Last Friday we said good-bye to our beloved, seven year old Rhodesian Ridgeback, Zebu.
He was the first being we co-parented together all the way, from his sweet puppy-start to his much-to-soon end.
He was diagnosed with an aggressive and malignant cancer in January, and given 6 months to live. In many ways that diagnosis was a gift. We knew what was coming, we knew what to expect, we were able to be more intentional and present with him in his last months with us. We didn't always do it perfectly, but I am grateful for that time. We spoiled him, we made him as comfortable as we could, and when he reached a point that the pain and the illness became too much, we knew, and we were able to plan his passing.
We called our doctor of the last 10+ years. The same doctor who gave Zebu his puppyhood vaccinations, the same doctor who neutered him and helped him through various illnesses. He came to our home. We held Zebu in our arms, on his favorite bed, his head laying on my husband's lap. We told him it was ok to go, we told him we loved him, we thanked him, and we peacefully let him go. He went quickly, like a deep sigh of relief.
I thought there would be sobbing, but there were only quiet tears from us both. I know that this is something that will hit us in waves, creeping up on us in unexpected ways. Like today when I prepared to go for a bike ride with Zane and realized there was no petulant pup, crowding us at the door begging to come along.
The house is quiet. But I still feel him here, as I did with Sativa after she passed last year.
He was so strong and so brave at the end. There was always so much more going on for him than he let on. I know I will be a better mother in many ways for having loved him and being loved by him. He was our lion hunter, who trembled at the sound of a motorcycle. He was our 90lb lap dog and our ferocious protector. He was our sweet boy.
We love you Zebu, we miss you. We hope you are somewhere warm, running along the water's edge with Sativa and that there will always be plenty of soft fluffy beds for you at the end of the day.
And, I am sorry for that time we made you wear the princess crown. We couldn't resist. I hope you are laughing about it now.
Mr. Spicy had to be at work really early this morning. He let me know before leaving at 5:30am that our older dog, Sativa, had had an accident downstairs and that he wasn't going to have time to clean it up. I groggily took this in and rolled over and went back to sleep.
A few hours later Zane and I rolled out of bed and prepared to begin our day. As I carried him downstairs, the odor of dog poop wafted up and hit me in the face like a brick. As I turned the corner on the staircase I saw pile after pile of diarrhea, some dried and some fresh, laid out on the floor of the living room, across the rug, through the dining room, into the kitchen, and all the way up to the back door. It was as if she had made a trail of crap to remind her where the back door was in case she happened to lose her way. Or in case she suddenly went blind she'd be able to find her way by smell. And she had gone back and left a second trail, just to be sure.
I went to work wiping, spraying, wiping, mopping, and mopping some more. After nearly three hours the floors were clean, the rug was clean, but I felt like I was covered in dog crap and I couldn't get the stench of shit out of my nostrils.
I grabbed Zane and headed for the bathroom. I showered, and scrubbed, and showered. And then just for good measure I bathed him as well. With both of us disinfected and in clean clothes, I sat down to nurse him. Afterward, he immediately spit up all over the both of us. I am not proud to admit that I dabbed us both with a burp cloth and decided we could live with a little spit up for awhile. I grabbed a cereal bar and protein shake (my first meal of the day) and we laid down together for a nap.
Waking up later, feeling refreshed and optimistic, I headed downstairs once more to salvage what was left of our day. I turn the corner on the stairs and....there is shit. again. all over. again. It's like I am living in some crappy (heh heh) version of Groundhog Day.
So, I put the dog out. again. And I repeated the routine from earlier in some sort of twisted deja vu.
Hours later, the house clean again, the husband washing the dog downstairs - I realize I cannot get the smell of this day out of my nose, it is haunting me, along with the recurrent image of all. that. damn. poop. everywhere. - I am huddled in our room, nursing Zane, fearing that if I leave this room that I might find a trail of crap again. Traumatized by my dog's unfortunate condition, I wonder if there is any way to redeem the day?
Well, I started my stims this morning. I was up from 2am till 6am fretting about them. But all went smoothly. Now I will do 3 injections daily: 10u Lupron and 2 vials Menopur each morning, and 300u Gonal-F in the evening. I called them my "fertilizers" this morning and am visualizing them growing up healthy clusters of follicles like plump luscious grapes on a vine. This feels like the last big "beginning" - we are on our way to the retrieval now, officially. I am excited and very nervous at the same time. I have another ultrasound and more bloodwork on Tue to see how these fertilizers are working for me. All I can say is, wow. I still kind of can't believe this is here, this is us, we are really doing this. Wow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Also today, we finally buried Mr. Jones.
