A few years ago I wrote here about how my dad sold the house that my brother and I grew up in.
It was sad. There were so many memories there.
Recently, I was in Hatfield with my brother and sister and we decided on a whim to stop by the house my parents had owned for more than 30 years. I guess I wanted to see how it was doing since it had been such a big part of my life for so long.
As I wrote in my previous post about the house, I thought (or maybe it was wishful thinking) that a young family had moved in and that the kids went to the elementary school Doug and I attended. I pictured them living their lives there there like we had.
But that wasn’t the case.
The couple who bought it are unfortunately going through a divorce. The guy lives there, and one of the kids was there but he appeared to be visiting.
It looked like there were half-finished home improvement projects all over the place. And they bought the house in 2013.
The front room and dining room were full of kids’ toys, no furniture. The family room (a.k.a. den) and kitchen were the only usable spaces downstairs.
The garage reeked of cigarettes, and so did the rest of the house.
My parents would have died (well, if they weren’t already dead, I guess.)
The guy was polite enough to let us in, but it felt weird. He seemed embarrassed. He would’t let us upstairs because he said it was a mess.
To his credit, he allowed three strangers inside his home with no notice, so I’m not condemning him. And perhaps it’s unfair to snark on him when I don’t really know him or what he’s dealing with in life. It’s his house and he can do what he wants with it. It’s just disappointing that he hasn’t been keeping it up like my parents had.
The biggest letdown was that he ripped out all of my parents’ landscaping in the front and in the back, plus he cut down a tree. He said they were overgrown, so why not trim it or hire someone to do so?
My mom and dad were so proud of that yard. Now it just looks trashy, like nobody gives a crap. They’d would be upset.
As we walked around, Doug kept hugging me, happy to be back in his old home, and even tried to get into the basement. He still remembered how to work the lock on the door that my dad had installed.
There were some little things that made us happy, though, like seeing that the guy did not take down the Blessed Virgin Mary picture that my mom, ever the Catholic, had thumb-tacked above the laundry room door. The cool light fixture I always liked still hung in the hall.
And the 1960s-era metallic green bike with the banana seat that belonged to one of my sisters was still hanging up in the garage. I used that bike, too, and the kids in the neighborhood called it “The Green Machine.” He told us we could take it if we wanted, but we didn’t.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kind of feel like it was a mistake to go back to the house. Maybe it would’ve been better if I kept on believing that the new owner was taking good care of it.
But still, it did feel good to be in there again. Just like seeing a dead loved one in a casket doesn’t have to affect how you remembered them when they were alive, this doesn’t impact my memories of the house.
I feel like the house is an old friend who has fallen on hard times and you want to help them, but there’s nothing you can really do. So you just hope for the best and wish them well.
Have you ever gone back to visit a place that was once important to you and found it nothing like you’d pictured?
In the good ol’ days.
Yeah, I haven’t written here in a year and a half. I stopped because I pretty much said all I wanted to say at the time. And with all that’s been happening in our country, it would not have felt right for me to continue writing about myself here when there are far more important things for people to read on the internet right now, like this! I don’t know if I’ll continue. But if you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading.
Last Tuesday evening when I stepped out my front door, my neighbor’s friend was sitting on my front step smoking.
As I locked the door, she apologized and stood up, allowing me by.
Rather than say, “No problem!” or “That’s okay!” I just leaped down the stairs and passed her without saying a word or even looking at her and jumped in my friend Melissa’s waiting car.
I felt a little bad about it later. How hard is it to just say something or even smile when a stranger speaks to you?
I consider myself a (mostly) nice person to the people in my life, but I’m not really bringing much of anything positive into the world in the way I go about my day. I don’t drive anymore, or rather, I’ve driven maybe four or five times so far this year. But when I did so every day, I was sort of an asshole city driver. Why not let someone go first when at a four-way stop? Why not smile or even give a nod from time to time while walking down the sidewalk rather that scowling or looking straight ahead?
You never know what someone is going through as they move through the world. A loved one could have just died. Maybe they got fired, maybe they found out they’re losing their house, maybe someone they’re going through a breakup, maybe they were passed over for a promotion, maybe their bike got stolen, maybe their big plans fell through. I think a lot of us are barely hanging on sometimes, and stranger being a jerk just adds to that misery.
