Category: Growing pains

25Aug

A Love Story: Part 3 of 3

mytony

“YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?” 

“Fetch? Catch a frisbee? Really, why?”

Looking back on my early years with Tony, I chuckle. I really didn’t know much about dogs, my references had mostly been from television, movies, and  commercials. Aren’t dogs usually running, fetching sticks… or balls? Well, not this guy. He was happy just to sit by my side (or in my lap) and happily watch his brother do all that nonsense with Michael. What he lacked in physical motivation, he well made up for in his sweet disposition. This boy had won my heart from the very beginning. You want to be lazy sweet boy? That’s quite alright, Mama has a lap with your name on it.

Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what he’s made of.

SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE

We stayed in that cracker box of a condo for three more years after our boys moved back home.  We had to wait until we could financially make a move. We looked for a year before the right opportunity came up. The year was 2005. It was a house that was well into construction and the future homeowners had just lost their financial backing. Their loss was our gain. It was everything we had dreamed of.  We got in on the final stages of picking out the carpet, the countertops, and the paint colors. The home sat on a dead end in a small subdivision. It was perfect, 2,400 square feet of happiness! Finally, some room to spread out. Michael finally got his garage where he could work on projects… or just go and smoke a cigar. Shane and Brandon had the entire upstairs to themselves!

Once again, a back yard fence had to immediately be erected,  doggie doors were installed, and a ramp had to be built for the boys to go down into the yard from the garage.  We were amazed at how quickly Mickey and Tony adapted to their new surroundings. One of their new favorite things was that they were allowed to be with us in the front yard (and garage area) under our supervision without leashes. They quickly learned their boundaries and rarely went beyond them. Oh how they loved to go explore with their super keen  olfactory senses!

Tony became more active, more inquisitive than I had seen in years. He and Mickey would chase one another in the yard. It was comical watching one chase the other, and then just as quickly, the tables would turn and the chaser would become the chasee. We hadn’t been in our new home for just a few months when I noticed that Tony looked thinner. I attributed it to his increased activity and was grateful that this had been a good move for him. I knew that dachshunds were predisposed to hip dysplasia and disc disease due to their torso, so I was glad to see Tony lose some weight to help ward off any potential problems in that area.

Sit. Stay. Relax. Enjoy these days.

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS (WE DIDN’T WANT TO ASK)

Not long after I noticed that Tony had lost weight, I observed he was drinking more water. What did that mean? I had no idea. Then one night, in the middle of the night, he began throwing up. Then he would go drink water. Then he would throw up again. I was up with him the entire night, worried, confused. Was it something he ate? Do dogs get viruses? Whatever it was, this baby was sick, really sick. The next morning I had him at the veterinarian’s office. It was just Tony and I, Michael had gone on to work.  It wasn’t long before I was given the diagnosis. Tony was diabetic. His sugar level was dangerously high. Words were being thrown at me; insulin, injections, diet, blindness, no cure; my head was swimming. I was in disbelief, in denial that my boy could be so sick. We were at the vet’s office most of the day. Their goal was to stabilize him with insulin injections, monitor his levels,  and educate me on how to care for a diabetic canine. I learned how to give Tony his injections.  I left that day with syringes, a vial of insulin, special diet food, and a heavy heart. Could I do this? It was going to be almost solely my responsibility to care for Tony. Michael had just changed jobs that required him to be gone at least 10 hours a day. The answer to my question, yes, of course, because we do what it takes to care for our loved ones. I quickly learned the best time to inject Tony was while he ate his breakfast.  It broke my heart that he most likely began to equate something he loved (to eat) with something that caused him distress. And yet, not once did he ever growl at me, he took it in stride.

We spent the next few months trying to get his blood sugar levels where they should be. That required weekly trips to the vet’s office. It became evident that in order to get his levels where they needed to be, Tony would now require two injections a day. Personally, of course, I struggled with that. It was hard enough to subject my boy to one injection a day, but now two, was going to make it even tougher on both of us. I also struggled with the guilt that had I not been as indulgent with the food that he consumed, my sweet boy would not have been faced with his illness. I even got a few “I told you so’s”, which added to my guilt.

Weeks turned into months, Tony was stable, we continued in maintenance mode. His diabetes was under control with his strict diet and insulin.  His weight had steadily decreased (in a healthy way). I remained optimistic that his condition wasn’t necessarily a death sentence. I was diligent with his treatment. I took him and Mickey on more walks, trying to keep his weight off. I began noticing however that his steps seemed to lack confidence, he starting lagging behind. What was wrong? It’s not as if Mickey hadn’t slowed down too in his senior years, but yet, Tony didn’t keep up with us.

