Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Untitled

It's been a month. There are days that I can let pass by without a single thought, only to be reminded at 4pm that it's time for Tequila to have his heart pill.

There are mornings I wake up in tears because I dream about that day again. What could have been done differently. What if it had been something minor. How I could have fucking saved him.

Our cat is depressed and missing him. I know that sounds stupid, but it is true. She looks for him constantly. She's become more vocal, which I think is her way of trying to be as loud as he could be. She goes into our building's hallway and sits and waits. It breaks my heart because I cannot make her understand at all that Tequila isn't coming back.

I want to say so much about his little life, but I still get too damned emotional to go into too much detail. Poke at me in another month. In the meantime, have some pictures instead. He was such a hamball.



First picture I ever took of him. Ready to go home with us after being a stray in California. Best gift my sister ever gave us (she's the one who found him). 2007



.

Chilling with his cousin Rocky in 2010.



Guarding his boy in 2011.



No idea. Just a dingus.



LOL



Double LOL



Future frenemies.



Plotting world domination.



This was taken on August 26th of this year, two days before we let him go. Looking at it now, I guess you can see that he looked tired and sad. Or maybe I'm just projecting.

I'll end there.

Monday, September 5, 2016

Tequila

Eight days.

It's been eight days.

And it still hurts.

I keep listening for the clicking of his nails on the floor. For the sound of him tiptoeing into our room, past my sleeping husband, around to my side of the bed, only for him to violently shake his head so his ears would flap and make noise so I'd acknowledge him and lift him onto the bed.

The sounds don't come.

I keep waiting for him to bark at the neighbors, bark at the trash bins moving, bark at my husband, bark at any noise that did not feel right to him.

There is no barking.

Sometimes I'll see something out of the corner of my eye and think it is him sleeping.

Nope.

I still use present tense when talking about him, only to correct myself a second later while my heart hurts.

I woke up early yesterday morning, but decided to go back to sleep. I regretted it because I had a dream about him. He had ran away to die because he didn't want us to hurt (how I knew what his thoughts were, I have no clue). We went looking for him and rushed him to the vet, and she said he'd be fine if we gave him this pill. And he got better.

I snapped awake with tears in my eyes. I felt so guilty, like this dream was accusing me of being a shit owner because I elected to essentially murder my dog. I went on Facebook to distract myself, only to see that his vet clinic had posted this video, which I made the mistake of watching.




Yeah. Not a good idea. I wound up depressed and quiet most of the day.

That's kind of been my whole week though, but I've just been trying to keep it inside because it's not doing my husband and son any favors to see mom go off the deep end again.

I suppose a lot of people think I'm overreacting to what was nothing more than an animal. I'm sure they're thinking he can easily be replaced. There is a lot I'd say to that, but none of it is nice, although I feel that these people could easily be replaced in my life.

I mean, they're just a person after all.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Why Owning Pets Hurts

Because when they die, they take a piece of the good that was inside of you.

Tonight was not a night that I thought would end with me putting our little dog to sleep. Oh, I suppose I should have seen it coming. The coughing was getting worse. The wheezing. The breathing was bad. The heart was pounding. We all (including his vet) thought it was just excess fluid on his lungs. He had congestive heart failure and a heart murmur (which, I didn't learn until tonight, has varying degrees of severity and his was a 5 out of 6) and bad teeth and who knows how many other ailments. He kept on keeping on though. We thought the furosemide (a type of diuretic remove excess fluid) would work.

Yeah. We were wrong. Well, almost wrong, I guess.

I don't know. I'm writing this through swollen eyes and smudged glasses, but I need to get it out because I'm beating myself up inside. Hard.

We took him to the emergency vet when he would. not. stop. coughing. He literally sounded like he was going to hack up a lung.

We got him there. They took him back. The tech came back out to talk to us about options and if he had ever seen a cardiologist.

No. I had (now that I think about it) discussed it with his vet at the outset of his chf/heart murmur diagnosis two years ago, but she said that as long as he responded to any meds given, it was not necessary. Also, there is only one dog cardiologist in the city, and it takes months to see him (and a lot of money, of course).

And it wasn't necessary I guess, until two weeks ago.

The vet came to talk to us. We had two options. Well, three. But I'll get to that in a minute.

The first option was to leave him at the hospital overnight to see if he would respond to an oxygen cage, IV fluids, and IV furosemide to get him peeing out fluid. There would also be bloodwork and xrays and other stuff.

The second option would be to drive him an hour away to a bigger hospital where there was an internist and other access to cardiology equipment and the like. He would also have to stay overnight.

Both of these options ran between $1500-3000+.

Then there was the last option. A final option. The option neither I nor my husband wanted to bring up.

But we did.

Euthanasia.

This is the part where I feel so wretched.

We chose that final option.

And oh my god, I am regretting it so much now.

