Yes, Isabelle is gone now.
It was a lot harder than we both thought it would be. Once again, the day before and the morning of, she seemed okay - once she was up. Partly this might be due to the fact that I'd upped her meds so much, which her liver wouldn't be able to sustain for much longer than a month or so anyway.
We went away earlier in the week, and Holly - Isabelle's best pal who stays with her while we're away - came for one more night with her. I gave Isabelle a bath and trimmed her nails to "get her ready for Holly." While bathing her, I noticed how thin her back end had become. Her backbone stuck up - her hip bones stuck up - her back legs barely having any more muscle on them. And I cleaned the green gunk out her eyes yet again.
Being away from her was okay this time. I knew she was with Holly. I knew there was still time. But, on the ride home, as we got closer, I felt the saddness come over me. I took her for a walk that night - a long walk - almost four blocks. Casey went too. I gave her treats and went to bed. The next morning, I was up early and took her for another walk - another long one, then sat out on the porch with her, then inside the house.
Repair workers were coming to get started for the day. Casey talked with them while I sat in the diningroom with Isabelle. It was sort of like waiting for the plane to make the final boarding call when one person is leaving the other.
When he finally came through the door to get her, he stood for a moment, his lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears. We both cried and laughed, knowing that he was supposed to be the strong one in this moment and suddenly, it was just as hard for him as it had been for me. We hugged and cried, I got Isabelle up and led her out to the car. I gave her a big hug, then helped her into the back. I hugged her head one more time, then shut the door. I watched as they drove off - Isabelle's head peering out above the seat. She loves car rides.
When Casey came home, more tears, more hugs. We lay on the bed together, holding one another. I asked him to tell me about it. "Were they nice?" I asked. "Yes," he said. That's all that mattered. He didn't stay in the room with her when they administered the shot. I wouldn't have expected him to. He said, "The vet looked at the chart, looked at me and said, 'We'll bill you.'" Her leash and collar are still in the car. I can't bring myself to take them out yet. I try not to do dumb stuff, but already, at the grocery store, I saw paper towels on sale and reached for a big pack of them, then stopped myself. I was getting them to clean up after Isabelle. To wipe off her eyes, to wipe down the slobber off the walls, to clean up her drool. I didn't need them anymore, and I broke down crying in the aisle at Meijer.
Silly, I tell myself. Silly, silly, silly. But I still can't make it stop from happening. So, I just let it happen.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Returns
I went back to Alpena today to clean out my office, the final official act of leaving any position. As I drove north, I enjoyed the solitude of my drive. Casey had stayed home to work, so I was on my own. I listened to the radio, as I prefer to do – NPR, of course, while they’re on talk mode, but nix the classical. Who really listens to classical anymore? I popped in an old mix tape a friend of mine had made: “Old But Not Forgotten 60s and 70s.” I sang along to some, and to others, simply spaced out into my own thoughts: my new job, the house, the “Check Engine” light on my car, and, of course, Isabelle.
The further north I got, the more I began to notice the change of scenery around me. More hills, more lakefront, more trees – lots more trees. The roads became less and less crowded the further north I went. As I came into Alpena, just south of our old subdivision – near Squaw Bay – I looked up to see a Bald Eagle flying overhead – flying out over the cattail swamp to the open waters of Thunder Bay. Further beyond, I saw the dense treed area of Partridge Point, jutting out in the deep blue bay. Okay, so THIS, I told myself, I will miss.
Even driving into Alpena, there are a lot more trees – small stands of them, long strip forests along the roadside, groups in yards and parks. Yes, many more trees. Looking out on the bay I realized that more than being able to see water, living on the water means being able to look out and see nothing – the expanse of open space, probably much in the same way people experience the space of the desert, only with water, the coloration and feel is no doubt much different. There is blue everywhere, from sky to water’s surface – all blue and reflections of sunlight. The air is fresh and clean and cool.
I went to the bank to close my account and to another bank to make a deposit. People were nice. Strangers looked to me with kind eyes as they talked to someone else, meaning to include me in their storytelling. Both men and women held open doors for me, waiting for me to reach the threshold before walking off. There was less movement everywhere I went. Not so many people, not so many cars, a much less crowded feeling. This I will miss.
