bedroom and read another chapter of Ramona Quimby, age 8 with Kendrie. We finished up around 10pm, sort of late for us, and I said to her, “Mommy’s tired. Go tell Daddy I’m just going to go to bed now” and I rolled over and went to sleep, listening to Kellen protest that wasn’t fair, he still wanted to read a chapter of Harry Potter (Yes! I know! Finally, one of my kids has expressed interest in HP!) and how it wasn’t right I read with Kendrie but not him. Great, nothing like a little parental guilt to soothe you right off to sleep. But that’s not why I’m cranky.
For whatever reason, at 2:45 am I woke up, bright eyed and alert. I rarely, and I mean rarely, suffer from insomnia, so the few times it happens, I have very strict rules. I will attempt to go back to sleep for exactly thirty minutes and if I can’t, then I get up and do something. I am NOT wasting precious time lying in bed, staring at the clock, when there are e-mails to be answered and blogs to be read. So I got up at 3:15 and messed around online (What’s up with you Canada ebay people, anyway? Can you not get Nike tennis shoes up there? Is that why so many of you are wondering about shipping?) I give myself exactly one hour, then attempt to go back to sleep.
So at 4:15, back to bed I went, accidentally tripping over the dog on the way. I was very cautious and careful and quiet (well, except for when I tripped over the dog) as I got back in bed, because Blaine DOES have a severe problem with insomnia and I feel terrible if I do something drastic and noisy which wakes him up. Drastic and noisy like putting my head on the pillow, or BREATHING.
I tip-toed back into bed, covered myself up, reapplied lip balm because hello, who can sleep with dry, chapped lips?? I laid there for about four and a half seconds, before realizing Blaine was not in fact suffering from insomnia this evening, but was instead snoring so loud I’m surprised the neighbors twelve miles away hadn’t filed a noise complaint with the local police.
Normally, Blaine sleeps (when he DOES sleep, that is) the sleep of the perfectly still, perfectly silent. I will sometimes put my hand on his chest to make sure he’s still breathing. But occasionally, when he lies on his back, thanks to all the surgeries and reconstruction of his sinus cavity, he’ll get going with a cacophony of snores and grunts and wheezes and moans that make it literally impossible to sleep in the same bed. The same room. The same small country.
BC (before cancer) I would have just punched him in the shoulder and told him to roll over, but now, I’m loathe to wake him because once he’s up, no matter the time, he’s up. Sleeping is such a problem for him that I NEVER wake him if I can help it. So, I did what I’ve done more times than any human should in a happy marriage --- grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed for the living room, resigned to sleeping the rest of the night on the sofa.
But that’s not why I’m cranky.
I walked into the living room …. And my senses were immediately assaulted -- WTF??? Is that SHIT I smell????
Yep, sure enough, Lager had pooped in the dining room. Good grief, this is NOT what I wanted to clean up at 4:18 in the morning, but I went into the kitchen to get paper towels and rags, and turned on the light ….
My senses were assaulted again, this time my vision. Remember I had gone to bed early and Blaine, the man who always cleans the kitchen at night, the man who would make a better housewife than me, had done NOTHING the night before. The roast was still in the crockpot on the counter. The cookies I had baked were still sitting on the cookie sheet on top of the stove, not covered. Unwashed dishes were on the counter, in the sink, book bags on the table, shoes and socks on the floor --- My god, Jerry Springer would have a field day with this sort of white trash living.
I admit, because he normally does such a fantastic job cleaning up after dinner, I am a spoiled princess who is accustomed to awaking to a clean kitchen. To have to consider cleaning the kitchen, AFTER cleaning the dog poop??? At 4:20 in the morning??? Uugh.
But that’s not why I’m cranky. Although down on your hands and knees, scrubbing dog poop off the hardwood floor in the middle of the night, doing everything you can to hold back your hair-trigger gag reflex, is certainly enough to make anyone cranky.
No, if I’m being honest, I’m cranky (and extremely sad) because I know its coming.
Blaine and I always said if we ever had a dog that went blind, or couldn’t control his bowels or bladder, we would put him down. Lager *does* have a big nasty tumor on one eye, but he’s not blind. Deaf, yes. And arthritic. But not blind.
And it’s not that he’s **lost control** of his bowels or bladder, as much as he’s either getting too old, or too confused, or too lazy to wake us. He never has accidents during the day when we’re home, but this was the second time this week he’s had problems while we’ve been sleeping. A few night’s ago, I woke to the sound of water running, only to realize he was urinating in the middle of my bathroom rug.
