September 2, 2014
I’m still hardly about to talk about it, still leaning on PiC and some close friends very heavily to explain why I’ve been so quiet except for some heartbroken sobs on Twitter, but it feels wrong to continue on not saying anything at all.
I can’t memorialize him yet, I can barely accept that this is true, much less find the words to properly eulogize him that won’t further destroy me in the doing.
When I lost Mom, I almost viciously forced myself to say she was gone. It was both scourge and self flagellation to force myself to say those words I knew to be true and desperately needed not to be; a soul-scouring attempt to face the truth and absolve myself of my failings in taking care of her. It didn’t work but it kept the guilt and the grief somewhat at bay for months.
This is … in some ways, this is almost worse. In the suddenness, in the senselessness, in the overwhelming rawness of prostrating grief, I can’t bring myself to cope as I once did. Because he was our responsibility and I cannot absolve myself of the failure to protect him.
“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
We didn’t tame him, we just gave him a new life with us, somewhat pampered though he hardly seemed to notice, and he was coming into his own in these few short years as my wonderfully loving, opinionated and constant “coworker”, my therapy dog, we called him.
PiC was his favorite person in the entire world, you couldn’t match his dance of joy upon being reunited with his papa even after just a few minutes’ absence, and together we were a family. There wasn’t a person, dog lover or not, who didn’t fall for his charmingly quiet, happy personality; many became convinced they wanted a dog “just like him”, after a single visit.
He was our cat-dog, we joked, he being thoroughly exasperated by the hugs I always wanted to give him, and mostly keeping his distance lest I pet him too much. But he clearly loved us. He had a funny way of insisting on family time, staying by our side no matter how late it was, no matter how annoyed he was that it was another late work night; he kept us both in view at all times as if simply by being in the middle, he ensured we stayed “together”.
He’s licked me on purpose exactly once, as an apology for terribly scraping up my foot; he’s inspected PiC’s awful injuries and given them a healing lick but no more than necessary.
As clumsy as the classic bull in the china shop, and yet the most gentle, non reactive companion to any infant or toddler whether he knew them or not, we always knew he’d make the best big brother.
And now our beloved Doggle is gone. We have no reasons and we have no explanations. The heart of our little family is gone and we don’t know how to bear it.
August 11, 2014
Hattip to Kelly for suggesting the code name, it gave me a chuckle over a rough time.
We recently took Sibling’s dog (we’ll call him #2 for now) home with us.
The most stressful part, the extrication, was almost as stressful as I had anticipated, though I’m grateful it didn’t have to turn into a dognapping. My dad wasn’t terribly helpful, and in fact I’d asked PiC to hang back with him since Sibling is historically belligerent when it comes to anyone else asking him to do anything. That, as it turns out, was for the best. The conversation was difficult, meandering in and out of his delusions – as if I needed further confirmation that he wasn’t mentally stable – but I was able to state pretty clearly the terms of the extrication: this was all to help #2 as best we could and we didn’t know how long it’d take. He was compliant which suggests that he only sort of listened but I had reiterated the very few talking points multiple times, and stated them again in front of my dad so that he’d be aware of what we agreed to, once Sibling agreed to let him leave with us.
I’d secured appointments for #2 two weeks in advance, adding to an already jam packed week: a slew of appointments for me and PiC together, me solo, and guests in town to boot.
So of course, the best laid plans …
Originally, we were slated for:
Pre-surgical Bloodwork: $80
Rabies vaccine: $15
Distemper/parvo vaccine: $15
Neuter: $150
Microchip: $15
Nail Trim: $5
Then we were going to address the bigger things.
After an initial exam, we were advised to deal with the bigger problems first instead of looking at the routine stuff. We visited the vet and $400 later, we came home with a slew of medications to alleviate #2’s pain and discomfort and I’ve been on the dogs’ schedules ever since.