But someone being nice, offering a smile or a kind word or a compliment could really lift someone up. Plus, spreading kindness makes you feel good, too. I often see women with cool clothes or shoes or hair and rather than keeping those thoughts to myself, I’ve started giving random compliments to strangers. It’s fun to see their eyes light up and it gives me a little jolt of joy too.
The note we found on my friend’s car.
Later that Tuesday night, Melissa and I went back out to her car after volunteering with the shelter cats at Petsmart and we found a note on her windshield. It was a square of construction paper and it said, “You’re the Best!” in marker, and it also had a web address, kindnessisfree.com and a hashtag, #kindness365.
I looked it up and the people behind this movement are traveling the country just spreading kindness. I think they were in Philly because of the Democratic National Contention, and given the politics of today, we sure could use more kindness in the world.
My friend and I both thought it was so nice! A note on your windshield is usually a ticket or a note from a fellow driver about something you or they did, so to get a note like this was so refreshing.
Then we noticed a huge RV in the Petsmart parking lot. On the side it read #kindness365 and some people were dancing around it. I held the note out the window and yelled, “Thank you!” but they didn’t hear, so I took a photo of it and put it on Instagram.
They responded with a sweet message back and added, “Pay it forward.”
Pay it forward. Hmm. What can I do to spread kindness to others? To strangers?
Then it hit me: Duh. I can just write my own notes and put them on cars, or wherever people would find them. That night I couldn’t sleep a wink, so I got up and spent a few hours coming up with messages to write.
Then over the next couple of nights, I wrote 30 notes on construction paper and markers. It was actually a lot of fun! I put the hashtags #phillyiskindness (I made that one up; I’m not on Twitter but I’m on Instagram) and #kindness365 as a way of building upon the stuff that the group who left us the note is doing.
I haven’t handed them out yet because it’s rained every day for the last week, but the weather looks sunny for the next few days, so I’m going to start putting them out there. *
Maybe it will encourage someone, give somebody hope or maybe just turn around a crappy day. You never know the effect your actions have on others.
The reason why I’m writing this post is to encourage others to spread kindness, too. Rather than bringing negativity into the world by snarking on a woman’s clothes or body on the Internet, complaining about everything , being judgmental of somebody’s choices, or being racist, sexist or violent, doesn’t it make more sense to look for opportunities to offer a kind word or do a kind act, not because you feel you might get something for yourself in return, but because it’s just the right thing to do?
I know it sounds hokey, but I hope this will create a tiny ripple effect and cancel out some of the garbage happening in the world right now. Are you with me?
*Another reason why I haven’t handed any out yet is I’m afraid people are going to yell at me for touching their cars. This is Philly, after all!
I stood on the sun deck on the fifth floor of our rented beach house, gazing out at the ocean. It was a gorgeous, sunny day and I was down the Jersey shore with my family, staying in a beautiful, huge house that even came with an elevator.
But rather than enjoying myself, I felt like I had hit bottom.
I moved my gaze to the ground directly below where I stood. We were above the back of the house, where there was a short blacktop driveway and a few garbage cans.
Mike walked out onto the deck, and I asked him, “What do you think would happen if I jumped right now?”
He looked down.
“I think you’d be okay,” he said. “You’d probably just break your legs. If you aimed for the trash cans they might break your fall.”
Broken legs sounded pretty good to me right then. It would mean I wouldn’t be able to do much — including work — for a few days.
Something had to change.
That night, we walked down to the ocean and went up to our calves in the ice cold waves with just the moon serving as our light, then we strolled barefoot on the boardwalk, got ice cream, and talked about what to do.
Clearly, I had made a mistake in switching jobs within my company a few months earlier, and now I had to get myself out of the mess I’d created. I made it known that I wasn’t happy, that it wasn’t working out, and that I needed to get back to my old group doing what I know and love and do best, which is editing and writing.
But all routes were blocked, and my health was suffering, so my only choice was to leave.
After I decided that, I felt hopeful. The elephant on my chest was getting lighter. I could eat again and breathe again.
At home a few days later, we figured out what I’d say and I typed it out.
