medical mayhem

Breaking News: Cold in NY, in January

Yeah, I know, this is more than the usual cold. Pretty sure the meteorological term is fucking freezing. Or en español, frio con cojones. But first it was strangely warm, and we saw a spectacular sunset as the temperature plummeted yesterday evening.

The view facing east, sun reflecting off of the buildings.

This being NY, nothing stops for weather (-12 windchill be damned) so it was school and business as usual today. I had an appointment that I expected to take about an hour.

Bring on the leeches!

After a quick consult, I was sent to the lab. Except the usual lab was closed for renovations, so I had to bundle up and head outside to walk closer to the river, and then register to wait. To register insurance info. And then wait for a broken printer which wasn’t fixed. And then register for the actual lab part of the lab. And then wait. And wait. Free entertainment, something broke on an upper floor causing flooding, and I was treated to an hour of alarms and flashing lights. This is a hospital and lab that is crazy crowded under the best of circumstances. Add in sub freezing temps outside (lots of accidents, illnesses, and people just looking for anything that will get them out of the cold), the second lab of the hospital being closed, and chaos on another floor, and well. Sigh.

I’ll admit, met a nice bunch of folks all talking about (surprise!) the weather. One reminded me of one of my mother’s friends, very elegant older woman there with her daughter for pre-op fun. I started to worry that I wouldn’t make it home on time to pick up Flower Child. I said this out loud (why?) and the group prodded me to go into the lab and tell them. When the lab tech came out and called my name, I stood up and this small group cheered for me. Not kidding. NY is never more wonderful than when faced with a challenge/crisis–be it natural or manmade.

I felt worst for the phlebotomist, the inner rooms of the lab were so cold, my hand was literally blue as she took my blood. I was only in there for five minutes, I can’t imagine how that woman was keeping her hand steady in the middle of an 8 or 12 hour shift. Thank you! After a mere four hours, I was on my way to the subway.

The show might go on, but the streets are strangely empty today. No one is loitering outside, everyone is bundled up and hurrying to be indoors. The streets along the hospital are usually lined with panhandlers/homeless. I didn’t see one today, and I’m glad, it means they’re all inside somewhere. Even the pigeons are suspiciously absent.

Just about everyone is as bundled as they can be and still navigate the steps down to the station. I saw two exceptions. One, a woman running to the train this morning in a short skirt and heels, no tights at all. Umm, honey, I know bare legs are awesome, but no one was admiring your daring. And another on the train, sure she was cute in her short peacoat and no hat. Young women always look good. But psst,

you would have looked just as cute in boots. At least put a pair of socks on.

I took note of the empty benches in the street and waiting for the light to change when I noticed this:

Sometimes I really don’t want to know.

I’m just ready to be done for the day, and join Big Senile Dog on his tempurpedic.

Warm and cozy.

Comedy of Errors, Thanksgiving Style

Turkey (Photo credit: wattpublishing)

Ah, the day before Thanksgiving. A happy, happy day. Nerd Child came home for Thanksgiving break, he’s been making us laugh for the past four days. Man Child and his girlfriend Miss Music got home last night, long after I fell asleep–how beautiful to wake up to all my chickadees at home.

A day for finishing prep work for cooking and debating whether or not it will be worth going to see the balloons being blown up tonight. I’m quite behind on the cooking this year, left too much for today. The only things ready are my cranberry sauce and stuffing. After taking Flower Child to school, I went straight to the store to pick up a pork roast. That’s right I said pork, I’m not making a turkey this year. Came home from the store, began mincing garlic and toasting fennel seeds.

I needed the salt. From the top shelf. Too lazy to take out the stool, I stretched. I don’t think of myself as petite. In my mind, I’m a glorious six feet tall. Except not in reality. So trying to reach the container of sea salt, I knocked against the glass bottle of vanilla. I don’t know about you, but I’m not into serving bourbon vanilla glass shard infused pork. I didn’t even think, my left hand shot up to catch the bottle before it could hit the counter and smash all over the spices and garlic. My kitchen is teeny. This type of incident is more than a nuisance when the space is so tight. It can take out an entire meal. SCORE! I did it, caught it in mid air with my non dominant hand. This is the part where you say, “Gee, that Mrs Fringe is swell and multi talented.”