Bless his old heart, I can’t be mad at him. He’s sixteen and a half years old -- how can I be *mad* at him? But by the same token, I am really bothered by these accidents, which, let's be honest, have been happening more and more the past six months or so. Not a LOT .... but still. I mean, it’s gross, and nasty to clean, and stinks to high heaven, and not hygienic. The kicker is, he’s not in any pain, or suffering in any way. Sure, he’s old and tired and sleeps a lot and not as energetic as he used to be. But he still interacts with us every single day, and begs for table scraps, and wags his tail and bounces around the living room and bumps us with his nose to let us know he wants to be petted and loved on.
And loving him? Oh my gosh, I can’t even imagine the reaction of my children when something finally happens to the old boy. They will be crushed, devastated, decimated. And so will Blaine and I, even if we’re grown ups and don’t want to admit it.
So how can I even consider putting down a dog that is old, but otherwise healthy and happy, just because I don’t want to clean up after him? I mean, it sounds so selfish when I say it like that.
Which is worse? To consider putting him to sleep, just because I’m lazy, knowing the emotional trauma that will inflict upon the children who love him, or to hope that I come home one afternoon and find him dead in the living room, passed away peacefully? I don’t wish him dead, for pete’s sake, he’s been a part of our family since 1992!
I’ve always looked at people whose dogs were bumping into the walls because they couldn't see, or having to drag their back legs behind them in little carts, or taking thirty pills or insulin shots or whatever a day, and wondered why didn’t they just put those poor animals out of their misery? Now I get it. When an animal’s NOT miserable --- just old --- the miserable thing is even contemplating it. We don’t put any of our other family members to sleep, just because taking care of them gets to be a hassle, and I consider a pet we've had for fifteen years to be a family member.
Ewww, but poop? In the dining room?
This conundrum, people --- THIS is why I’m cranky.
It's now almost 6am. I've been up since 2:45. Maybe the answer will come to me in a dream, during the NAP I'm so desperately going to need later today.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Lager the Wonder Dog
I love the comment from Marsha who said, "God Bless Lager. Not too many dogs have the power to stop speeding trains." (or something like that. I'm blatantly pretending to remember what she said word for word, and am too lazy to look it up in the comment section. But whatever she said, I know that it made me laugh and I loved it.)
So here he is, posing and preening in all his glory, the dog with the power to stop speeding trains. This photos were taken in anticipation of the publicity call from Super Dog Weekly and the feature article they will certainly be writing on our wonder mutt.
"Are you getting my good side?"
"No, no, the LEFT side is my good side ---- not your left, MY LEFT!!"
"Oh, wait. I wasn't ready."
::dog thinking to himself:: "Well, even if the photographer is a moron, I know this boy here loves me like no other."
PS. In response to Anonymous at 9:21 ... I am so very, very sorry for your loss. I don't know if I know you. If I do, I hope you already know how sorry I am. If I don't, then please know you have been on my mind for the past two days and my heart broke just a little bit, reading your comment.
So here he is, posing and preening in all his glory, the dog with the power to stop speeding trains. This photos were taken in anticipation of the publicity call from Super Dog Weekly and the feature article they will certainly be writing on our wonder mutt.
"Are you getting my good side?"
"No, no, the LEFT side is my good side ---- not your left, MY LEFT!!"
"Oh, wait. I wasn't ready."
::dog thinking to himself:: "Well, even if the photographer is a moron, I know this boy here loves me like no other."
PS. In response to Anonymous at 9:21 ... I am so very, very sorry for your loss. I don't know if I know you. If I do, I hope you already know how sorry I am. If I don't, then please know you have been on my mind for the past two days and my heart broke just a little bit, reading your comment.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Thank God for Barking Dogs
I’ve mentioned our geriatric dog Lager to all of you. He’s a very sweet, very gentle, very grumpy old dog. Actually, he’s not grumpy as much as he is spoiled. He wants to be inside the house at all times, whether we are home or not. If we’re going to be gone all day, and he has to stay outside, he gets downright cranky. If he goes outside for any reason while we are home …. a drink of water, nature call, anything at all, he is at the back door, barking to be let back in, within seconds. And he will bark --- Until. You. Let. Him. In. Period. He doesn’t stop barking --- ever --- until you let him back in.