Then, the next day, June 6, something miraculous happened.
Seemingly out of the blue, I got an email that said I had the green light to move back to my old group. Just like that.
I didn’t have to quit. I didn’t have to do anything but embrace my good fortune and feel grateful that things had ultimately worked out in my favor.
The change I wanted had been dropped right into my lap.
I’ve been back doing what I want to do for a few weeks now, and life is good. Really good.
Now that my mind is free of the abject stress and anxiety I’d been dealing with for the last few months, I think I’ll be writing here more.
There’s nothing like waking up from a good night’s sleep. You feel all refreshed and ready to tackle the day and do awesome things.
But what if you dreamed about Donald Trump?
What if you dreamed about Donald Trump not once, but twice in one week?
I can tell you because this happened to me.
You feel all confused and want to go back to sleep to somehow undo the dream and hopefully replace it with a nicer dream, like a dream about cats.
In Dream #1, Mike and I are living in a luxurious, massive, marble-filled penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. There’s a knock at the door and it’s Donald Trump.
“I’m here to take a shower, okay?” he says, acting impatient and condescending. Confused, we step aside and gesture toward a bathroom.
As the shower starts, Mike and I are wringing our hands and whispering furtively, wondering what’s happening.
A rush of water suddenly crashes into the room, like a small tidal wave, and we’re swept off our feet and swimming.
Donald Trump swims toward us and then starts climbing on some high bookshelves and doing cannonballs. He tells us to join him, so we do, and I actually start to have fun. I notice that his usual orange makeup is washed off and his hair is wet and hanging down in his face, and he looks somewhat normal.
In Dream #2, I receive confidential information that Donald Trump wishes to rebrand himself as Donald Drumpf, and I’m tapped to help make this happen.
Now, in real life, Drumpf was his family’s name before an ancestor changed it to Trump. This is no secret. But in this dream, he doesn’t realize that this is widely known and believes adopting “Drumpf” will somehow throw off the haters. Kind of like how a business caught in a scandal might change its name in an attempt to cover it up.
“I really want to be Donald Drumpf, and I want my new image to be part Mr. Rogers, part Homer Simpson,” he announces in a secret meeting that I’m invited to attend.
My duties involve getting new bumper stickers made that read, “Drumpf 2016.”
The first time I had a Donald Trump dream, I was amused. The second time, I began to worry that something is wrong with me.
I normally don’t remember my dreams, so to have two vivid Trump dreams in one week makes me wonder: What’s going on?
Granted, on social media I mostly follow news sites that focus on politics, so every time I mindlessly scroll through my phone I see his face contorted in various unflattering expressions along with articles about the most recent dumb thing he did or said.
But I don’t think about him very deeply because he’s not going to be elected president — I have faith in the American voter. So, I don’t feel threatened. As far as I know, I’m not acquainted with anyone who supports him because I surround myself with good people.
I did meet my very first Trump supporter in the flesh a few weeks ago at our regular watering hole down the street. Judging from his clothing, he was into The Walking Dead and heavy metal and didn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was nice. Within about 10 minutes of chatting, politics came up.
“I support Donald Trump,” he said.
My mind flooded. I had so many things to say.
“So do you know he’s a huge racist? All these white supremacist groups are really into him,” I said. “He’s said some pretty awful things about Mexicans and Muslims.”
“Nah, he’s not racist,” he said. “He’s just not into political correctness.”
I pounded my beer just so we could get out of there, and as we said our goodbyes, he said, “By the way, I don’t vote.”
Normally that would make me cringe, but not this time!
Has anyone else had a Donald Trump dream? Please tell me you have!
On Saturday afternoon, Mike and I went over to our tenant’s house to try to clear the shower drain. While we were there, I picked up a piece of mail addressed to me that had arrived in February. It was a sympathy card from Sassy’s veterinarian, signed by everyone in the office.
I didn’t open it right away, but when I did, I did not break down, I didn’t cry. There’s still a huge hole in my heart and I miss her every day, more than I’ve ever missed anyone else. But I’m healing.
Right after Sassy died, I switched to a different position within my company. It gave me a chance to focus on something other than the fact that my girl is no longer here, but it’s still been a struggle.