Did I mention the crack? Yes, that was the sound of my hand when it hit the bottom edge of the cabinet door before catching the vanilla. Right between the two knuckles of my pinkie and ring finger.

Then Man Child and Miss Music came back. They had gone to move her car. Those friendly folks from the impound already moved it for her. It was late, it was raining, they didn’t see the full sign.

No parking: We kind of really mean it (Photo credit: caruba)

Husband went with Man Child and Miss Music to the impound. Nerd Child went with me to the urgent care center. I think dinner may be a little late tomorrow.

They wouldn’t give me a hook.

Happy Thanksgiving, Fringelings!

Official November Post

(as opposed to all those other November posts)

November is Epilepsy Awareness Month. You didn’t remember that from last year? Good thing I’m posting again.

Last weekend when we were up North, I was speaking with someone who used to keep horses, chickens, and goats. I know very little about horses, less about chickens, and less than nothing about goats that doesn’t involve curry recipes. Fainting goats came up. I had never heard of them, asked her about them. As she described how they stiffen and fall over, I thought to myself, sounds like a form of epilepsy, but didn’t say it out loud. I’m pretty sure any animal with a brain can have a seizure. But what do I know about farm animals? I’m not even sure I’ve ever been next to a goat, fainting or otherwise. She then said she believes the fainting is a form of seizure disorder.

Meet Bambi, the Pygmy Fainting Goat (Photo credit: pmarkham)

Well , now I was able to join the conversation. Turns out the woman used to have someone in her life who had epilepsy, and she made a statement to the effect of, well it isn’t like anyone can die from it.

Not true. People can and do die from seizures and epilepsy. Thousands of people. In countries with modern medicine and purple ribbons. There is SUDEP– sudden unexplained death in epilepsy, there are accidents related to seizures (drowning, falling, burning, choking, etc), there is status epilepticus (prolonged seizures that don’t end/resolve on their own), deaths due to treatment, deaths due to underlying disorders if the epilepsy isn’t idiopathic, and suicide related to comorbid conditions like depression.

This woman hadn’t known this information. She didn’t know epilepsy is actually a spectrum of neurological disorders, she didn’t know there are many types of seizures/ways seizures can present themselves. I also think she hadn’t understood that 30% of people with epilepsy are not “well controlled” on their medicines. In other words, they’re doing everything the doctors say to do, taking meds, trying to avoid triggers, and still have uncontrolled seizures.

This was a great opportunity to educate and promote epilepsy awareness. I did, and I think she and the other woman with her were listening. No ribbons (which I don’t think anyone pays attention to anymore anyway, 43,000 disorders and diseases sharing 12 ribbon colors–I made up 43,000–just in case you weren’t sure), no banners, no jazzy PSAs, not even any goats; just an opportunity taken.

*Some, even most, children and adults with epilepsy have seizures that are well controlled on their medication/treatment plan. That doesn’t mean epilepsy is “no big deal.” It can be a very big deal. And you should care, because anyone can have a seizure, anyone can develop epilepsy.

What medicine(s) works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for the next. Whether they work or not, they often have horrendous and lasting side effects. Some people are finding tremendous success right now with certain medical cannabis compounds/cannabinoid. I’m guessing it’s like the other meds/treatment options, it will work for some and won’t work for others. Of course, everyone who wants to have that shot of success will have to be belittled and inspected first, forced to fight their governments and maybe even move. Sigh.

EEG fragment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But that’s another post.

And by the way, if your dog (or your goat) has epilepsy, and you’re speaking to someone whose child has epilepsy, don’t tell them you know just what it’s like. You don’t.

Epilepsy Awareness. Epilepsy Sucks, pass it on.

Is the Boogeyman Getting Bigger?

Return of the Boogeyman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s a funny thing. I find as I get older, certain things that used to bother me, don’t. You really do reach a level of understanding, this too shall pass. In other ways, though, those fears take hold and get more firmly rooted. Like, say, fear of the unknown.

I’m at a point where I’m ready to make changes. Not quite sure about what they’ll encompass, but I’m ready. Except, what about that other old adage? You know the one, “the devil you know…”

Fatigue and I were talking about fears the other evening. Not wanting to live our lives dictated by fear. We were talking about our young adulthood, before we knew each other. I realized I used to be brave. Ok, maybe not brave, but braver than I am now. I took chances. Some worked out, some not so much. Yanno, life. It’s a lot harder to take those risks when the fallout of a miscalculated risk involves more than me and a cat. Yes, once upon a time, Mrs Fringe had a cat.