Most of the time we resign ourselves to standing at the back door while he does his business, or gets his drink, because if you let him out, then try to sit down, by the time your bum hits the sofa cushion, he’s already at the door barking. It’s just easier to wait on him, and let him in, and avoid the barking. (No, I have no idea why he’s spoiled, do you?) Because again, in case I haven’t made it clear --- The. Barking. Will. Not. Stop. He might be sixteen years old, deaf and arthritic, but he’s got the lung power of an young Iditarod champion.
The only time it really bugs me is when I’m trying to sleep, as the master bedroom is in the rear of the house, so his barking wakes me up. Which annoys me. Greatly.
{abrupt subject change}
Last year, when the kids accidentally broke our ancient video camera, we got a new one. But, without the old camera, we had no way to play the old 8mm tapes. So, I bought a DVD burner and made copies of all our old home movies. We have close to one hundred hours of DVD tapes, starting with shortly before Brayden was born in 1997 and going until the present. They’ve provided us with great many hours of entertainment, and there are still many tapes we haven’t watched yet. Each one is like opening a gift, since we’re never sure exactly what is on each DVD. (Are anyone else’s kids as narcissistic as mine? They could watch themselves all day, I swear!)
Yesterday, I heard the kids talking and laughing while they watched home movies. I heard one of them say, “Look! A birthday party!” and I stuck my head in the room to see which tape they were on. It was a tape of Kendrie’s 4th birthday party. We had it at a local pizza and games place called DJ’s, and the kids were running and jumping and having a ball. They were laughing on the tape, and laughing in the room, watching themselves on the tape, and I was smiling at all of it. Then, suddenly, the birthday party was over. The next image on the tape popped up and it was like somebody had punched me in the stomach.
Kendrie, in a hospital bed, recently diagnosed with leukemia.
We were in Atlanta, and it was Blaine taking the video of me and Kendrie. My mom had flown in to stay with Brayden and Kellen so it was just the three of us at Children’s Hospital. In the video, Kendrie was laying in bed, talking quietly, and looked so very small. I was taking photographs of her, and kept encouraging her to smile. I distinctly remember taking those photos. I hadn’t yet been told the statistics about childhood leukemia --- that the chance for a successful treatment and cure is actually fairly decent. (Not great, since we all know anything less than 100 percent isn’t good enough, but still decent.) But I didn’t know that yet. I remember taking those snapshots of her in the hospital bed, and thinking they would be the last pictures I ever got of her, and feeling like I could vomit at any minute.
Yesterday, watching that tape, it all came racing back at me, and I felt just as nauseous. Like someone was squeezing my heart through my chest.
The next scene was the three of us at the koi pond at the hospital. Blaine picked Kendrie up from the wagon, and tried to get her to throw a coin in the fountain. Her arm had IV’s coming out of it, and she was hooked up to the IV machine we were dragging along behind us, so she couldn’t get the penny in the water. On the tape, Blaine says, “Here, I’ll throw the next one, but you get to make the wish.” I remember thinking at the time, “Let me have the wish -- me! I wish for this all to be a mistake -- I wish for my daughter back, healthy, the way things were a few weeks ago!”
The tape played on, and the images were all disturbing to me. I sat there,watching it, feeling sick and nauseous ... yet those tapes cracked all three of the kids up. “Look, Kendrie, how chubby you were!” said Kellen, while Kendrie, sitting beside me on the floor, held her cheeks and was laughing so hard she was falling over. “Why were my cheeks so fat???” she asked, giggling the entire time.
A few scenes later, she walked across the screen -- totally bloated from the steroids, her hair nothing more than the wispy strands that screamed “CANCER PATIENT”, wearing a princess outfit whose neckline showed the scar from her port, complete with beaded necklace and high heels. “AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” she shrieked hysterically when she saw herself on tape dressed like that, “WHY WAS I WEARING THAT??? IT’S A GIRLS OUTFIT!!!” while all three kids pretty much wet their pants, laughing so hard.
She wasn’t bothered by the bald head, or the puffy face … she thought those tapes were funny. She was able to look back on that and laugh, and I’m so very, very grateful. I know she remembers parts of her treatment because she’ll bring it up from time to time. But she has the ability to look at it with a sense of humor. We’re lucky that her treatment went well, and we have the luxury of looking at those things as funny. Not every family gets that lucky.
As for me, I watched myself on the screen, and saw the dark circles under my eyes, and the pinched, worried look on my face. I remember, viscerally, how those first few weeks in the hospital felt. Yesterday, the memory of that despair and terror was just under the surface, and it surprised me. I felt just as sick, remembering, as I did at the time. Although I never forget how blessed we are, and certainly don’t want to push the entire cancer journey under the rug, I must admit, I don’t think I want to watch those videos again anytime soon. With Kendrie’s treatment lasting twenty-six months, we obviously have a lot of tapes where she is bald and on treatment. But that first tape, the tape of her at the hospital, diagnosed, going from laughing, happy child to frightened, withdrawn, cancer patient …. That hurt. I don’t ever want to be that terrified again, and it's my most fervent prayer that she never faces that again.