But you know what? I’m going to be okay. I am okay.
I’m able to open a sympathy card from my vet without bursting into tears.
I’m able to do my new job. I had my performance evaluation and received all positive feedback, which was a relief. This made me realize how how hard I’ve been on myself, and how self-doubt can make you sick. Literally.
You know what’s helped? Meditation.
Without it, I might have had a heart attack or something by now.
I downloaded a free app called Stop, Breathe and Think, and I do one or two guided meditations every morning before I get out of bed. At most, this takes 15 minutes — time well-spent. It helps me face the day with a positive outlook, it calms me down, it changes the dialog inside my brain.
And just for the record, it’s a completely secular thing. It’s not spiritual or religious, it’s all about just quieting the mind and finding some peace.
If I hadn’t started doing this, I feel like I’d still be stuck in a negative place, full of anxiety, misery, grief and self-doubt. If you feel you could benefit from meditation, I really recommend it.
I’ve also started to get into the habit of listing at least five things I’m grateful for every night, and that’s helped to improve my outlook as well.
This isn’t to say I’m no longer struggling. I am, but the difference is that I know everything is going to be okay.
No, fuck that. Everything is going to be awesome.
The first step is to just believe that, and I do.
Can you relate? Have you ever tried meditation? I’d love to hear about it!
Last week Mike and I were at the Bottle Shop, our neighborhood craft beer store that also has a tiny bar, when I locked eyes with a dog.
I was returning to my seat from the bathroom when I spotted the dog, a pitbull/husky mix. His owner, who looked like the character Ray from the HBO series “Girls,” was standing near the bar drinking a beer.
“Is your dog friendly?” I asked.
“Very,” he said.
I crouched down and petted him and he licked my face. The Bottle Shop has dog treats on the counter, and the guy handed me a few treats to give him. He gobbled them up and looked eager for more. I made a new friend.
“My dog just passed away last month,” I said as I stood up. “It feels good to pet a dog again.”
The guy offered his condolences and I thanked him, then I joined Mike back at the bar. I told him what had just happened and the tears started rolling from my eyes.
It’s been five weeks, it’s now March, and I miss her terribly. I can’t even really think about her too much or too often or I’m a mess, going from perfectly fine to ugly-crying in less than 60 seconds.
Combined with that, I switched to a different job within my company a few weeks ago and it’s been challenging and stressful, so things have been tough overall.
But, I’m focusing on being grateful for this opportunity I’ve been given. And being grateful for having had Sassy in my life for as long as I did. And being grateful for Mike, my smart as hell, gorgeous, all-around amazing husband, who just came home with a surprise bagel for me. I’ve also been meditating, which really helps.
No matter what the circumstances, I believe there’s always something good to be found, and by focusing on that, you can make the good expand. That’s been my experience, anyway. I know things will get easier on all fronts. It just takes time.
A few minutes after my encounter with the dog at The Bottle Shop, his human knocked over a beer. I happened to be walking by as he was trying to attend to that.
He spotted me and asked, “Can you watch him for a few minutes?”
I agreed, and he handed me his leash.
“His name is Bootsie,” he said.
His leash was much sturdier than Sassy’s was, and attached to it was a poop bag holder in the shape of a white dog bone. It had been a month since I held a leash. I wrapped it around my wrist and sat on the floor with him.
I asked him to sit. He sat. I gave him a treat. He crunched it up and licked my face.
And through my tears, I smiled.
If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment. – Henry David Thoreau
We parked across the street from the vet’s office and Mike carried Sassy, wearing a diaper, inside. We were brought into the exam room immediately. I saw that a fuzzy black blanket had been laid out for us on the floor and I felt grateful that she wouldn’t have to lie on the cold, stainless steel exam table.
That morning I had washed my hair in the shower, something I only do once or twice a week, preferring to wear it in a bun most of the time. I put on one of my favorite sweaters. You don’t have funerals for pets and so I wanted to look as presentable as possible on the day we say goodbye to our sweet dog.
When Dr. L. came in, she seemed taken aback at how poorly Sassy was doing. We had been there just 10 days earlier and she was much more alert and very much like herself, but on this day, she was trembling as she sat in Mike’s lap.