The biggest adjustments:
Learning #2’s signals. He had an accident in the house because he’d asked me to take him out but I was so sleepy I didn’t understand what that particular tail wag meant. This is further complicated by the side effects of the medications he’s on, they increase his thirst and need to urinate. He’s doing his best to signal properly and we’re doing our best to take him out a lot more frequently to help his transition from being an outdoor to indoor dog.
Sharing time and space with Doggle. We now have two large dogs, who both want to be petted at the same time if you’re petting one, or walked together (even though they walk at totally different paces and don’t match strides at ALL), or fed together. They don’t fight, thank goodness, and #2 is great at BEING at Number 2, always deferring to Doggle, but you’re still now tripping over two dogs who want to be Right There. Doggle’s also not terribly sure about this interloper so he shoulder bumps #2 out of the way a lot. Again, no fighting, though.
Energy. Five. Walks. A Day. Two. Baths. A Week. *falls over*
I think we’re heading toward $600 so far, and we haven’t even gotten truly started on the serious veterinary stuff yet as it looks like his allergies may be the least of it. :/
Still, given how badly this could have gone, we’re mildly optimistic so far.
July 14, 2014
I’ve talked about Sibling’s dog before; I have hated leaving him there because I know he deserves better care and maintenance but couldn’t summon the strength to deal with:
1. the removal from one home,
2. installation into our home where we have breed restrictions,
3. while fighting an uphill battle with my Sibling over the removal,
4. acclimating New Dog into a small, yardless, abode.
That’s before you even consider all that he needs, aka, the reason we’d be taking him away in the first place.
Basic supplies: bed, leash, collar, food and water bowls, adequate food.
He’s either malnourished or underfed or both because he’s lost way too much weight.
Estimated cost: $300 to start, $45/month ongoing.
Medical supplies: he needs to be neutered, he’s got something going on with his skin that could be anything from a food allergy to … well, any number of things. But he’s breaking out and his poor enormous-dog paws are swollen and red and tender to the touch. The only thing he has got going for him is that his pearly whites are truly pearly white.
Estimated cost: $250 to start if I can book the animal shelter for the neutering, rabies vaccine, microchip, pre-surgery bloodwork if required due to age.
Then … $$$ for treating the skin issues if it’s not just food allergies or environmental causes.
Training: he’s been off-leash so long, he has to learn how to walk politely, on a lead, again.
Estimated cost: Time. Energy. Patience. Doggle’s patience.
Boarding: His rescue will happen before we have unchangeable plans to travel so we need to find a place that’ll board him for a reasonable amount. Brian suggested DogVacay.com which seemed really promising but it turns out most of them discriminate against certain breeds (and from at least one inquiry, based entirely on one bad incident which is preposterous considering the only bad encounters we’ve ever had at dog parks were with Golden Retrievers trying to kill Doggle, while none of the “aggressive” breeds were anything but lovely. This isn’t an isolated experience either, other dog owning friends have had the same experience, but you don’t hear us saying we can’t trust Goldens.)
***
Step One is still going to be horrible. I have to extract him safely and without triggering the Sibling in some way. I can stand him off on my own, I think, but what happens when we leave? What happens when he gets upset at how long the dog’s been gone? Does he try to come hunting us down and then I have a problem with an out of control sibling raging on our front step? Probably unlikely but not out of the question and what do I do then? Call the police and have him hauled off?
But I also can’t keep letting the possibility of his outrage or upset delay us any longer – the dog needs help and it’s clear to anyone else who looks at him.
We’re planning to make it happen this summer. We’re already going to be extremely busy and have our hands full but we’re doing our best to plan ahead to make it go as smoothly as possible. Do wish us luck – we’ll need it!
July 8, 2014
Doggle gets a very generous annual allowance in our budget, something of a reminder-to-self that it’s an expensive prospect having pets [just ask Funny About Money about her Ruby!]. At this point, I suppose you really could indeed put a price on all the hugs and kisses I force on the hapless, long-suffering Doggle.