We don’t see what we don’t want to see.

I’M GOING TO LOVE YOU (EVEN IF MY HEART WOULD BREAK)

I will never forget the moment that I made myself look into Tony’s eyes. He had become more reliant on being picked up and placed on the places he wanted to sit (or lie down);  on the sofa, on a chair, on the bed (even though he had a ramp). I picked him up and placed him on the chair that he was whining to be placed on. And then I looked directly into his eyes, his cloudy eyes. Michael was standing behind me at the time. I turned around with tears streaming down my face. I said, “He’s blind, isn’t he?” He said, “Yes love.” Michael had known it for a while but didn’t have the heart to tell me.

The blindness, of course, was irreversible. Tony didn’t adapt well to his loss of sight. He no longer enjoyed our walks. He lost what little adventurous spirit he ever had. Although I know that dogs don’t necessarily rely on sight as the main part of their senses, I think it’s different once their sight is lost as adult dogs.  Although faced with the knowledge that my boy was diabetic and blind, I still had him with me. We could go on for some time, right?

Our next dirty word was glaucoma. Once again, I was thrust into another disease that I knew nothing about. Glaucoma is a condition that increases pressure behind the eye causing pain, much like humans have migraines.  We tried medication, without success, to hopefully lessen the pressure. The veterinarian gave me two options to relieve Tony’s pain: removal of his eyes, or euthanasia. I was devastated. I left the office with Tony in my arms, yet again, trying to choke back sobs, with a decision to be made.

For the first time I felt hopeless. I felt like Tony’s  fate was in my hands. Michael told me it was ultimately up to me to decide what to do since I was his caregiver. Is it right to pray for guidance in this situation when there are so many more pressing problems in the world? Regardless, I did. I prayed that I would make the right decision and do what was right by Tony. I prayed, “Guide me Lord, what should I do?” The images of the last 18 months flashed backed through my mind. The endless injections that Tony had endured (and would continue to endure for the rest of his life).  The countless blood draws. The loss of dignity when his eyesight failed. But that still wasn’t enough to make my decision. I still prayed for a definitive sign. And then, that night when we had all settled into bed, Tony nudged up next to me. Not with his nose, but with his head, his eyes pressed against my shoulder. He was hurting, he was trying to alleviate the pressure in his eyes. I knew then that he was trying to tell me that he was ready to go. He was in pain, he was tired, his spirit had been compromised. I cried. I cried because I felt like I had failed Tony. I cried at the thought of what the next few days would bring.  I cried at the very thought of not having him in my life.

The next morning I made the call to the veterinarian’s office.  Although I knew it was the right thing to do, the selfless thing to do, somehow I still felt like the executioner. They put me in touch with  the veterinarian that had overseen Tony’s care since day one of his diagnosis,   and we made the appointment. She told me as hard it was for her, she wanted to be the one to help Tony not hurt anymore, to relieve him of his pain. Three days. I had three more days with him. One would think that those three extra days would have been a blessing, but they weren’t.  Just being with him, knowing that his days, his hours were numbered, was heartbreaking.

The morning of his final day had come. It was Thursday, November   1st, 2006. This brave boy had fought this fight for 18 months. I gave him pizza for breakfast. No injection, in truth, I had not given him an injection in 24 hours. We sat on the sofa for a good hour waiting on my good friend and neighbor Mandy to pick us up. Michael couldn’t miss work, so she agreed to be my ride, my support. In that short hour my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying so hard.

This was my first experience with euthanasia. I was surprised when the veterinarian asked me if I wanted to be present during the procedure. It never occurred to me to not be there for Tony’s last moments. I held and cradled him while the sedation helped to relax his body. I whispered in his ear how much I loved him. Tears rolled down my face and onto his body.  As the drugs took effect, Tony was given the final injection. All I knew to do was the same thing I did on his first night in our home… just as if I was back on that paper lined bathroom floor. I held his head against my chest so he could feel the beating heart of the one that he had picked so many years earlier – me.  As he drew his final breath I knew that there would always be a small part of my heart missing forever.

After that, for a good six months, I cried every day on my way home from work. It was my time to grieve. I did my best to hide my pain, mostly because I wasn’t sure that anyone would really understand how much of a loss I felt.

MY FINAL GOODBYE

I chose to have Tony cremated so I could always have a part of him with me.  Within a year, Mickey developed debilitating arthritis. When his pain and discomfort could not be eliminated, Michael made the decision to not allow Mickey to suffer.  At Mickey’s burial as I was saying my final goodbye, as the dirt was being placed on his shroud, I asked Michael to wait. I suddenly knew what was right, what would complete this final chapter. I ran inside and gathered the container of Tony’s ashes. While standing over Mickey’s grave, I reunited him with his brother. It was the right thing to do.