Some days here, I already can sense that “city” attitude – it’s all about me, myself and I. Screw everybody else, I own the road, I don’t have to think about others, looking out for number one. It weighs heavier here, and I can feel it, like a wet blanket on a humid day – ugh. And there is nothing I can do about it. Oh, sure, I can do my own good deeds, yadda yadda – but I still sense that divide, that disconnect. It’s a bit depressing, really, to know there are so many more people here – more people, but less connect.
There are things I will miss about Alpena. I never said there wouldn’t be. I only knew it would take me a little longer to let them come to the surface. As in so many life experiences, through the test of time, it is the good things we remember – if only we give ourselves enough time.
As I cleaned out my office – thanks big to Angela for helping with that – I have to admit, I wasn’t sad. I thought I might be, but I just wasn’t. I realized as I sorted out stacks of papers and books – just how much work I had done for that college, just how much of my life I had given to my job. It was overwhelming. I might say I wouldn’t do that again, but I also realize just how much a part of me it is. I care about my job. I care about the people I encounter. I care about my students. I will do it all again, only in a new place with new people. It is always about “them” not me in my work. I know this because I could do what I see some of my colleagues do – teach overload after overload, summer classes – all for money. That’s not about others. That’s about self. That’s not what I did nor what I will ever plan to do.
After cleaning the office, we went to lunch – to Hunan. It was wonderful. Alpena actually has great Chinese restaurants. Another thing I will miss. We’ve tried one here, and it’s that overAmericanized-brown-sauce-no-flavor Chinese. We sat and ate overlooking the water. It was beautiful. A wonderful end to a great six years in Alpena. A delicious meal. A good friend. What more could I ask for?
I have many friends I leave behind in Alpena, but I don’t feel sad about this. People stay in my life. I might miss their closeness, but I never miss them. I know they are there – I can call them or e-mail them, but they are also always with me. They have become a part of who I am. I have assimilated some of them into my life. Too funny, as Angela would say. I’m feeling hinky about that, as Monica would say. And so much more – in my actions, in my words, in my way of seeing the world. My friends are who I become in my life, and I will return to them again and again in each and every day.
The further north I got, the more I began to notice the change of scenery around me. More hills, more lakefront, more trees – lots more trees. The roads became less and less crowded the further north I went. As I came into Alpena, just south of our old subdivision – near Squaw Bay – I looked up to see a Bald Eagle flying overhead – flying out over the cattail swamp to the open waters of Thunder Bay. Further beyond, I saw the dense treed area of Partridge Point, jutting out in the deep blue bay. Okay, so THIS, I told myself, I will miss.
Even driving into Alpena, there are a lot more trees – small stands of them, long strip forests along the roadside, groups in yards and parks. Yes, many more trees. Looking out on the bay I realized that more than being able to see water, living on the water means being able to look out and see nothing – the expanse of open space, probably much in the same way people experience the space of the desert, only with water, the coloration and feel is no doubt much different. There is blue everywhere, from sky to water’s surface – all blue and reflections of sunlight. The air is fresh and clean and cool.
I went to the bank to close my account and to another bank to make a deposit. People were nice. Strangers looked to me with kind eyes as they talked to someone else, meaning to include me in their storytelling. Both men and women held open doors for me, waiting for me to reach the threshold before walking off. There was less movement everywhere I went. Not so many people, not so many cars, a much less crowded feeling. This I will miss.
Some days here, I already can sense that “city” attitude – it’s all about me, myself and I. Screw everybody else, I own the road, I don’t have to think about others, looking out for number one. It weighs heavier here, and I can feel it, like a wet blanket on a humid day – ugh. And there is nothing I can do about it. Oh, sure, I can do my own good deeds, yadda yadda – but I still sense that divide, that disconnect. It’s a bit depressing, really, to know there are so many more people here – more people, but less connect.
There are things I will miss about Alpena. I never said there wouldn’t be. I only knew it would take me a little longer to let them come to the surface. As in so many life experiences, through the test of time, it is the good things we remember – if only we give ourselves enough time.