I know I was told that even if we had chose one of the first two options, there was no guarantee. He was sick. He looked sick. He looked tired, even though he would perk up off and on during the day. He could not get comfortable. He could not sleep.

But I feel guilty. Like I took the easy option. Like he wasn't worth that amount of money.

I should have moved mountains for him. I should have maxed out every single card I had for him. I should have moved heaven and earth for that little pup who did nothing but love us with every inch of his tiny little body.

But I didn't. I let him die. I let them inject my dog, my Tequila, with the drugs to make him sleep forever.

The technicians and vets were wonderful. They explained everything to us. They tried to make us feel at ease. They gave us pamphlets and copies of the Rainbow Bridge poem. They are making a clay imprint of Tequila's paw. We go to pick it up in a few days.

He died in my arms. I held him until the last. I felt like that was the least I could do for him after sending him to death. They had wrapped him in a blanket. He was partially sedated when they handed him to me. He whimpered a bit, but it took effect quickly.

And then he gave that final last loud sigh and was gone.

I don't have much to say beyond this. I wanted to do a nice post about him and some lovely pictures of his life.

But not tonight, because I cannot get that sigh out of my head. I cannot erase the fucking picture seared in my mind of his lifeless body as I handed him to the tech so he could be sent to be cremated.

Guilt is the order of the night. Guilt and grief and so much sorrow.

Monday, May 2, 2016

Back At It

Here I am again, willing myself to talk about physical and mental things that are fucking with my life. I know I was writing once a week before I started slipping into a depression. Then I gave it up, like I did with eating well and getting more exercise. Yeah, I fucked up.

It wasn't any one thing. It was a lot of pain from my back. It was worrying about money constantly. It was people treating me like I was only good for one or two things, then not even having the decency to listen when I tried to voice my issues. It was a lot of being so tired of everything: tired of life, tired of pain, tired of failing. I know that all of what I just typed (with the exception of the pain and money issues) are symptoms of depression, but it was a huge weight that just kept growing.

I ghosted for awhile. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to interact. It was hard for me to even chill with my family. It was a pain to be pleasant at physical therapy when my body and mind were hurting so much.

I started coming out of it a couple of weeks ago, but I was already back to my old ways, which dragged me down further. I finished physical therapy, but I've been slacking on doing it at home, which is a bad thing. I do some stretches and some stability ball practice, but then I don't push myself further. Apathy is a motherfucker.

Then last week, I developed a horrifying pain in my neck and shoulder blade. I couldn't turn my head. I couldn't lie down without developing a headache. I just felt like shit. I hurt so so much, and just wanted to sleep all of the time to get away from it. But I had obligations and other things that I had to deal with, so no sleep for me. My neck finally got better (still slightly twinge-y, but I don't have to down naproxen and muscle relaxers like a fiend anymore), but the no sleep stayed, and now I'm suffering from insomnia.

I'm a hot mess.

But....

I decided, yet again, that I cannot continue on this path. I started over again today. I am still creeping out of depression and pain, but I need to push forward.

I weighed myself, and by some fucking miracle, I have only gained a few pounds. I went for a long walk with the dog, and am only a couple hundred steps away from my walking goal today. I plan on doing my physical therapy exercises after I digest lunch.

Lunch....

Food. That is still where my weakness is. I just ate a sandwich and more chips than I care to think about, then started thinking about the ice cream and cookies we have in the house. Instead of indulging, I sat down to write this to try and distract myself. It's sort of working. I figure that since I've already binged on chips, I need to not eat other crappy shit. I might have a glass of skim chocolate milk, which sometimes help when my sweet tooth hits.

This food thing is a bear. I can't just stop eating, but I can't do what I did right now. I know part of the reason I ate a bunch of chips was because I ate breakfast super fucking early today (insomnia got me out of bed at 5), then didn't have a snack in between breakfast and lunch. I felt ravenous and stuffed myself. Now I just feel guilty, and will hate to see what my calorie tracker says after I enter the information.

Ah well. I can't undo it. Onward, I guess.

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Pain

Didn't write a health post last week because I was upset and depressed with everything. I almost didn't write a post this week, but here it is. I think I'll start doing them on Tuesdays because I'm usually wiped after physical therapy on Mondays.

So. Health. I hurt. A lot. But only sometimes. Other times my leg and back are just fine. Then I move wrong or sit wrong or think that I don't need Advil or Skelaxin. Then I pay for it. Mightily. I really hate it. There have been more than a few times I've dissolved into tears because I feel useless and I hurt. SO. BLOODY. MUCH. I can't lie on the floor anymore and play board games. I have to sit upright, and even then, I can sometimes still hurt myself (typing this as I stand lest I hurt). Getting into the car is a fucking joke. I can't sit on public transportation because the seats hurt. I have to stand and pray that they don't jerk too suddenly and fuck up my leg.

