For a few days, I couldn’t walk Sassy. Not only was my hand all bandaged up and painful, I just couldn’t do it. I kept my distance, as much as it hurt to do so.
I’ve walked her at least twice per day, every day, for the nearly 13 years that she’s been living with me. It’s part of my life. Even though she doesn’t get excited about walks anymore because of her dementia — in fact, sometimes she appears like she really doesn’t want to leave the house — I still take her.
So, I just put one foot in front of the other and started taking her again a few days after I got out of the hospital, and it’s been fine.
We had one rough morning where we got back from our walk and I was trying to put her diaper back on and she wouldn’t cooperate.
With gritted teeth, I whispered under my breath: “You bit my fucking hand and I was in the hospital for two fucking days, you fucking dog. Let me put this fucking diaper on you.” Hey, at least I didn’t yell.
Gradually I began felt more and more comfortable petting her and cuddling with her again. I kept reminding myself that although she’s always been a biter — ask any of my friends or family members, because they all have stories — she’s always defended me, she’s always been gentle with me, and I think she loves me, and when she bit me it was an unusual situation and she had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t mean to hurt me.
I think I’ll always have my guard up somewhat, though. I wish I could forget about what happened, but I can’t.
Sassy still seems traumatized. When we’re on a walk, she will slow down and sometimes even stop if she sees another person. If she sees another dog, she won’t budge an inch until the dog moves out of view. The night of the attack, Wednesday, Jan. 6, she barked in her sleep.
I took her to the vet to get her eyes checked — she has glaucoma — last Wednesday and I mentioned to her veterinarian what had happened. She understood that the extreme circumstances made it unlikely that Sassy would do this again. After all, another dog was attacking her and I was just trying to pick her up when Sassy bit my hand
Still, she brought up the subject of euthanasia for the first time in light of her age and her dementia, which has only gotten worse over the last six months despite being on meds. I’m sure there will come a day when this has to happen. After all, she’s 16. She’s okay now, but if she continues to decline, it might be something we’ll have to face.
I asked Dr. L. how to make that judgment about “when.” She told me it’s not an easy call to make, and every person and pet is different. It hinges upon her quality of life above all, and if that goes into such a decline, it might be more merciful to let her go then make her continue.
I’m reading a book now (thanks again, Emily, for sending this to me!) called Speaking for Spot, which is about how to advocate for your dog as you navigate health issues, and I’m finding it helpful. If you’re going through something similar, of if you have a dog, period, I recommend it.
All of this is tough to write about, talk about and think about. I hope we won’t have to face this anytime soon.
My hand is pretty much all healed. I had a follow-up visit Monday and the infection is gone, and I don’t have to wear that cast/brace thing anymore.
If only emotional healing could be as clean and quick as physical healing.
Just over a week ago today, Sassy and I were about to finish up our evening walk when I spotted a guy with a dog approaching. It was dark, but as they passed under a street lamp, I could see the dog pulling and jumping all over the sidewalk. It didn’t appear to be leash-trained.
As we walked by them, Sassy and I stepped onto the curb, between a sidewalk tree and a car, so we could avoid them. Normally I’d either walk in the street or cross the street to prevent any encounters since she’s absolutely petrified of other dogs. But we were a few doors down from home, I didn’t.
Big mistake.
Somehow the dog got free and went directly for Sassy. She cowered and yelped and fell into the gutter and I put my arms around her to protect her. She’s less than 20 pounds and she’s 16 with dementia and this dog looked twice her size and young.
In the confusion and in what I can only assume was abject terror, Sassy accidentally bit my right hand.
Hard.
I screamed.
The guy just stood there and watched all of this happen. He said: “She’s only 10 months old,” as if that was meant to explain anything.
When a dog misbehaves like this, you can’t blame the dog. This asshole blamed the dog. It was his damn fault for not controlling her and allowing her to attack Sassy.
“Well, you need to control her better,” I said as I stood up, surprising myself at my calm tone and lack of profanity.
I took this about an hour after it happened. So small and harmless, right?!
We rushed inside and I got the first glimpse of my hand in the light. There was a puncture wound in the fleshy area under my thumb, and the first drops of dark red blood started to appear. The pain was sharp and stabbing and I screamed, I hopped around, I cried. I sat down on the couch and rocked and wailed and sobbed harder than I have in years.