We actually rarely spend the amount set aside for him, but overspending in other categories [ahem. food. lots of food. travel.] tends to eat into the unspent allowance so the annual spend sort of evens out. This year, however, we literally cannot afford to do that.
Our routine visit to the vet turned into anything but. I opted to do the full senior package: exam, bloodwork, urinalysis, fecal test. I normally would have passed on it but we needed the bloodwork anyway in anticipation of having his teeth cleaned, and we were a bit concerned about whether he had another issue going on. The senior package came with a 15% discount for follow-up labwork, and considering the possible follow-ups we’d need to do, I decided to go with it. $333 later, we found…
He didn’t have a chronic gland problem but instead we found an asymptomatic infection so we’ve been treating that to the tune of $317 for a two week supply of antibiotics. *faint* I immediately compared the clinic pharmacy price to the cost online and found that we weren’t being seriously overcharged, we would have paid very close to that price if I’d ordered from say, 1-800-petmeds.
Two weeks of exhausted Doggle on meds later, our follow-up labwork ($130) showed that he STILL had an infection. On the merest brighter side of the ledger, I insisted that the receptionist follow up with the vet to confirm that the 15% discount should have applied to that charge, so we scraped back a whole $19.50. Much good that’ll do us in the face of a second round of antibiotics ($150) and another lab test after that. At least we’ll save another $19.59 on the third test. *skeptical brow*
When we finally lick this infection, we’ll then fork over nearly $1000 for his dental. He’s in dire need of a really good cleaning, probably never having had one, as his teeth look dodgy, breath smells worse, and I am pretty sure there are broken teeth that need checking. He’s going to love that. And probably will have to have yet another round of antibiotics if the teeth have to come out.
Where are we, that’s about $2000? Well. Of course, that’s not the end of the story – why would it be?
But I think I’ll have to save that for another post. This one just takes the wind out of my sails as it is.
December 15, 2013
As we pass the 2nd anniversary of Mom’s passing, I’ve been sitting with a good friend who has recently lost her mother, discussing grief and the process of grieving.
In some ways, it’s not a simple thing, not an easy progression of steps, nor a checklist you can tick off one bit at a time and arrive at an end.
In other ways, it really is quite simple to understand the gauntlet once you’ve gone through it.
“I was fine at her memorial. I was smiling and talking to people. It didn’t look like her. It didn’t feel like she was gone.”
Yes. I remember that feeling of surreal unreality.
“I’ve cried every day since burying her. I still can’t go into the same stores that I used to shop.”
Me neither. I’d run, crying, out of a grocery store because the memories were just too much. It wasn’t even one that we visited together. It was the visceral memory of a childhood habit that gripped my heart and wouldn’t let go.
“I keep asking myself why I didn’t take her to X, why did I choose to do Y instead of Z? Why didn’t I ..”
I’ve second guessed every decision I made in the last twelve years. Constantly. I’m convinced that I was the worst daughter ever because the end, ultimate, result was that she died, never having recovered from her illness.
You could float on the sea of “if onlys” and “what ifs” that we create, in our grief, treading and retreading our memories.
Hindsight, as they say, is 20-20.
But is it really? Is it really so much clearer now that events have irrevocably transpired?
A truth I’ve had to learn is that the other choice always seems like it would have been better only because I already know the outcome of the choices I did make. I have no idea what would have happened had I gone somewhere else for undergrad, if I had pursued a Masters or Doctorate. Maybe I would have had to drop out and be even less prepared to do the basics of supporting the family.
There’s a song by Little Texas that gets me EVERY time I hear it.
That knowledge doesn’t stop me feeling bone-deep regret for not pursuing a white collar profession where I could have earned enough to buy her health insurance outright (even though that would have taken years), or for being angry with her, not just her disease, as she became more ill and less mentally competent. I couldn’t take the step back at the time, it was easier to be angry than to accept and understand that I was losing her.