Because I left town the night he died, and then Mr. Spicy was out of town, and then we had guests - this was the first weekend we had open to devote to this very important ceremony.
So, Mr. Spicy retrieved his body from the clinic. I picked out a pear tree (pears symbolize separation and immortality in some Asian cultures). I wrote a short ceremony for us to follow. It was appropriately cold and drizzly, as if the whole world was being quiet and sad with us, for us.
We poured water over his body to release him fully from this world and release him from any suffering or pain he experienced while he was here. We poured oils of grape seed, myrrh, cassia, and cinnamon over his body to anoint him with our love and honor his spirit and his connection to God. We wrapped his body in white cloth, the cloth that made the aisle at our wedding. We poured rose petals into his grave and laid him to rest upon them. Then, we each read our eulogies and we prayed, and cried, and said "Thank you" and "Good-bye".
Finally, really, good-bye.
I lit a candle.
We covered him with dirt and then planted the pear tree above his grave.
He is really gone.
I don't know how to feel. I feel really sad and I feel an emptiness. But I also feel peace. And I feel really good about finally letting him go, letting his body return to the earth. It seems appropriate to say good-bye to him today, to honor his life, on this day - the day when we begin the stage of IVF that most closely resembles Spring, growth, new life - the stage of taking of medications to cause my little seeds to grow and grow and grow inside of me, into what we hope will become our future child(ren). Throughout this entire process, loss and death have been so very closely tied to hope and new life, and beginnings. He died on the day that I began bleeding, began the entire process. His passing is entwined with every stage of this cycle. He is still reminding me, every day, every step of the way...to pay attention.
I have deliberately avoided blogging for the last week. I felt as though I needed to just leave this space here, for Mr. Jones, for me. I am finding myself heartbroken in little ways all throughout my day. I miss him terribly and yet can't shake the feeling he is always here. I keep looking for him, thinking I will walk into my room and find him curled up in our pillows. And then I remember.
I saw my counselor today. I had avoided all out crying for the most part since last week - until I saw her. Something about her presence has a way of undoing me at times. We talked about Mr. Jones and the lessons he gave me while he was here - which were always generally somewhere along the lines of "Pay attention - Right now" She suggested that maybe even in the timing of his passing he might still be trying to remind me to "pay attention" to something very important right now. So I am, I am paying attention - to this crazy and full time. Full of loss, full of anticipation, full of "to do"'s and "not yet"s... I am paying attention to how delicate and sacred this time feels, how fragile my heart is right now in the midst of it all - how my heart needs the space right now, and the permission, to both grieve very deeply and to anticipate fully. Because there is much on the way. I am paying attention to myself like I imagine a mother might pay attention to her wounded child. I am giving myself permission to feel very sorry for all that I am having to carry right now, all at the same time.
And I am listening to myself - to that small little voice inside, when she says she needs something.
Yesterday, she needed roses. And so, I found a deal on roses and bought myself 3 dozen roses. I am not usually drawn to roses but yesterday? Only roses would do. Bright, spring colored roses. Everywhere. Next to my bed. On the mantle. On the table. By the door.
I woke up this morning with roses on either side of my bed. I felt loved. And I smiled.
I may buy roses through this entire next month. There is just something about them.
I received my box of meds yesterday, as well (excuse me? I ordered the LARGE?) - I plan to post some pics of those tomorrow as the sheer volume of medications that are about to enter my body in the next 4-6 weeks is truly something to behold. But, in the spirit of true anticipation and my desperate need to be the honor roll IVF student - I bought a wall calendar! A giant wall calendar! To write all my meds on! In color coded permanent marker! (I swear I was an elementary teacher in a past life) Though, as excited as a trip to Off.ice De.pot, with money in my pocket to burn, would usually make me - I did have a near nervous breakdown. twice. The first time was because I suddenly panicked about all the money we are spending and, you know, how I don't have job right now? The second time was when the cashier almost refused to give me my FREE bonus package of photo paper with my purchase of a twin pack of printer cartridges. I literally almost started crying. Really. Because, you know - that photo paper costs money and shit! And she was being like, totally unfair. But I got my damn photo paper - and avoided a trip to the psych ward. again.