Meanwhile, Sassy was pacing, which she spends a lot of time doing because of her dementia, but now she was running in circles. I noticed she’d peed on the kitchen floor, something she does out of anxiety sometimes. With my left hand, I stroked her whole body and didn’t see any signs of injury from the other dog. She was just completely freaked out.
I texted Mike at work and he called. He told me to wash it out but I couldn’t because it hurt too much.
After we got off the phone, I took a few deep breaths and ran some soapy water over it because he was right, it needed to be cleaned. Then I wrapped it in some paper towels, which were blood spotted before long.
After a bit, the pain was less acute, and Sassy and I were calmer and now exhausted. So I set out to do what anyone would do while I waited for Mike to come home: Sit on the couch, turn on the most recent episode of “The Bachelor” and drink a glass of wine.
But we recently got a new TV and I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on, and we were out of wine. Womp womp.
So, I sat back down at my laptop and wasted time using my left hand (I’m right handed) until Mike got home.
He cleaned it out more with soapy water and alcohol and covered it in bandages. It didn’t look good — it was starting to swell and it hurt like a motherfucker. It was bearable, though. I thought a serious dog bite would be bigger, bloodier, much scarier.
But I later learned smaller bites like this are actually more dangerous. Cat bites are even worse, I was told, because their longer, sharper teeth can send bacteria deeper into tissue, even though the wound would appear to be tiny.
We thought we’d keep and eye on it and maybe we’d go to the hospital in the morning but I didn’t want to be viewed as an alarmist hypochrondriac. It would probably be fine. I planned to email my boss in the morning to request a half day to get it bandaged up properly. We had no idea how bad it was.
This delay in getting treatment was the cause of all the crap that would follow over the next few days.
I took a Tylenol before bed and the pain woke me up when it wore off, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. In the morning, Mike noticed it had become even more swollen, and it felt like a piece of raw meat at the end of my wrist. He firmly said we were going to the ER. We didn’t know it at the time, but if we had waited any longer I’d be in an even bigger mess.
Hospital
We took an Uber to Thomas Jefferson University Medical Center last Thursday morning. There was nobody waiting in the ER so I got in immediately. I was put on IV antibiotics right away, and that IV stayed in my arm for more than two days. I got x-rays (nothing remarkable) and a hand surgeon was called.
In the ER Thursday. Getting more swollen.
The upshot was that in the hours since the bite, my hand had developed a severe bacterial infection from Sassy’s nasty hot garbage mouth. We should’ve come in right away because the infection just got worse overnight.
The other issue was that the wound was pretty small and the stuff coming out of it kept drying up, creating a roof on the wound when the nasty junk needed to get out.
The hand doctor squeezed the hell out of my wound trying to get some of the pus out.
I’ll spare you the other details but he did some stuff that hurt so much that I screamed fuck over and over while grasping Mike’s hand. (I also got a shot of lidocaine into my hand, but it hurt like hell and didn’t really numb me much at all.) Mercifully, I was given small doses of morphine every few hours in my IV line.
I couldn’t do much of anything with my right hand. I couldn’t even touch my pointer finger and thumb.
I was shocked when I was told I’d have to stay overnight. I had no supplies with me. I really thought Mike and I would be out of there within an hour or two and if we had time, we’d go to buy a new car, something we needed to do so Mike could get to his new job more easily, before I had to get back to work around lunchtime.
Mike brought his laptop and got some work done at my bedside
Later on I was moved upstairs for observation where I stayed until Friday night, then I was moved to a different part of the hospital until my discharge Saturday. I was on two different IV antibiotics and I’d get a new bag every couple of hours hours. Every few hours my vital signs — pulse, blood pressure and temperature — were taken.
So, I didn’t even try to sleep Thursday night, I just read news articles and blogs on my phone, texted and emailed people using my left thumb to type (very frustrating, but it killed time because it took me so long) and chatted with the nurses and techs who came in to do stuff to me. Mike had brought me my Kindle, but my mind was too foggy from pain pills to focus on a book. Because of all the activity and worry about my hand, I was barely even tired. At that point I was being given two Percocet every two hours so I was definitely woozy, though.