{another abrupt subject change}
I dreamed last night. In my dream, me and Brayden and Kendrie were walking along a path when we came to a railroad crossing. The girls were both much younger, about the ages they were in that video. As we stood there, the bells started ringing and the guard rails started coming down, to signal that a train was coming. Suddenly in my dream, I was on one side of the tracks and Kendrie and Brayden were on the other side. They were both crying that they wanted me, and trying to cross over the tracks to get to me. My legs wouldn’t work (do your legs EVER work in dreams like this?) and I was screaming at them to stay on their side of their track, and to let the train pass by. Brayden listened to me and took several steps back, but Kendrie stepped up on the track, arms outstretched to me. I would scream at her to step back, and she would for a step or two, but then she would cry that she was scared, and needed me, and she’d step back on the track towards me, with the train getting closer and closer, second by second.
I was hysterical-panicked in my dream, because I couldn’t reach her, and couldn’t protect her, and couldn’t get her to listen to me. The train was bearing down and she wouldn’t step back away from the tracks, no matter how much I screamed. She just kept crying that she was frightened, and stepping up on the tracks with her arms reaching towards me.
It was one of the worst freaking dreams I’ve ever had.
It certainly doesn’t take a Harvard-trained dream analyst to figure out where it came from. The train was cancer (or I suppose menace in any form) and I was powerless to stop it. I could see that she was in danger, and I couldn’t help her or protect her. It was the most awful feeling in the world.
At that exact moment, my dog started barking, and woke me.
I was never so happy to hear that dog bark in my entire life. As far as I'm concerned, he never has to go outside again.
Most of the time we resign ourselves to standing at the back door while he does his business, or gets his drink, because if you let him out, then try to sit down, by the time your bum hits the sofa cushion, he’s already at the door barking. It’s just easier to wait on him, and let him in, and avoid the barking. (No, I have no idea why he’s spoiled, do you?) Because again, in case I haven’t made it clear --- The. Barking. Will. Not. Stop. He might be sixteen years old, deaf and arthritic, but he’s got the lung power of an young Iditarod champion.
The only time it really bugs me is when I’m trying to sleep, as the master bedroom is in the rear of the house, so his barking wakes me up. Which annoys me. Greatly.
{abrupt subject change}
Last year, when the kids accidentally broke our ancient video camera, we got a new one. But, without the old camera, we had no way to play the old 8mm tapes. So, I bought a DVD burner and made copies of all our old home movies. We have close to one hundred hours of DVD tapes, starting with shortly before Brayden was born in 1997 and going until the present. They’ve provided us with great many hours of entertainment, and there are still many tapes we haven’t watched yet. Each one is like opening a gift, since we’re never sure exactly what is on each DVD. (Are anyone else’s kids as narcissistic as mine? They could watch themselves all day, I swear!)
Yesterday, I heard the kids talking and laughing while they watched home movies. I heard one of them say, “Look! A birthday party!” and I stuck my head in the room to see which tape they were on. It was a tape of Kendrie’s 4th birthday party. We had it at a local pizza and games place called DJ’s, and the kids were running and jumping and having a ball. They were laughing on the tape, and laughing in the room, watching themselves on the tape, and I was smiling at all of it. Then, suddenly, the birthday party was over. The next image on the tape popped up and it was like somebody had punched me in the stomach.
Kendrie, in a hospital bed, recently diagnosed with leukemia.
We were in Atlanta, and it was Blaine taking the video of me and Kendrie. My mom had flown in to stay with Brayden and Kellen so it was just the three of us at Children’s Hospital. In the video, Kendrie was laying in bed, talking quietly, and looked so very small. I was taking photographs of her, and kept encouraging her to smile. I distinctly remember taking those photos. I hadn’t yet been told the statistics about childhood leukemia --- that the chance for a successful treatment and cure is actually fairly decent. (Not great, since we all know anything less than 100 percent isn’t good enough, but still decent.) But I didn’t know that yet. I remember taking those snapshots of her in the hospital bed, and thinking they would be the last pictures I ever got of her, and feeling like I could vomit at any minute.