Dr. L had diagnosed her with kidney failure when the test results came in after our last visit. We opted not to treat her kidney disease — at nearly 16, she was dealing with other issues, like dementia and glaucoma, and we saw no point in prolonging her suffering. It seemed selfish. Dr. L. said we should bring her back in when she skipped her first meal, or when she started vomiting.
It was hard to say when she skipped her first meal because it was a slow taper. She stopped eating her dog food a few weeks earlier, so we gave her chicken. When she stopped eating that, we bought her some ground beef. When she stopped eating that, we bought her chicken again. She would only eat the chicken if we hand-fed it to her. Then she just stopped opening her mouth.
This means she also stopped taking her dementia meds as well as the Pepcid that Dr. L. had recommended to help with the kidney disease symptoms. We had been hiding the pills in her food.
Meanwhile, she was drinking water like crazy and soaking up to five diapers per day, despite the fact that we were letting her outside throughout the day and night.
She was always a pretty active dog, and given her dementia, she spent a good chunk of every day just pacing back and forth. But at the end, she curled up on the floor and slept most of the time. Our girl wasn’t feeling well at all.
I made an appointment for Wednesday, Feb. 10 at 2:30 p.m.
Dr. L. let us spend a bit of time with Sassy before it all started, but our pup seemed anxious. They took Sassy away to shave some fur off her leg and get an IV line started.
This took longer than I expected. We heard the sound of a dog yelping somewhere in the vet hospital, but we couldn’t tell if it was her or not. When she was brought back to us, the vet tech said they had a hard time finding a vein.
We got to spend a few minutes alone with her then and we took some pictures, but she was so keyed up and anxious that Mike went to find them so we could get started.
As I held her in my lap, Dr. L. gave her a strong sedative in her IV line and she fell asleep right away. They told me to lay her on the blanket, so I placed her on her side. Then Dr. L. gave her another injection, checked her with a stethoscope and told us her heart had stopped beating. She was gone.
And so was I.
They left us alone with her and the floodgates opened. I felt something breaking inside me. Starting at that moment, my world would be divided into parts: Life with Sassy and life without her.
I thought maybe she was still alive — I hoped that was true — and I tried to wake her up.
But she didn’t respond. Later, I almost called the vet hospital to make sure she really was gone, and if she wasn’t, that we could come and get her right away and try to see if the kidney meds would help her get better. I kept asking Mike if he thought she was really and truly dead for good.
But I knew these were irrational thoughts. I didn’t call.
Since then, I’ve been struggling. I’ve had several significant losses in the past 10 years, like the deaths of my parents and other pets. Sassy was by my side every day from May 8, 2004 until Feb. 10, 2016. This is by far the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
What really killed me was picking up Sassy’s remains. I did that the evening of Tuesday, Feb. 16. My beautiful girl’s body is now enclosed in a pretty wooden box with a name plaque on it. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. How can this be?
Eleven years, nine months and two days. My relationship with Sassy was the longest and most significant of my adult life, and being without her is heartbreaking.
Actually, my heart hurts, physically hurts. Since I lost her, I’ve felt achy and heavy, like my limbs are made of wet sand. I’ve been crying in public.
I wish I could believe that she’s living on in some alternate dimension and we’ll be reunited again, but I can’t.
I’m viewing the world with new eyes. Before, she factored into everything I did. She needed to be walked at least twice a day. I couldn’t leave her alone for more than a few hours. I put her needs and comfort before my own, and so did Mike. We did so without hesitation because we loved her.
Now that she’s gone, the routines we had for years are now gone, too. It’s been a difficult adjustment. I still find myself looking for her then remembering she’s not here anymore.
The morning after she died, I sat down at my laptop and tried to work, but I couldn’t focus. I realized why. For the last 11 years, I’ve walked Sassy before work every day, so I did what I know. I put her leash and collar in my coat pocket and walked our usual route around the block.
Walks were her favorite thing ever, before she got so sick. She’d get so excited for our trips around the block. I had work, human relationships, volunteering, trips, beer, restaurants, parties, books. She had me and our walks.
Lately I’ve been trying to appreciate what I do have rather than dwelling so much on what I lost. Like Mike, the cats, my family and friends.