I had to wear this arm sock for a few days, which hung from my IV rig.
I was wearing my cherry and white Temple University shirt (until Mike brought me a new one) and just about everyone who came in asked me if I went to Temple, if I taught there, if I graduated from there. I was grateful for the conversation at first but after the third or fourth time I wanted to give everyone who brought it up the side eye. I also got tired of answering questions about how I got the dog bite. I just wanted to go home.
Things came to a head Friday afternoon. The day before, a nurse practitioner had drawn a line on my hand around the swollen part, which consisted of the area from my middle finger to my wrist to my thumb.
By mid-afternoon, the swelling had spread past the line. Now my paw was so swollen it appeared as if it belonged on someone else’s body. It looked like a meat balloon and my fingers looked like chubby hot dogs and it felt like it was going to explode. Even my wrist was huge and puffy.
From the start there was talk of possible surgery, which sounds scary but it just would involve cutting my hand open more to allow it to drain and combat the infection.
Friday afternoon, when it was clear that my hand was just getting worse, one of the hand surgeons performed a bedside incision and drainage procedure with local anesthesia as I held Mike’s hand. I was glad I didn’t have to go into the operating room, which would have cost so much more, even with insurance.
Exhausted and looking rough but happy to be talking a walk on Saturday
I hadn’t been permitted to eat for more than 10 hours in case they needed to put me under in the OR, so once my hand was bandaged up again, Mike and I feasted on veggie hoagies that his mom and stepdad brought for us.
I was able to sleep for a couple hours early Saturday, until I was awoken by another hand doctor before the sun came up. He cleaned out the incision and squeezed it and said it still didn’t look that great, but it did look better, so they were going to try to discharge me later that day. Woo hoo!
I was feeling better (maybe it was the Percocet) and they unhooked my IV and let me get up and walk around Saturday morning. After being in bed for so long it felt so good to stretch my legs. I wandered the halls, texted Mike — he was out buying a car with guidance from his stepdad — looked out the window, and just relished the freedom.
Bandaged up and ready to go home!
A little while later, another hand doctor came by and confirmed I would be discharged in a few hours! I had to keep my hand wrapped and they gave me an antibiotic that I have to take every eight hours for 10 days.
I was in the mood to celebrate with pizza as Mike picked me up in our beautiful, shiny just-like-new Honda Accord! But, they gave me one dose of the oral antibiotic before I left, and I hadn’t eaten. So I had Mike pull over and I got sick in some parking lot, then a little while later I got sick again at home as our victory pizza got cold. I fell asleep at 7 p.m. and didn’t wake until 15 hours later.
The current state of my hand
My follow-up at the Hand Center on Monday was a hot mess. I thought I was doing great and I assumed they’d take a look at it, pat me on the head and send me home. But there were worried looks and talk of a second fucking surgery to allow more of the gunk in there to drain. The infection is still there.
The doctor said they were going to put my hand in a splint. This is to immobilize my hand and keep the infection from spreading. I thought it would be some small thing, but I was fitted with a custom made removable plastic cast/brace with velcro straps that makes my arm look like a freaking robot arm. I couldn’t believe it.
Robot arm
I can’t work with that thing on. My right hand is busy! So I wear it when I’m done working. I also have to soak my hand for 30 minutes per day at least twice a day in a peroxide and water mixture. I go back next Monday so I’m hoping they’ll tell me it’s finally looking good.
The occupational therapist who made my robot arm asked me about Sassy and my injury, and I was surprised by the words that came out of my mouth: “I’m afraid of my dog now.” I felt tears coming to my eyes and I just wanted to sob, but I kept my shit together.
This is really long, so in my next post I’ll talk about the emotional side of what happened. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading.
Up until about 3 p.m. yesterday, New Year’s Eve, Mike and I hadn’t decided on how to celebrate. I thought we’d go to the South Philly Taproom or another neighborhood haunt. But in the end we felt meh about everything we came up with, so we stayed home. And it was the best decision!
The funny part is that we did what we usually do on Friday nights, although last night was Thursday. But there was something extra special about it. You see, not only were we celebrating the new year, we had something bigger to celebrate: Mike’s new job!