I dream about moving to “the country.” What if we did it? Would it be an easier life, living somewhere the budget would stretch farther? I have blissful visions of a kitchen where I can’t touch both walls while standing in the middle. A dishwasher. Not living with people literally on top and below me. Privacy! A garden. A spot to let the beasts out so I don’t have to always walk them no matter what at least three times a day.

There’s nowhere we could go where our money will magically stretch for a fantastic area, HGTV worthy house, or a house on the beach. A lot of factors have to be weighed in. Cost of living, school system, special ed services, doctors/hospitals, work, somewhat reasonable distance to get to Mother In Law. Let’s not forget political factors. Not every area would be happy to welcome us. I don’t need to be somewhere where everyone has the same political beliefs, but I also don’t want to be somewhere I’d be afraid to state my beliefs, know what I mean? And Husband, who would be very happy if I would forget all about this fantasy and continue to trip over each other in the apartment, choke on the budget, and keep waving as I trudge out with the dogs to walk them for the eleventy billionth time.

If I keep huffing and puffing and moaning, and swear it will all be fabulous and I will wake up and skip through the daisies every day, maybe we’ll go. Eventually. But that isn’t how I want to walk into a big change. My crystal ball is looking a little milky these days. I don’t know if this type of move would work out. If we’d end up in the perfect area, if it would provide enough stress and financial relief to enjoy those daisies. We all face decisions, we all try to stack the odds in our favor. But at the end of the day, big decisions are a leap of faith. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

None of this obsessing is getting me any closer to the revisions I should be working on.

For the moment, I’ll continue to watch the real estate porn on HGTV while I wonder if I’m being ruled by my fears or being practical. Sensible. Oh gawd, am I supposed to toss my stilettos and buy orthopedic lace-ups now?

And in the meantime, Flower Child and I keep watching our little seeds sprout, pretending we’ve got a real garden. And I trimmed and bathed Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Productivity, sorta.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Itsnot Me, I Tell Ya

Must have been someone who looked like me.

IMG_0010 (Photo credit: RosieTulips)

Here we are, the evening of February 28th, and I’m so damned tired I don’t even feel human. I want to be positive, and happy tomorrow is Friday, but all I can think is whaddya mean it isn’t already Friday?

*Nothing to do with this post, but there was just a crash and thud outside. I’m wondering if someone lost a flowerpot from a terrace, or if I’m soon to hear sirens. Life in the big city, always an adventure*

So, tonight I’ve got boogers on the brain. Flower Child is still sick. Not bad, and able to go to school, but still sick. Lots of sniffling and snuffling and blowing. This makes me nervous. March is generally an iffy health month for her, and I was hoping she’d be back to baseline before it started. On the positive end, Parent Teacher conferences went very well. The adaptive technology she’s using has been incredibly helpful. The math teacher’s a little confused as to why she answers every question and interaction with him, “live long and prosper,” but hey.

Star Trek TOS Cutting Room Floor Clippings (Photo credit: The Rocketeer)

I’d like to explain it to him, but can’t. Her thinking can be…circuitous. For some reason she associates the math teacher with Nerd Child, which in turn connects her to the phrase. I’m guessing the teacher regrets his surprised laugh the first time he heard it from my girly girl. Poor man. Still, an excellent, creative teacher and I’m grateful for the fabulous team working with her this year.

Seeing as it’s the 28th, I feel I should report on how the writing went this month, since I announced I would be making an all out push, producing as much as possible. Turns out that between Flower Child’s illness, the passing of my father in law, and life, this might not have been the best month to choose. Between the morning of February 1st and this evening, I got about 12,500 words added to the WIP. I also wrote that short, about 3800 words. Not a wasted month, just not quite the momentum I had started with and hoped to continue.

Speaking of the short, I’ve got a reference in there to snot, connected to the main character, a woman in her late sixties. The reason I mention this; super interesting to me to find that a few people strongly and specifically associated snot with children, and not older adults. Is it the word or the mucus itself? I’m no gerontologist, but I am and have been around a good number of older people. Boogers don’t disappear when the AARP card arrives. And someone who would use the word snot at thirty is likely to still be using it at sixty or seventy. One of my mother’s favorite insults was to call someone snot-nosed. She had other, more colorful insults, but that one was always used to great effect, with much power behind it.