As I cleaned out my office – thanks big to Angela for helping with that – I have to admit, I wasn’t sad. I thought I might be, but I just wasn’t. I realized as I sorted out stacks of papers and books – just how much work I had done for that college, just how much of my life I had given to my job. It was overwhelming. I might say I wouldn’t do that again, but I also realize just how much a part of me it is. I care about my job. I care about the people I encounter. I care about my students. I will do it all again, only in a new place with new people. It is always about “them” not me in my work. I know this because I could do what I see some of my colleagues do – teach overload after overload, summer classes – all for money. That’s not about others. That’s about self. That’s not what I did nor what I will ever plan to do.
After cleaning the office, we went to lunch – to Hunan. It was wonderful. Alpena actually has great Chinese restaurants. Another thing I will miss. We’ve tried one here, and it’s that overAmericanized-brown-sauce-no-flavor Chinese. We sat and ate overlooking the water. It was beautiful. A wonderful end to a great six years in Alpena. A delicious meal. A good friend. What more could I ask for?
I have many friends I leave behind in Alpena, but I don’t feel sad about this. People stay in my life. I might miss their closeness, but I never miss them. I know they are there – I can call them or e-mail them, but they are also always with me. They have become a part of who I am. I have assimilated some of them into my life. Too funny, as Angela would say. I’m feeling hinky about that, as Monica would say. And so much more – in my actions, in my words, in my way of seeing the world. My friends are who I become in my life, and I will return to them again and again in each and every day.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Endings
My online summer class is over. My last class with ACC. Yesterday I read the final paper, scored the last final exam and calculated grades. One plagiarist, one who missed the final exam, one who didn't write the final paper. So, certainly, not an all happy ending. I've already heard from the first two, who of course want to contest the results of their grade - and the last one won't care because she still passed. Welcome to education.
I felt a bit of a flutter of emotion when I closed down the computer last night, knowing I was now finally and formally finished with that college. It's the same as always at the end of any semester, just like the end of the race when I was doing triatholon and marathon - how something so big and consuming, now over, could end with so little bang. Whoop-dee-doo. I finished my class. Who cares? Now what? It's almost a bit of a letdown - emotionally - to feel it come to nothing, and I just want to break away from that feeling, put it behind me, forget about it as quickly as possible.
That compounded with my situation with Isabelle left me a bit of a wreck - I had to get out of the house. As much as I feel like I want to be with her and spend time with her, yesterday it was just too much, and I needed to be apart from her.
We went shopping - mind you - I hate shopping, so this is a desperate act - but, it felt good given the muggy heat wave here - spending the afternoon in the environmental hell of air conditioned bliss. I got my copy of the new Harry Potter and another book I'm considering for my fall classes. We shopped furniture and clothes, house gizmos and finally dinner groceries. By the last stop, though, I was feeling anxious to be home again. I was worried I had left the dogs too long. Worried Isabelle would be suffering heat stroke. And generally, just wanting to be near her again.
Of course all was well when we arrived home, Isabelle picking herself up off her carpet to greet us, no doubt from a sound sleep.
Today is better for me in terms of accepting her end of life. I am thinking of each trip up and down the stairs with Isabelle and how much harder each step becomes. She has to sleep in the basement now, because of her late night accidents, but, given the heat, it's better for her there. It's just that it's another set of stairs she has to climb each day. She's slower in the morning, better at night. But yesterday, even after walking her, a puddle of urine on the porch as she wagged her tail. And that's one I give her medication for. I look for leaks in the roof, denying for a moment it could be her, then let the sinking feeling have its place.
Today I made a plaster imprint of her foot. It's something I've been meaning to do for a while now, and figured I'd better get to it. Of course she accommodated without any resistance, stepping into the cool sludge. It's something, I tell myself, something more than memories and photos. Something I can touch. Because, when she's gone, I will still care, and I don't want to forget.
I felt a bit of a flutter of emotion when I closed down the computer last night, knowing I was now finally and formally finished with that college. It's the same as always at the end of any semester, just like the end of the race when I was doing triatholon and marathon - how something so big and consuming, now over, could end with so little bang. Whoop-dee-doo. I finished my class. Who cares? Now what? It's almost a bit of a letdown - emotionally - to feel it come to nothing, and I just want to break away from that feeling, put it behind me, forget about it as quickly as possible.