To this day, eight years later, I still miss my boy. He was everything that was good and pure about this world. He loved me, and I loved him. I have to admit though, I didn’t spill all of his ashes in the grave that day. I saved a few for myself; just because.

Cat

05Jul

Helen Ruth

She was beautiful, she was complicated, she was strong willed, she wore a veil of many layers,  she was my mother, my Mama.

A few days ago marked the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. She lived almost a year after her 1993 diagnosis of lung cancer. In that short year is the most vulnerable I had ever seen my mom. I witnessed her fears, her illness, her helplessness. This was not the mother that I had known for 36 years.

Helen Ruth Jett was born on January 6, 1930. By the time she was 22, she was divorced with two young sons, Michael and Rocky. I don’t know the details of her first marriage, other than the fact that her husband lacked maturity, and well, sort of liked the bottle.  After her marriage failed, my mother moved back in with my grandparents.  I feel sure that she didn’t have an easy time being a single mother of two.  She didn’t really talk about it while I was growing up, but I did hear few stories of her life as a 1950’s divorce’.

Like the night her date walked her to the door after an evening together. They were standing under the front porch light (that my grandmother had strategically left on), he pulls her close (a little too close for her comfort), and says, “Don’t fight it baby, it’s bigger than the both of us”! My mother couldn’t help but laugh him off, go in the house and give up on dating forever. But, somehow, through the hand of God (I’m convinced), my parents met through mutual friends, dated for six months, and ultimately, got married on June 6, 1953.

Helen Ruth & Ray Howard - Wedding Day

Ray Howard & Helen Ruth-Wedding Day

 

I can’t be sure what my parent’s expectations were when they married, except that the two of them, along with my brothers, would move in together and live happily ever after. That didn’t happen. My brothers, at that point, had lived most of their young lives at my grandparent’s house (particularly, under my grandmother’s influence). Trusting solely on what I believe as a person, most everyone on earth has at least a few redeeming qualities as human beings. That belief gets me through some days, and helps me tolerate the world in general. However, to hear my mother speak, my grandmother possessed  very few of these qualities. In those years that my mother had to rely on the goodwill of her parents, my grandmother gladly stepped out of the role of grandparent to Michael and Rocky, and gradually became “Mama” to them. They actually called my mother, well, “Mother”.  So, even with all the efforts of my parents, my brothers decided they were most happy and most at home to continue to live with “Mama” and “Daddy Bill” (my grandfather).

Surely, my mom was heartbroken about it, but by the time I came along in 1956, it was just a matter of fact. My mother never spoke to me about her feelings of this, even as I matured into an adult myself. Maybe it was because I never asked her. Maybe it was just life as we knew it and we just kept on living it.

Those was the early years of Helen Ruth. I will continue writing about her another time. My wish is that I had known her more as a person, and less as a mother. I never really understood her. She was not openly affectionate, I can only recall one time that she told me that she loved me. She could be distant, and on more than one occasion I felt like she wished that she was somewhere else.

Just last night, I was talking to my sister Terri (you will hear that name quite frequently in my future writings). I was sharing with her about wanting to write about our mother. I told her about Friday night and how after 2 hours at my Mac, I had managed to write only 14 words. I was stuck. Terri then shared with me a book that she had bought for Mama for Mother’s Day 1992. It was a fill-in-the blank “Grandmother Remembers” memoir. The idea was to learn more about our mother by her filling out questions about her childhood, parents, marriage, children…etc. Our mother was reluctant, but at the urging and insistence of my sister, she filled in just some of the questions. To be precise, our mother dictated while Terri hand wrote the answers. Most of it was pretty straight forward, names, dates of birth, marriages. But under the heading,”As a young girl“, my mother answered the question, “At home I was expected to“, and she answered, “Stay out of Mama’s way. We had to stay outside while she took a nap”.

I was humbled, I was saddened by those words, and yet, it brought a clearer understanding of why she was the way she was. “Stay out of Mama’s way”. I think that was the nature of her growing up years. And sadly, my mother duplicated many of the same maternal traits as her own mother.

Please don’t misunderstand. I value my mother,  she was a good woman, she took care of her family, in her own way she loved us beyond measure. I will always love her, forever miss her, and hold dear that she was, after all, my giver of life.

Helen Ruth Jett Turner. 1930 – 1994.

 

 

1973271_788821401129543_3947726543545936981_o

Helen Ruth