What might have been
In the aftermath, even after nominally accepting that I, mostly, did the best I could, and failed, I wonder what could have been done differently. And I wonder how much of my choices, and non-choices, affected this family.
Before carrying me to term, Mom had a few miscarriages.
What would have happened if I hadn’t been the one to make it?
What if my brother had a brother like he wanted?
Or what if he had grown up as an only child, with all the attention he clearly needed, without a “weak” (but meaner than a pit of crocs) little sister to take care of and be bitten for his efforts?
What if he hadn’t had me to practice his machinations and manipulations on?
What if he didn’t have a “follower” sibling with my personality and strong inclinations to academic achievement to contend with and push against in his attempts to lead me? Would he have actually reached to do something with his abilities instead of playing the comparison game and not even trying?
It’s part of the family lore that after a few days (or weeks, I forget) of getting to know me, my sibling picked me up and suggested they return to the hospital to trade me in for a better model. Unfortunately for him, hospitals didn’t accept returns at the time or I’m sure he would have just taken me himself. Kids feel that sort of thing all the time, but I wonder whether they all really would have been better off without me?
Without an extra mouth to feed, a second child to clothe, educate and worry about, would my parents have been less stressed, and more able to save? Did their circumstances dictate the outcome, or would their actions have been much the same?
Would my sibling have been the productive citizen and son that my parents prayed for? Would he have learned to use his copious people skills and talents towards a job or career, would he have felt the unbearable weight of responsibility that I grew up with, or would that still have eluded him?
Was it my fault, my existing, that played a key role in his failure to thrive? Is his failure to find a niche where he would excel attributable to my combative and competitive nature?
These are intertwined but I can’t help but realize that, like the butterfly flapping its wings, my very existence changed things.
Was it for the better?
I can’t know. I do know that as the surviving fetus, as the kid who did come along second, eventually, whatever ill my coming boded, I always felt a pressing weight. I knew fairly early on about Mom’s miscarriages. I know about the bigger than usual gap in years between my sibling and myself. Where other kids were two years apart like clockwork, we were about 3 years apart and, oh, the strength of will it must have taken for her not to smother me mid-scream in the first nine months I spent crying my lungs out.
It always seemed like I lost the genetic lottery: as the scrawny, untalented (no eye for art, terrible ear for music, only Doggle matches my astounding level of clumsiness), not terribly smart, really a bit of drifter with no dreams, youngest child, I only knew that I had to compensate and overcompensate to justify having made it.
The ghosts of those other babies, the ones my parents never met, haunted me a little. What could they have done with the gift of life? Would they have had the talent? Would they have inherited Mom’s gift with numbers, Dad’s ability to dream for the future? Would he or she, or they, have been the charmers, able to mingle and make friends everywhere they went? I certainly didn’t get any of that, so was that lost with them, leaving me with only remnants of determination and a strange love of containers to work with?
Sometimes it feels like all I have are questions, a sense of those nearly siblings’ unfulfilled potential, the uncomfortable prickles of something like guilt.
Without dwelling on the macabre, there are some studies that suggest that the influence of a sibling, past a certain point in life, is a stronger force in the development of an individual than even that of a parent. Anecdotally, I could see this. I learned from my parents, authoritatively, but I viscerally reacted to my sibling. At a much deeper level, I absorbed what I know of human nature from my interactions with him, by growing up next to him, and observing his experiences. By following my big brother. And I can’t know how my existence, my following, and my watching affected him. A bit like Schrodinger’s Cat, I guess.
Having made it this far, it feels like it’s my job to make good, to redeem the family name. I can’t change the past, I can only work toward the future.
I try not to think about
What might have been
‘Cause that was then
And we have taken different roads
We can’t go back again
There’s no use giving in
And there’s no way to know
What might have been
April 10, 2013
A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the other one snores.