That compounded with my situation with Isabelle left me a bit of a wreck - I had to get out of the house. As much as I feel like I want to be with her and spend time with her, yesterday it was just too much, and I needed to be apart from her.
We went shopping - mind you - I hate shopping, so this is a desperate act - but, it felt good given the muggy heat wave here - spending the afternoon in the environmental hell of air conditioned bliss. I got my copy of the new Harry Potter and another book I'm considering for my fall classes. We shopped furniture and clothes, house gizmos and finally dinner groceries. By the last stop, though, I was feeling anxious to be home again. I was worried I had left the dogs too long. Worried Isabelle would be suffering heat stroke. And generally, just wanting to be near her again.
Of course all was well when we arrived home, Isabelle picking herself up off her carpet to greet us, no doubt from a sound sleep.
Today is better for me in terms of accepting her end of life. I am thinking of each trip up and down the stairs with Isabelle and how much harder each step becomes. She has to sleep in the basement now, because of her late night accidents, but, given the heat, it's better for her there. It's just that it's another set of stairs she has to climb each day. She's slower in the morning, better at night. But yesterday, even after walking her, a puddle of urine on the porch as she wagged her tail. And that's one I give her medication for. I look for leaks in the roof, denying for a moment it could be her, then let the sinking feeling have its place.
Today I made a plaster imprint of her foot. It's something I've been meaning to do for a while now, and figured I'd better get to it. Of course she accommodated without any resistance, stepping into the cool sludge. It's something, I tell myself, something more than memories and photos. Something I can touch. Because, when she's gone, I will still care, and I don't want to forget.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Isabelle
My dog is at the end of her life. I know. I've seen this look before when my grandpa was dying. He was withered to skin and bone, his eye sockets sunken into his temples. I took pictures of him and my grandmother. I look back on them now and see the sharp contrast in their features, even as she was aging, she was still full of life, while he, he was being drained of it. And how she knew this, every day. Knew that she was caring for a dying man. Knew that each day, each moment could be his last, and being there with him through that.
Isabelle is eight, maybe nine. That's pretty old for an English Mastiff. I took her to the vet this week for runny eyes. The musculature around her face has atrophied, as has the rest of her. She has taken on the appearance and gait of an old Disney hound dog. "C'mon Disney dog," I'll say to her as she plods along on her walk. There's nothing to be done about her eyes. Probably just the result of so much skin hanging down around them now. Her sockets, sunken, going deeper each day. Her eyes black and beady, glazing over some, in sharp contrast to the fur around her muzzle, which is turning whiter. She's dropped 15 pounds in the last three months.
The vet took blood for a test, then Isabelle had other troubles this week, so I took in a fecal sample. That was normal, but the blood test showed some high areas. I've seen those before too, in my cat Mocha who I just had put down because of a liver tumor. The vet couldn't tell me for sure what the high numbers indicate - they'd need more tests, she said, "a blood smear, a stomach x-ray - oh, it's really easy to do…"
"No more tests," I said. "We've been through this her whole life. She's getting old."
The vet told me of other medications to try. New vet. Didn't know the history. That we'd been on those pills already, and off of them, onto something else, along with three other pills for a total of five pills twice a day. That in addition to special food for urinary health. I began to understand how it is people feel when they go through this with a loved one and are at this kind of stage of understanding there really isn't any more to be done.
"Just make her as comfortable as you can," the vet suggested when I said I was going to focus on her end of life care. She prescribed an anti-diarrheal medicine to help with the most recent issue.
Driving home, I was flooded with emotions. I was angry that maybe they did their test incorrectly and there really was something I could give her a pill for and make her all better, only they were too incompetent to find it. Maybe I should demand they run the test again. I felt guilty that I hadn't done enough. Maybe I should put her through more tests, just to be sure. But, sure of what? That she for sure has a tumor? That she for sure has cancer? I don't need to know these things.
I pulled into the driveway and looked to see her in her usual spot on the side porch. She slowly rose as I got out of the car and shuffled across the porch, down the stairs using the one-at-a-time baby steps I had taught her so as not to damage her joints, and ambled across the yard to meet me, Disney dog style. I hugged her and scratched her big floppy ears. She melted into a big brindle puddle at my feet and rolled over to have her belly scratched. How could I resist?