*and yes, I did glue those words to my calendar - I actually plan on adding a lot more, images and words - a collage really. all over my calendar. subliminal messages and such. *
Also yesterday, and don't worry I won't post a photo of this, I found a large gaping hole on my oldest dog's back. Apparently she had a little scuffle while I was out of town and Mr. Spicy had missed the wound when he checked her. I went into full-on protective momma meets ex-vet tech mode. Wanting to avoid the vet (just not ready to go back yet) - I hit the store and loaded up on supplies. Some predictable ones: betadine, triple antibiotic ointment, cotton balls. Some not so predictable ones: A book on Homeopathic pet care, a homeopathic remedy for trauma and injuries, herbal healing salve, tea tree oil, vitamin C, and cod liver oil. (and this is why I am the spicy sister) I am dangerous in a natural foods store - watch out! But, my regimen is working really well. In about 24 hours the wound has healed up about 50% and shows no signs of infection. It is giving my over-active nurturing side something to focus on, and she seems to enjoy the extra attention she is getting. Win win. Speaking of being out of town - I left last Wednesday night to go see my grandmother. I took the overnight train. Which I really don't mind at all, in fact I kind of enjoy the solitary time with my I.pod and my thoughts. It was a hard trip, as we had just said good-bye to Mr. Jones that same day. But the time alone was really good. Once there, I stayed with my very hip 21 year old cousin and her boyfriend - who taught me to knit. Yes, her boyfriend taught me to knit. He's just that cool. I have wanted to learn for a long time, and it was a great creative outlet to focus on - especially on the train ride home. And the two of them? Truly adorable.
It was really good seeing my family. I was pretty sad and out of it most of the trip. But it was ok, because everyone there is dealing with their own stuff as well - so I didn't have to hide it, but I wasn't asked to talk about it either, which was perfect. And seeing my grandmother was really really good. I am so glad I went to visit her. She made us laugh - she told raunchy stories about her apparently "wild" past and she was tender and vulnerable at times in ways I have never seen her. At one point she hugged me in this way that a child hugs you, just collapsing into your arms - and my heart just broke for her. It is so hard for her right now. She is aware that she isn't her "normal" self - she knows she has had a stroke and it is affecting her. She gets frustrated when she can't think of or say the right words, you can tell she knows in her mind what they are, but they just aren't coming out. She is deeply resentful of the restrictions placed upon her in her current facility - no smoking, no TV in her room, no cell phone, no going outside. She is a fierce and independent woman who has had to give up most of what brings her joy - being told "no" so many times each day must be absolutely infuriating. Thankfully, my aunt who lives there is a powerful and compassionate advocate for her. She is working very hard to get her moved to a better place with more freedom and more of what she is used to. Especially, (as she is quick to remind us) the ability to smoke again.
She was doing really well the days I was there, and I am so grateful for that time with her. I was always visiting her with an entourage of other family members (my gramma is like the rock-star of the place) - children included, and it was really amazing to watch her interact with all of us. Especially the kids. She just adored them and loved on them completely. She even shared her chocolate brownie ice cream with them - now that is love.
And I loved seeing the kids too - my youngest cousin who is 9, my niece (and goddaughter) who is 8, and my nephew who is 3. There is just nothing that makes me smile and touches my heart more than these kiddos. They just continually amaze me. I could fill a whole separate entry up just with stories about how incredibly awesome all three of them are. Maybe I will some day.
Actually, there are so many stories I want to share here about my time with my family - but in the interest of length, suffice it to say that I have a really crazy and wonderful family and I am really grateful for every one of them. I am glad I belong to them.
Soooo - last but not least, also last Wednesday, I started my period. Or rather it started on its own, I don't think I had anything to do with it starting - at least not willfully. Which means two things. First - as Mr. Spicy sadly pointed out - we are all through with our chances to get pregnant on our own, that was our last chance. From here on out it is "go time". Second - as I just mentioned - it is "go" time. I started my BCPs (birth control pills) on Friday night. I will be on those for 16 days. I start Lupron on Tuesday, and I have my Laminaria placement on Wednesday. It is about to get really real here, very soon. We are really gonna do this. I could be pregnant by this time next month. Wow.
My counselor and I talked today about how the grieving I am doing, the loss I am experiencing - it is carving out a place in me, opening me up. Both of us were actually afraid to even say that we hope that the space that is being carved out, is for something very very good to come. Like, oh I don't know....a baby?
All I can say for sure is that the space is being carved. I am being opened up. And it hurts.
But I hope, oh I hope - that it will soon be filled with someone really really good.
In August of 1993 I began the process of moving into my very own apartment for the very first time. I was just about to turn 19. I knew the first thing I would need to take care of was to find myself a pet. I had always loved animals and had lost my dog, Corky, who I had spent 15 years with, less than 2 years before. My apartment lease stipulated that I was allowed a neutered, declawed cat. So I hit the local shelter looking for you.