Sassy was a handful and it was hard to have people over. We can have guests now without worrying about how she’ll behave. We can take a spontaneous weekend trip without making pet hotel reservations. We can get new area rugs — in fact, we ordered new ones last week. We can get outdoor furniture and a grill for our fenced-in cement triangle of a back yard and actually spend time out there. Before, it smelled like Sassy pee all the time.
It will be years before I’d consider adopting another dog. Right now I can’t even fathom it. Why do people put themselves through such pain, letting themselves fall in love and get attached to a pet, knowing for sure that you’ll lose them? I know it’s the route of choice for some, but we all grieve differently. The way I feel right now, when our three cats pass away, I don’t want any new cats, no new dogs, nothing. It seems like absolute foolishness. I’m ashamed to feel this way given that I’ve been involved in the animal rescue community in Philly for eight years, but I can’t put myself through this again.
I’d give anything for one last fun day doing something outside with Sassy. I regret the times I went on trips and had fun without her and left her at the pet hotel.
When Mike and I went to Maine in the summer of 2014, the pet hotel called me because she seemed depressed and wasn’t eating because she missed me, so they wanted to know if they could put Cheez Wiz on her food to entice her to eat. I said of course and felt my heart ache. I missed her too.
I still miss her. I will always miss her.
A huge piece of my heart died with her.
She gave me a good life.
Sassy hiking in the Arizona desert, 2007Sassy hiking in ArizonaCome on, let’s go!Hollywood Boulevard in 2007. She took a dump on some celebrity’s star not long after this photo was taken.
Patient and adorable in South Philly in 2012Small dog, big boneVenturing into the water in Maryland, July 2009Cooling off in the ChesapeakeDeal Island, MDShe loved hanging out in my bathroomSummer 2014 at our home in South PhillyDog is my co-pilotLove!She always stole my socksGarbage breathJuly 4 thunderworks are scaryMay 2008 in Las Vegas. This is one of my favorite photos ever.Bored on the bed in 2016Sassy and Doug at our parents’ house in Hatfield, Pa. in 2011Dickinson Square Park in South Philly, 2010Wissahickon River Gorge in Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park, 2009Fairmount Park, 2011Lake Tahoe in 2004, two months after her adoptionAdoption day in Las Vegas, May 8, 2004Sassy at the Grand Canyon, 2006Reunited after our vacation in Maine, 2014
I’ve been blogging about my dog a lot. I will move onto other topics, but please bear with me for the time being!
Monday morning, Jan. 25.
Mike: Oh no!
I run down the stairs to discover Sassy’s watery vomit all over the floor.
We clean it up and I email her vet. She hasn’t been eating, so the vet says to try cooking her some chicken and rice. Mike walks to Acme, buys chicken, and makes her a delicious meal. She inhales it.
Wednesday, Jan. 27 through Friday, Jan. 29.
She seems to be drinking water and peeing excessively. She wears a diaper all the time, and even though I let her out throughout the day, she still soaks four or five diapers per day.
I start Googling her symptoms, and get enough information to convince myself that she’s in kidney failure.
Sunday night
A test last year hinted at possible kidney trouble, but the vet needed to collect the urine in a sanitary manner to confirm. During the same visit she also said she might have a heart condition, so I opted to put the kidney test aside and get the heart thing addressed. And, $500 later, her heart thing is nothing.
So the kidney thing is back, I tell myself.
I read more articles.
Shit, renal failure is a leading cause of death in older dogs.
Should we euthanize her soon?
I search my soul, talked to Mike, talk to friends, and make an appointment for Monday, Feb. 1.
Given her dementia and all her other problems, I thought, maybe this is the best thing to do. After all, we waited too long to say goodbye to our cats Callie and Scratch and they suffered. And Sassy is 16. Come on.
List five things she used to love, an article suggested. Now cross out the stuff she no longer cares about. If you cross out too many things, her quality of life might be so poor that euthanization could the compassionate option.
Walks, food, treats, running around in the grass, spending time with me and Mike, running around the house after a walk, chasing the cats. That’s seven, and she pretty much all likes these things still.
She maybe cares less about walks, but she seems happy once we’re outside.