I've been having more panic attacks lately. I'm spiraling into depression because I feel like a failure at everything. My sleep is shot to hell. I made it through yesterday on three hours sleep after waking up to have a panic attack over money issues (another story for another day). I haven't been exercising (with the exception of walking and physical therapy) or really eating right. I'm trying to snap myself out of this funk, but it is hard to do.

Having a physical injury when you're already mentally destroyed is like hell on earth. The feelings of being useless multiply. You feel like you're letting down friends and family when you say that you can't do something. I try to be upbeat and do my physical therapy without complaining and just try. TRY. And at the end of the day I'm wiped the fuck out from trying and get snappish with my family. Lately I've taken to crying in the shower, usually because I'm upset, but there are the times that my leg and back hurt so much from just standing underneath hot water that I have to let out the pain somehow. Crying doesn't help, but screaming wouldn't either.

I try to be strong. I try to just live my fucking life. I try to tell myself that tomorrow will be better, that tomorrow I can try again, that tomorrow the therapy exercises will make a huge difference.

It never fucking happens.

Monday, February 1, 2016

Weekly Rambling

I usually do a weekly post on my health situation on Facebook. This one might go a little bit long, so have a post.

First off, I'm gonna be straightforward about last week. I failed. Spectacularly. I was okay on Monday and Tuesday. My leg even felt like it was healing up.

And then I fucked up.

Tuesday night saw me battling insomnia. That's fine. I've dealt with it before. Then I went to move my leg around my dog (who insists on sleeping between my legs....wtf), and the most godawful searing pain shot down my thigh to my knee. I actually jerked and cried out loud enough to wake up my husband. I was in tears. It hurt so fucking bad. I was so upset with myself. I felt like I had been making progress and it was shot down in an instant.

So me being me, I just caved. I didn't do much. I hurt so much that it was (and still is, but we'll get to that in a moment) hard for me to get into bed or sit down or bend over or really, just about ANYTHING, without causing a huge amount of pain. I sucked down Ibuprofen like a fiend, but knowing what type of damage it can cause, I started tapering off on Friday. My eating healthy habits suffered because I started spiraling.

And here we are. Yesterday was pretty bad, and when my leg gave out on me when I climbing into bed, I just collapsed and started crying. Today has been a bit better, but not by much (now battling another cold and with this leg.....ergh). I ate like crap today. I acknowledge it. I need to do better tomorrow.

Yet through all of this, I haven't gained weight. My body is a cunt.

So I'm resetting again. I have decided that I'm going to do my leg strengthening exercises twice a day, just to keep things limber. I'm going to revert back to eating better. It wasn't hard to start it up. I can still do it. I'm going to keep to walking moderate distances and using the elliptical so I don't screw up anything with crazy flailing or lifting too much.

The above paragraph is a marked change from how I felt three hours ago. I was just sitting there in a horrible funk, thinking that nothing will work or change for me, that I'm always destined to be like this. I don't know what snapped inside me, but I can't do this. I need to get better and keep on going. If not for me, then for my family.

So here's to attempt #.....ah shit, I lost count. I'm just going to do it. Fuck you, body!

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Weight Ramblings

Background for the people who aren't on my Facebook: I started trying to eat better and move more at the beginning of the week. This is how it's going.

Two and a half days in. Couldn't hit the elliptical yesterday because my leg muscles (quads?) were screaming. As was I every time I went to sit down or bend my legs. I walked a lot and took Tylenol and whimpered through the day. Ate the same amount of calories as the day before, including some cookies.

Today has been better. I found an old Richard Simmons tape from '86 that is geared towards seniors. I managed to get about 20 minutes in before it started murdering me. Muscles are still tender in my legs. I need to go walking in a bit to loosen up some more and get my steps in.

I have found that I have a huge thing for sweets. This seems to be more prevalent when I try and do better about my eating. Ah, the mind. You're such a cunt. At least I've learned that I CAN back away, that I CAN ignore the cravings. And I didn't even have to bother everyone about it!

I've been doing well in other eating areas. More veggies. More protein. More water. Relearning how to eat without overeating.

As easy as I make this sound, it hasn't been on a mental level. I went to Walgreens yesterday and wanted to buy all the chocolate. I wanted to stop and eat nachos. I wanted Thai iced tea. I wanted to go in the candy store and buy a huge piece of homemade candy. My mind wants everything back the way it was. I am constantly at war with it. The fat girl is demanding to stay, telling me that this isn't going to work. Telling me that I did surgery and that failed and that I'm a failure. Telling me that I should just lie around and not exercise and you know you don't want to anyway and it's not going to help. I need a switch to shut her off. Sometimes she almost succeeds in getting to me.

The vanity part of me is wreaking havoc, too. If I am successful down the line, what will my body look like? I know I'll have loose skin because of the damage that I've done to myself. I know I probably won't have the money to correct it. Then the fat girl voice chimes in with how ugly I'll look, uglier than before, and how at least at this weight I know what I look like.

Being nuts sucks sometimes.