I spent the entire day meeting cats in a little "meet and greet" room. None of them really seemed right for me. I began to think maybe I just wasn't a cat person?
Near the end of the day, the shelter informed me that I could try their "long-term" facility. That's where they kept cats who had been with them longer than the standard time allowed. These cats were usually harder to adopt.
I drove across town to arrive at the "long-term care" facility less than an hour before it closed. I don't remember if they showed me any other cats there. I only remember meeting you.
You were this medium sized, soft gray kitty with a regal panther-like head. They put you into this tiny room with me and you immediately began softly pawing at my shins and jumped into my lap. I was a little shocked. But then, you placed your paws on either side of my head, one on each shoulder - and you stared me straight in the eyes. It was as if you were saying, "Look no further....I'm the one." And you were. You are. You finished off your declaration by licking my face and taking a little nibble on my chin. I was completely hooked.
The ladies working at the shelter were so excited when I chose you. They said you had recently stopped eating and they suspected it was because you were so sick of being there. You had been there a very long time, they said. Your whole life, you continued to despise being put into any kind of cage, carrier, or car. I wonder now if it was because of your earlier experiences at the shelter. I also wonder who in their right mind could have ever given you up.
So, they sent me home with you. They thought you might be a Russian Blue and about 2.5 - 3 years old. I thought you were amazing, charming, and delightful. I still do.
You quickly ended your hunger strike once I brought you home. You ate everything I put in front of you and yelled for more. You gained weight quickly.
You were loud and insistent, always, about everything. I named you Mr. Jones after James Earl Jones - because of your amazing voice. Shortly after bringing you home, "Mr. Jones", by the Counting Crows, hit the radio and I thought it was an appropriate serenade to you.
There were times, in that first studio apartment, when I ran out of money to buy food for either one of us. I baked up potatoes and we ate them together on my pull-out bed. On paydays I would bring you home some yummy cat food from the corner store and I would bring Ben and Jerry's home for myself. You were happy to share in my ice cream as well.
There were also times, in that first studio apartment, when I neglected you - stayed out too many nights, didn't spend enough time with you. So, you got pissed off, and you bit me. A couple of times. Just to make sure I got the message. I stayed home more, spent more time with you - and you mellowed out again. You weren't only reminding me of my responsibilities to you, you were protecting me. That was a wild and dangerous time in my life and needing to come home to you at night often saved me from some pretty bad situations. Thank you.
Then, you suffered moves across the country and back, with me. You suffered the introduction of a new little kitty (who you hated and who eventually - for her own protection- went to live with a roommate of mine) and the introduction of a puppy who soon became a very large dog and then, much later, another puppy who became an even bigger dog. You always did much better with dogs than cats. I think it is because you were always such a bad-ass and could never stomach the idea of sharing your territory with another cat. But somehow, dogs were ok with you. In fact, I think you really liked them.
Your voice remained your signature characteristic throughout your life. Whether you were waking me or my roommates up because, god forbid there be a closed door in the house somewhere, or whether you were just saying hello - you were loud and proud of it. Often, when I was on the phone, someone would hear you in the background and ask if there was a baby crying. "Nope, that's just Jones" I would say. Between your loud commanding voice and your motorboat purring - there was never any doubt of your presence.
The last five years or so, you have lived with me and my husband (your papa) and the two dogs. You have been part of a family. You loved my husband from the get-go, in fact it seemed like sometimes you just couldn't get enough of him. I was devastated when we first married and we thought he was horribly allergic to you. Thankfully, we were mistaken - and you have slept upon our heads, our hair, our faces, and our pillows, ever since. You loved being as close as you could get to us. And even though this was incredibly inconvenient for sleeping - we loved you for this as well.
The last couple of years have been hard. You lost a lot of weight. Your voice changed a bit. You sometimes woke us up in the middle of the night yelling from the bottom of the stairs, seeming confused and lost in your own house. Your coat became matted and dull, you slept all the time, and you began drinking water obsessively (and only out of specific containers - namely, the toilet, the dog bowls, and a random orange cup). But you were tough and you seemed to be hanging in there. We began putting out water-downed canned food every night to supplement your meals, and you loved it. By now of course my preference in cat food had matured a lot since 1993 when I was poor and single in a studio apartment. I obsessed about getting you the best, most natural, most healthy food I could provide. I was trying to do everything I could to help you to live as long as I could.