–The Fifth Elephant, Terry Pratchett
I’m absolutely prepared to swear that I’m not the one who snores. [Admission: I used to sleepwalk, sleeptalk and sleep fought back against nightmarish intruders that have turned out to be … PiC. Oops. In my defense … well ok, he didn’t even notice so do I need a defense?]
PiC and I have put a lot of money into a fantastic new mattress, bigger and better than ever!, and really need to replace our pillows. But every so often PiC wonders if we should have gone our separate ways for sleeping since his snoring keeps me up or wakes me so many times in the night.
Katie recently asked this same question about Separate Bedrooms.
The thing is, except for those nights when a literal earthquake couldn’t wake me for the exhaustion, my body’s become attuned to having him around and startles awake if he’s not there. This probably stems from those many nights when he’d have one or another thing to do before bed and would end up falling asleep where he sat. Around 2 or 4 am, something would trigger in my brain and I’d get up to fetch him. Can’t win for losing!
It’s like Mind-Reading (but worse)
While cooking the other day, I heard the scrape-scrape-scrape of the dog food container we’d just gotten to prevent any bug infestations. Not a problem now and not a problem ever, we hope.
Unhappily, the touted stackable container that should hold greater than 40 lbs appears to have all it can do to hold about 25. Other than that, though, we quite like the container. Until I heard PiC’s cursing: “why can’t I close t— oh. Never mind ….. ”
“Because you were turning it the wrong way?”
“YES. How did you know?”
simultaneously: You/I just did that!
*burst out laughing*
Learning to make the best of things
Talking to my dad about trying to start to plan a wedding reception has uncovered a whole pot of simmering tensions. He’s holding firm on some pretty unreasonable expectations, in my opinion, and basing it on fairly illogical logic. *sigh* It’s hard to say how we’re going to navigate to the other side on this but I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around how, frankly, selfish he’s being about this.
I’ve willingly sacrificed pretty much everything I wanted in the past ten years for them. And now when it comes to the wedding, instead of working together to figure out how to compromise, he wants his way or no way at all for the sake of his reputation. Those are my choices. I can have all the family he “has” to invite, or none of them. Which is no choice at all in my book. And utterly ridiculous when he keeps insisting that we have to have 300-400 family members minimum, before we even look at non-family we would choose to have there for either side.
By virtue of distance alone, we won’t be able to return the invitation to a great many people he feels he “owes” an invitation to (by the backwards logic of “they expect to return his wedding gift to them or their children”), a great number of our family are overseas… and a great number are in SoCal too. Based on the criteria “because I have to save face”, there are still a hell of a lot of people who can’t be invited. So why is it we can’t just invite the family that I actually know, keep in touch with or care about, and include a reasonable number of his-choice invites? That’s still a large number by itself.
This has me quite annoyed on principle. Quite frankly, his priorities shouldn’t only be his standing in the community or how he looks. This isn’t entirely, 100%, about him. He’s not paying for one cent of this and saying “don’t worry about it, I’ll handle all the details” doesn’t make it better. You can’t just push me out of a core part of our wedding and expect that I’ll be ok with that. I’m all about including his input, but I am NOT about rolling over and giving him everything he wants.
I’ve lived my whole adult life focusing on what would be best for my parents, isn’t it time he stepped up and cooperated?
/rant.
So I asked a pretty-exasperated PiC what he’d like. Guest list and other BS aside, what would he actually LIKE?
An Enchantment Under the Sea, a la Back to the Future theme, says he.
[headsplosion] Seriously??
Yes. {starts singing the song}
[hilarity ensues]
We can’t have a DeLorean because if no flux capacitor, then no DeLorean. Authenticity dammit!
Costumes? Sure. But for other people.
Wonder if we can get the local high school gym?
{text old high school friend who still FBs with high school administrators}
We’ll see!
How about Enchantment Under the Sea in the gym, and luau outside?
ROAST PIG. YES.
This could be expensive.