Yesterday, watching that tape, it all came racing back at me, and I felt just as nauseous. Like someone was squeezing my heart through my chest.
The next scene was the three of us at the koi pond at the hospital. Blaine picked Kendrie up from the wagon, and tried to get her to throw a coin in the fountain. Her arm had IV’s coming out of it, and she was hooked up to the IV machine we were dragging along behind us, so she couldn’t get the penny in the water. On the tape, Blaine says, “Here, I’ll throw the next one, but you get to make the wish.” I remember thinking at the time, “Let me have the wish -- me! I wish for this all to be a mistake -- I wish for my daughter back, healthy, the way things were a few weeks ago!”
The tape played on, and the images were all disturbing to me. I sat there,watching it, feeling sick and nauseous ... yet those tapes cracked all three of the kids up. “Look, Kendrie, how chubby you were!” said Kellen, while Kendrie, sitting beside me on the floor, held her cheeks and was laughing so hard she was falling over. “Why were my cheeks so fat???” she asked, giggling the entire time.
A few scenes later, she walked across the screen -- totally bloated from the steroids, her hair nothing more than the wispy strands that screamed “CANCER PATIENT”, wearing a princess outfit whose neckline showed the scar from her port, complete with beaded necklace and high heels. “AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” she shrieked hysterically when she saw herself on tape dressed like that, “WHY WAS I WEARING THAT??? IT’S A GIRLS OUTFIT!!!” while all three kids pretty much wet their pants, laughing so hard.
She wasn’t bothered by the bald head, or the puffy face … she thought those tapes were funny. She was able to look back on that and laugh, and I’m so very, very grateful. I know she remembers parts of her treatment because she’ll bring it up from time to time. But she has the ability to look at it with a sense of humor. We’re lucky that her treatment went well, and we have the luxury of looking at those things as funny. Not every family gets that lucky.
As for me, I watched myself on the screen, and saw the dark circles under my eyes, and the pinched, worried look on my face. I remember, viscerally, how those first few weeks in the hospital felt. Yesterday, the memory of that despair and terror was just under the surface, and it surprised me. I felt just as sick, remembering, as I did at the time. Although I never forget how blessed we are, and certainly don’t want to push the entire cancer journey under the rug, I must admit, I don’t think I want to watch those videos again anytime soon. With Kendrie’s treatment lasting twenty-six months, we obviously have a lot of tapes where she is bald and on treatment. But that first tape, the tape of her at the hospital, diagnosed, going from laughing, happy child to frightened, withdrawn, cancer patient …. That hurt. I don’t ever want to be that terrified again, and it's my most fervent prayer that she never faces that again.
{another abrupt subject change}
I dreamed last night. In my dream, me and Brayden and Kendrie were walking along a path when we came to a railroad crossing. The girls were both much younger, about the ages they were in that video. As we stood there, the bells started ringing and the guard rails started coming down, to signal that a train was coming. Suddenly in my dream, I was on one side of the tracks and Kendrie and Brayden were on the other side. They were both crying that they wanted me, and trying to cross over the tracks to get to me. My legs wouldn’t work (do your legs EVER work in dreams like this?) and I was screaming at them to stay on their side of their track, and to let the train pass by. Brayden listened to me and took several steps back, but Kendrie stepped up on the track, arms outstretched to me. I would scream at her to step back, and she would for a step or two, but then she would cry that she was scared, and needed me, and she’d step back on the track towards me, with the train getting closer and closer, second by second.
I was hysterical-panicked in my dream, because I couldn’t reach her, and couldn’t protect her, and couldn’t get her to listen to me. The train was bearing down and she wouldn’t step back away from the tracks, no matter how much I screamed. She just kept crying that she was frightened, and stepping up on the tracks with her arms reaching towards me.
It was one of the worst freaking dreams I’ve ever had.
It certainly doesn’t take a Harvard-trained dream analyst to figure out where it came from. The train was cancer (or I suppose menace in any form) and I was powerless to stop it. I could see that she was in danger, and I couldn’t help her or protect her. It was the most awful feeling in the world.
At that exact moment, my dog started barking, and woke me.
I was never so happy to hear that dog bark in my entire life. As far as I'm concerned, he never has to go outside again.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Man's Best Friend. AKA Why They Invented Febreze
Yesterday, I thought our dog was dying. I know, I know, I’ve thought that several times in the past, but come on, he’s sixteen years old for goodness sake, just how much longer can the old boy be expected to stick around?