You lived a long life, 17+ years....you stayed strong until the very end - two days ago it was obvious you were beginning to let go. You stopped eating, you became very lethargic and weak, and you lost more weight, very rapidly. Still, I kept hoping. I brought home every variety of soft and tasty foods I could find, I gave you fluids under your skin. I felt terrible for poking you with those needles - I hope you know now that I was only trying to do anything I could to make you feel better.
Today, I gave up. I gave up the fight to try to make you better. You seemed as though you had given up already yourself. I agonized over this decision. I wondered if I was doing the right thing. The Dr. said "yes", your papa said "yes", even you seemed to be saying "yes, it is time". But it killed me to say so, myself. I would have done almost anything if I thought there had been any hope. But I couldn't justify sticking you with more needles, cooping you up in a cage (which you HATE) for several days - just to find out if we could squeeze a week or a month more out of our time with you. That would be selfish. But still, even now - I feel so unsure. I wonder if we made the right choice - I wonder if we took the choice away from you. I hope somewhere somehow you know that we did this because we love you so much and we didn't want you to be in pain or suffer - you deserved much better than that.
You have always been an amazing companion to me. You've been in my life longer than any other "guy", you have protected me, comforted me, challenged me, and forever, forever - you have changed me. Thank you for coming into my life, into our lives. Thank you for choosing me all those years ago, for believing that I - that crazy 18 year old girl - could be the one you love, could be the one lucky enough to share a life with you, could be the one you trust. I hope that I have become the person, the companion, the mother, you believed I could be and I hope that you know that so much of who I have become is because I was so lucky to have you to love and to love me.
Thank you.
I hope with my whole heart that you are somewhere right now, eating fresh grass and lying in the sun. I hope that you are whole, that you are healed, that you are strong. That you are more than you ever were here. I hope you have claws again on all four feet (you came to me declawed). I hope there is someone or something there to hold you, to love you, to rub your ears, and to lie upon - to your heart's content. I hope you are filled with all the love that I have for you and that your papa has for you as well. I hope you are happy and that you know that even though we miss you terribly and the space you filled in our lives and our hearts can never be repaired - I hope you know we will be ok. I hope that you don't worry about us too much. And mostly, I hope I get to meet you again in that place - and that we remember one another and that finally I will be able to tell you and be sure you understand just how very much I love you and how very much you have always and will always mean to me. And I hope - that someday I will hear your voice again, and I will finally really understand what you are saying.
Thank you Mr. Jones. We love you. More than we could ever express. Thank you.
Today we took my 17year old cat, Mr. Jones, to the vet. Since Monday, he had been rapidly deteriorating. Despite my best efforts yesterday (feeding him by syringe, giving him subcutaneous fluids), he was not doing much better this morning. I suspected kidney disease. I was right.
My vet for nearly 10 years (I used to work for him) assured us that the kindest and best thing to do at this time would be to let Mr. Jones go. He was in severe renal failure complicated further by either hyperthyroidism or underlying cancer. He was very very sick.
I had held Mr. Jones all day yesterday, crying, and praying that he would just go on his own, in his sleep. I slept fitfully last night with him beside me, waking several times to again offer up the same request and to reassure him that it was ok for him to go, that he could let go any time. But he didn't.
So this morning we went in, we ran the blood work, we got the diagnosis, we listened to our vet, and we cried. Then we cried some more.
I held Mr. Jones to my chest, whispering to him, thanking him, telling him how much I loved him, how grateful I was to have him in my life. And I cried deep wracking sobs.
We took Mr. Jones outside and allowed him to walk around in the sunlight a bit. He was so weak he kept tottering and falling over. He kept looking around like he was looking for a place to hide. Finally, he collapsed in a pile of dead leaves.
We picked him up, we held him, we blessed him, we told him all the ways and reason we loved him so much, and we said our good-byes. And we cried.
Finally, after more than 3 hours at the clinic, we had the Dr. come back in and give him the sedative. And later, the medication to stop his heart. It was over. He was gone. And we cried.
I cannot remember a time in my adult life when I have cried so long, so hard, or so deeply. My eyes are almost swollen shut. My heart is broken. A part of my life is missing. A part of me is missing.
Tonight, I leave (a day late) on a train, to visit my grandmother who is living in a medical care facility due to her recent stroke. She will probably live in a nursing home or care facility for the rest of her life. She has lost a lot. I have more compassion for her than I ever have, right now.
You know how sometimes you have those days where things seem just so right and perfect and everything is going your way, and you think, "Hey, I should buy a lottery ticket today!" - You know that feeling?
Well, I think what I am feeling right now is exactly the opposite of that.