Or … not? Hm. Yes. It could be. If we’re going to do it, I’d like it to be cool, not slapdash. Also, I stipulate that I must have Wolverine something. If we’re going geek, I want something of mine represented.
Deal.
Being married and getting married. Two strange states of being when cast simultaneously.
March 5, 2013
Sometimes I think the world needs to hear this a little more often.
This is a bit of a follow-on thought from the Marissa Mayer post, and partly inspired by a comment I absolutely agreed with from Cloud’s post, bold emphasis mine.
Laura Vanderkam said “I get annoyed with the carping at successful women for reasons of privilege, etc. When Donald Trump writes a book on success, no one says “well, that’s easy for him to say because someone else is cleaning his bathrooms” or “of course he’s successful because he can afford a nanny.” People who reach the top often have interesting things to say about what it takes to reach the top. Sometimes it’s helpful to listen or read without judging, and if you decide it’s wrong for you, fine. But if a strategy is wrong for you, that doesn’t make someone who used it, ipso facto, a bad person. Yes, I’m referring to the Sheryl Sandberg backlash, but this mindset is out there a lot.”
This is the thing that underlies my frustration with the tearing down of women in specific and people in general when they’re successful. The whiny, self crippling, justifications of why we can’t possibly be “like that” because we’re not privileged.
Many kinds of privilege exists. Absolutely. And in some places, the privilege is truly crippling, I’m not disputing that.
What I am tired of is that the vast majority of people complaining tend to be at least capable, competent of mind and body, and have access to first world amenities that are potential tools. Instead, they dwell on why that won’t work for them.
It makes me think of a story …
…my dad used to tell me of the poor region where he grew up. He was one of the few privileged back then but he clearly recognized the privations that were the norm for the majority of people as recently as 30 years ago, even 15 years ago. He told us this story many, many times.
“Most of the people were so poor that they had one change of clothing a year. If they made enough money to buy fabric, and could afford a needle and thread to sew, they could make a new pair of pants for themselves. Maybe with pockets. Probably not. But, pants.
Their families didn’t have enough money for three meals a day for everyone, they could have one full meal a day. But they were hungry for education. They couldn’t afford books, paper, pens or pencils. Still, they were determined to learn. And unlike here in the U.S., education was not a right. It was a privilege.
The students were so desperate for the chance to learn that they would walk upwards of ten miles to school, and the classes were so big that the students wouldn’t fit into the classroom. So they opened the doors and windows, and the students would sit outside on the ground and listen. They couldn’t take notes, there was no paper, so they memorized the lectures. They had to review the lessons orally.
They had to study this hard because there was an annual exam to pass each grade. If you didn’t memorize everything, you were dropped out of school. And the exam covered everything that was taught through the year. With the limited resources, there was no such thing as grading on a curve, the students who failed would leave the school and have to figure out how to make a living with a grade school education, or however far they got. This was high stakes.
With no tools, with no aids, many of these students – your mother was among them – managed to learn math, science, reading, writing, language at each progressively more difficult level.
No pens, no paper, no computers. But they found a way to learn anyway. What do you need to learn and prosper?
If those people in our generation can figure out how to learn, progress and make successful lives with literally no resources but a sparing food ration, time during the day, their minds and their motivation, can you honestly say there’s anything you truly can’t do?”
No Dad, I couldn’t say that. If I don’t make something of myself, it sure won’t ever be blamed on a lack of privilege.
I was never the smartest kid around but I could damn well try to be the hardest working. With that kind of heritage, that kind of cultural past, I could hardly cop out by making excuses, could I?
I’ve written about my mom as my motivation more than once. I realized that my dad hasn’t gotten as much airtime. Where Mom was the tower of strength and capability in all things, teaching us language in her “spare time, and demonstrating work ethic alongside Dad, Dad was the storyteller in the family, the one who made the past live again for us, linking us to the family and cultural histories.
What’s your inspiration?