Inside, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and began to prepare her newest remedy - three pills in a spoonful would be no problem going down. My husband came into the room, and I couldn't help but break into heaving sobs. How could I ever have done this alone? How do people do this alone?
He will take her to the vet to have it done. I can't be there at all.
Today seems to be an okay day for Isabelle. I cleaned the goop out of her eyes. We walked down the street. She had a better stool than I've seen from her in a while. I think for a moment that she's doing just fine and all of this is just overreacting. But by the end of the block, she is tired, panting heavily. We turn around to go home, and the walk is one slow step at a time. I give her all the time she wants to stop and sniff first a tree, then the grass. She snorffles through her droopy muzzle, "Rooting out truffles?" I ask, the same line I've used for years. She stops and looks up at me, her black eyes small and round behind protruding bone, then she steps up and moves to a new smell. In the morning sun, her shadow on the sidewalk, I see her body looks full and large, her legs strong, and her tail wagging, wagging.
Isabelle is eight, maybe nine. That's pretty old for an English Mastiff. I took her to the vet this week for runny eyes. The musculature around her face has atrophied, as has the rest of her. She has taken on the appearance and gait of an old Disney hound dog. "C'mon Disney dog," I'll say to her as she plods along on her walk. There's nothing to be done about her eyes. Probably just the result of so much skin hanging down around them now. Her sockets, sunken, going deeper each day. Her eyes black and beady, glazing over some, in sharp contrast to the fur around her muzzle, which is turning whiter. She's dropped 15 pounds in the last three months.
The vet took blood for a test, then Isabelle had other troubles this week, so I took in a fecal sample. That was normal, but the blood test showed some high areas. I've seen those before too, in my cat Mocha who I just had put down because of a liver tumor. The vet couldn't tell me for sure what the high numbers indicate - they'd need more tests, she said, "a blood smear, a stomach x-ray - oh, it's really easy to do…"
"No more tests," I said. "We've been through this her whole life. She's getting old."
The vet told me of other medications to try. New vet. Didn't know the history. That we'd been on those pills already, and off of them, onto something else, along with three other pills for a total of five pills twice a day. That in addition to special food for urinary health. I began to understand how it is people feel when they go through this with a loved one and are at this kind of stage of understanding there really isn't any more to be done.
"Just make her as comfortable as you can," the vet suggested when I said I was going to focus on her end of life care. She prescribed an anti-diarrheal medicine to help with the most recent issue.
Driving home, I was flooded with emotions. I was angry that maybe they did their test incorrectly and there really was something I could give her a pill for and make her all better, only they were too incompetent to find it. Maybe I should demand they run the test again. I felt guilty that I hadn't done enough. Maybe I should put her through more tests, just to be sure. But, sure of what? That she for sure has a tumor? That she for sure has cancer? I don't need to know these things.
I pulled into the driveway and looked to see her in her usual spot on the side porch. She slowly rose as I got out of the car and shuffled across the porch, down the stairs using the one-at-a-time baby steps I had taught her so as not to damage her joints, and ambled across the yard to meet me, Disney dog style. I hugged her and scratched her big floppy ears. She melted into a big brindle puddle at my feet and rolled over to have her belly scratched. How could I resist?
Inside, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and began to prepare her newest remedy - three pills in a spoonful would be no problem going down. My husband came into the room, and I couldn't help but break into heaving sobs. How could I ever have done this alone? How do people do this alone?
He will take her to the vet to have it done. I can't be there at all.
Today seems to be an okay day for Isabelle. I cleaned the goop out of her eyes. We walked down the street. She had a better stool than I've seen from her in a while. I think for a moment that she's doing just fine and all of this is just overreacting. But by the end of the block, she is tired, panting heavily. We turn around to go home, and the walk is one slow step at a time. I give her all the time she wants to stop and sniff first a tree, then the grass. She snorffles through her droopy muzzle, "Rooting out truffles?" I ask, the same line I've used for years. She stops and looks up at me, her black eyes small and round behind protruding bone, then she steps up and moves to a new smell. In the morning sun, her shadow on the sidewalk, I see her body looks full and large, her legs strong, and her tail wagging, wagging.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)