From the moment we woke up at 7am until we left the house at 10 am, he never moved out of one spot. Not to eat, not to shift, not when the kids pet him, not to make himself more comfortable. I just knew he had chosen his spot and laid down to die. When the kids and I got back home from running our errands, I invented a chore for them to do in the garage so I could go in the house and check on him. He had gotten up long enough to lay down on a different pillow and was snoozing happily, most likely dreaming about young, sexy female dogs and bottomless vats of Snausages. I was so relieved … I love that dog so much.
This morning, we slept in until 8am. This week is Winter Break at school, and I had visions of today being a lazy, lazy day. Instead, by 9am, I had mopped the kitchen floor, mopped the dining room floor, vacuumed the living room floor, and febrezed every square inch of carpet and furniture in the house.
Why? You ask? Why? Is it because I was bored? Am I OCD? Is it because I’m a hyper-vigilant housekeeper? Are Tuesdays my normal mop and wash days?
No, to all of the above. It’s because the damn dog went outside this morning, managed to step in HIS OWN POOP, and track it back in all over the house. And this isn’t even the first time it’s happened! So first I had to catch him {you wouldn’t think a sixteen year old dog would be so spry, but dang, that dog can move!} and clean his stinking {and I use that term literally} paw off with wipes and soap, then I had to un-do the mess he traipsed all over the house. My hands still stink of shit.
I hate that dog.
{Not really. But he has GOT to start pooping farther away from the deck.}
From the moment we woke up at 7am until we left the house at 10 am, he never moved out of one spot. Not to eat, not to shift, not when the kids pet him, not to make himself more comfortable. I just knew he had chosen his spot and laid down to die. When the kids and I got back home from running our errands, I invented a chore for them to do in the garage so I could go in the house and check on him. He had gotten up long enough to lay down on a different pillow and was snoozing happily, most likely dreaming about young, sexy female dogs and bottomless vats of Snausages. I was so relieved … I love that dog so much.
This morning, we slept in until 8am. This week is Winter Break at school, and I had visions of today being a lazy, lazy day. Instead, by 9am, I had mopped the kitchen floor, mopped the dining room floor, vacuumed the living room floor, and febrezed every square inch of carpet and furniture in the house.
Why? You ask? Why? Is it because I was bored? Am I OCD? Is it because I’m a hyper-vigilant housekeeper? Are Tuesdays my normal mop and wash days?
No, to all of the above. It’s because the damn dog went outside this morning, managed to step in HIS OWN POOP, and track it back in all over the house. And this isn’t even the first time it’s happened! So first I had to catch him {you wouldn’t think a sixteen year old dog would be so spry, but dang, that dog can move!} and clean his stinking {and I use that term literally} paw off with wipes and soap, then I had to un-do the mess he traipsed all over the house. My hands still stink of shit.
I hate that dog.
{Not really. But he has GOT to start pooping farther away from the deck.}
Thursday, July 20, 2006
CONVERSATIONS WITH THE YOUNGEST:
My kids torment love, love, love our dog. They love to pet him and give him treats and stroke his fur, and bring him pillows and blankets to lay on -- you get the picture. I would say that they love to play with him but the truth of the matter is he’s old; “playfulness” is an adjective that no longer describes him. “Tired” is perhaps more correct, and definitely “resigned” to his life with these kids wallering all over him. The only time he shows any great enthusiasm is when he’s outside and wants back in, and he lets us know by barking. Repeatedly. Without stopping. At the back door, no matter the time of day or night, until someone -- anyone -- lets him in the house. He might be deaf, and arthritic, but he’s got the bark of a younger, much more annoying virile dog.
This morning Kendrie came running in to me and yelled excitedly, “Mom! Mom! I told Lager to lay down ---- and HE DID!” like it was the greatest circus trick ever. Like he was some sort of genius pet, and it was a feat as heroic as a St. Bernard finding a lost skier and bringing them hot chocolate from a thermos around his neck. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at fifteen years old, lying down is probably the only position he can comfortably hold for more than five minutes.
Speaking of old, tired pets ----------- one goldfish down. Er, belly up. You know what I mean.
This morning Kendrie came running in to me and yelled excitedly, “Mom! Mom! I told Lager to lay down ---- and HE DID!” like it was the greatest circus trick ever. Like he was some sort of genius pet, and it was a feat as heroic as a St. Bernard finding a lost skier and bringing them hot chocolate from a thermos around his neck. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at fifteen years old, lying down is probably the only position he can comfortably hold for more than five minutes.
Speaking of old, tired pets ----------- one goldfish down. Er, belly up. You know what I mean.
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