She now loves Acme chicken and brown rice with chicken broth poured over it, heated up. She dances on her back legs when we get it ready.
She doesn’t like normal dog treats anymore, but she loves cocktail pups from Trader Joe’s.
She spent Thanksgiving and Christmas running around Mike’s parent’s yard with her mouth wide open and her tail in the air and didn’t want to come in.
When neither Mike nor I are downstairs with her during the day, she howls.
The video below shows she still loves to run around the house after a walk.
And chasing the cats remains her favorite passtime.
Then again, she gets into these states where she just stares at the wall. She still paces for hours. She walks under our small dining table and needs help finding her way out. Sometimes she ignores an open door and instead stands at the hinge side and we have to physically move her body into the door opening. And we still have to carry her up the stairs.
She’s still her old self in lots of moments, but the light inside her is dimmed.
So, completely confused yet convinced her kidneys were failing and it was time to say goodbye, we try to give her a good weekend. I cry and tell my friends she will most likely be euthanized Monday.
Lake Tahoe, 2004, two months after her adoption
Saturday, Jan. 30.
At Trader Joe’s, Mike asks if we should get the large portion of chicken for Sassy or the smaller one.
“Chances are she won’t be with us after Monday,” I said.
We buy the smaller portion.
Monday morning, Feb. 1.
My heart is heavy when we walk into the exam room at the vet office. But then! The vet says she doesn’t necessarily agree with my suspicion that she’s going through kidney failure. She’s still eating, she’s still excited about some stuff in life. The symptoms could have many explanations.
And her excessive water drinking and peeing isn’t a daily occurrence. It happens most days, though.
Mike doesn’t want to put her through what his Scratch experienced — he had kidney disease and medication didn’t work, and he had a long illness.
Is anything really wrong with her, though? We just had suspicions but no data.
I opt for a blood test and urine test to find out what’s going on, exactly what Mike and I agreed not to do. But I’d feel better if I had more information.
We’re supposed to get the results today or tomorrow. From there, we’ll decide what to do. But if there is something really wrong with her, I don’t want to put her through more tests and medications and vet visits.
Feeling like Sassy just won an 11th hour reprieve, we bring her home, something we didn’t expect to be doing.
I feel like I emotionally manipulated myself. I was prepared to say goodbye and, gratefully, she’s still here.
Last night I wasn’t sure we did the right thing, but with some distance now, I see that I was most likely jumping the gun, wanting so desperately to prevent her from suffering that I was actually preventing her from continuing to experience joy. She’s still capable of it.
Monday night, Feb. 1.
Mike: We’re almost out of this Trader Joe’s chicken.
Jen: I’ll walk to Acme tomorrow and get more.
Mike: You might as well just buy her a whole chicken.
I guess optimism has won.
Grand Canyon, 2006
Addendum: Tuesday, Feb. 2, 11:30 a.m.
As I was about to publish this blog post, her vet, Dr. L., called. Sassy is, in fact, experiencing kidney failure. At this point, she is at stage 3, with stage 4 being the terminal stage.
She listed the treatment options, including subcutaneous fluids, more meds, weekly monitoring in the vet office and blood draws.
“I don’t want to put her through all that, but I don’t want her to suffer. What do those options look like?” I asked.
Dr. L. said to give her Pepcid AC, which could help her feel a bit better. She added that that’s a completely reasonable route, given her other problems: dementia and glaucoma.
Sassy most likely feels okay now, she said. The first sign that she’s getting really sick is her first skipped meal, and vomiting.
She stopped eating last week and vomited, but now that she’s interested in this fancy Acme chicken, she’s eating again and the puking stopped.
I’m glad we didn’t euthanize her yesterday because she still has some pep in her step and she is taking joy in things. Look at this video below, which I took right before we left for her appointment!
But who knows how much longer we have with her before she starts to suffer and it’s time to say goodbye for real. Days? Weeks? Months?
Despite the bad news, it’s still a relief to know what’s wrong.
With my heart a bit lighter, this afternoon I’ll walk to Acme and buy her a whole chicken, along with some Pepcid.
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.
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)
A few years ago I wrote here about how my dad sold the house that my brother and I grew up in.
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