Pouring the Glenkinchie for the very first time!
The Friday night routine starts around 6. Sometimes we head out to The Bottle Shop, our neighborhood beer store, which also has a few taps and a little bar, for a beer. Then in the midst of that Mike will call to order a pizza. (Although this is my favorite version of our Friday night routine, sometimes, like last night, we don’t head to The Bottle Shop. It closed yesterday at 4 p.m.)
We like the pizza light on the bottom, so he’ll ask for that. Then we’ll finish our beers and walk to Francoluigi’s a few blocks away.
This is a great place and if you’re ever in South Philly you should go here. Here’s my Yelp review.
The front of Francoluigi’s consists of a counter and a few tables for takeout, and in the back is the High Note Cafe, a nice dining room with live entertainment. The last time we ate there a three-piece jazz band was performing. The owner is a singer, and he also cooks, so he’ll often pop in and sing a few songs wearing his white apron before heading back into the kitchen.
My awesome NYE attire. I really make the effort!
We don’t visit the restaurant part very often, although we should. We’re in the takeout part every week, so much that they know Mike. The guy behind the counter is a real character, and last night he crowned Mike as “Cooked Light Mike” because of his weekly request for a barely-cooked pie. Other customers who were waiting for their food chuckled too as the counter guy said, “Cooked Light Mike! You’re an icon here now!”
We left Francoluigi’s laughing our heads off as we walked into the night, pizza in hand.
The next part of our Friday night routine is we put the pizza aside for later and we each have a cocktail. Mike has a martini with blue cheese stuffed olives and he makes me whatever cocktail he can come up with.
But last night, we added something special.
When we were in Scotland, we splurged on some really good scotch. We learned so much about scotch over there and I really fell in love with it. We decided to taste it when Mike found a new job, though, so the scotch sat on Mike’s dresser for more than three months. I’d look at it every day and wonder when we’d actually get to try it.
Taking a deep whiff…
Well, this week Mike secured a brand new job, which means it was scotch time! (It’s funny that in Scotland it’s called “whisky,” but in the U.S. it’s called scotch to differentiate it from American-made whiskey, which we call bourbon.)
Anyway, in Scotland we bought a box consisting of a 12-year Glenkinchie, a 14-year Oban and a 15-year Dalwhinnie, all single malts. We learned the proper technique for tasting and how the character can change to much by adding just three drops of water.
We brought out the whiskey glasses and tried each, one by one. It was so much fun! It felt wonderful to finally try them.
After that, we turn on the oven and have another drink while it heats up. We choose the pieces of pizza we want to eat, and Mike adds some blue cheese from his martini prep and five minutes later the pizza is ready. (That’s why we ask for it light on the bottom, because we don’t eat it right away and recook it!)
By that time we have settled upon something to watch on Netflix or Amazon Prime or On Demand. Last night we discovered “Master of None,” a Netflix series starring Aziz Ansari, and it was so hilarious we actually laughed out loud for a few hours. I’d describe it as a combination of “Girls” and “Sex and the City,” but with men as the main characters, and a little “Seinfeld,” maybe. Go watch it!
As midnight approached, we retired to the boudoir with a bottle of champagne and watched the fireworks from the window. It was truly perfect.
If someone were to ask me to describe my ideal last night on earth, it would be this Friday night routine. I really love nothing more than hanging out at home with Mike and the pets along with some good food and drinks.
It’s the little things, you know?
I was going to make some New Year’s resolutions, but I really have just one: To have gratitude for the magical moments in life, even if they’re just routine nights at home with a pizza and Netflix.
The other thing we decided to hold off on, in addition to trying the whiskey, was buying a cat tree. So, I’m off to order one from Amazon…
How did you celebrate the new year?
We also had a new job-celebrating dinner at Izumi on Wednesday nightA good reason to stay home on NYE: Sassy is terrified of fireworks so she needs to wear her Thundershirt and be comforted by usFireworks are scary!
And this is Sassy, my 15-year-old puppy and interspecies life partner. She's my proofreader, too, so any errors in this blog should be blamed on her. (RIP Sassy, 2000 - 2016)
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