A man mid-sneeze. Original CDC caption: “This 2009 photograph captured a sneeze in progress, revealing the plume of salivary droplets as they are expelled in a large cone-shaped array from this man’s open mouth, thereby dramatically illustrating the reason one needs to cover his/her mouth when coughing, or sneezing, in order to protect others from germ exposure.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gesundheit, and happy almost Friday, fringelings!

DIY IVs and Dreadlocks

Glucose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child has been sick for four days now, koalaed to me since Sunday morning. Life with a medical needs kiddo is…interesting. It’s never just a sniffle. Forget about secondary sinus infections, we see things like seizures. And pleurisy–which is extra special, because she doesn’t cough, so that type of diagnosis is always a sucker punch delivered in a crowded ER at 2AM. So, I’ve been working on trying to keep her hydrated and home. She dehydrates quickly, hence my not so funny when you live it DIY IV joke. Pedialyte and lollypops. Same as a glucose drip, no? I’m hopeful at the moment, today has been better than the last few days, fever sticking to low grade so far, and she ate a little bit. Just heard from the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, results from the flu swab are back, and it isn’t the flu.

Are you kidding me? This isn’t even the flu? Just one of several viruses making the rounds right now. For my Flower Child, a virus that would make another child sick for a few days leaves her scary laid out for much longer. It isn’t like I actually need to sleep or anything. Really, an hour or two is more than enough. What’s that? You want to know why I go through 5 espressos and 12 cups of tea each day?

Since today has been better, and I know not to make any assumptions for tomorrow, I figured it was an opportunity to ~~hack through~~ wash her hair.

Dreadlocks machen. Mit Hilfe eines Hundehaarkamms (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rapunzel long hair and extended periods of time in bed adds up to dreadlocks, forget Goldilocks. I just spent over an hour detangling her hair. >>that photo is not Flower Child, just illustrating her hair.

Who wants to guess how much writing I’ve gotten done? *insert cynical laugh here* There went my 1000 words a day streak. Though I have kept going, with a much lower word count. I wake up every morning convinced I should be able to be more productive. I go to bed each night chastising myself for a paltry word count. I’m not losing two hours a day doing drop off and pick up, she’s certainly not chatting or wanting anything other than to be next to me, but this hyper-vigilant watching and listening is exhausting. Very hard to immerse yourself in fantasy land when you’ve got a little person burning, shaking, and whimpering next to you. So I’m on a break from the romance, working on a new short. Progress is slow, and it’s an angry piece (shocked?) but I like how it’s taking shape.

I could write for 30 minutes or so now until I go dog walk, but I think I’m going to escape to my happy place instead. It’s almost beach season, isn’t it?

Bora Bora (Photo credit: Benoit Mahe)

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?

Plucked, Tucked, and Fucked

¿Rolling Stones? No, gracias (Photo credit: alvarezperea)

As a no longer young woman who doesn’t travel with the movers and shakers of society, it sometimes takes me a while to hear about trends and movements. Last night, I saw an article on Facebook that horrified me. So much so, I suspected it was a hoax, and googled. Labiaplasty. Not a hoax. A (sur)real cosmetic plastic surgery, available at a doctor’s office near you. Heh.

Just in case you’re as behind the times as I am, labiaplasty is a surgery to trim, or completely remove, a woman’s inner labia. Ready for the kicker? This is a purely optional procedure.

So I ranted with my feminist FB buddies for a bit, and then kept googling. I did find instances of women who said they chose to have the procedure done for more than aesthetic reasons, citing discomfort when running or biking. I read about one woman who said she was tired of her lips falling out of her underwear. Now those are lips. Except when I continued reading, it turns out she was referring to thong underwear. What’s that, dear? Your dental floss isn’t as comfortable as you’d like it to be? Get off my lawn!

old lady feeding pigeons (Photo credit: mvhargan)

Adult women look different from young girls, the body changes in many ways. This surgery seems to be an effort to replicate the appearance of prepubescent girls. As a woman, as a mother, as a sorta kinda feminist, I am appalled. Exactly how does this fit into “first do no harm?” Those labia aren’t like your appendix, serving no function. They are part of your body’s natural defenses, protecting the vagina and urethra, have glands that produce secretions that kill bacteria, and I’m no gynecologist, but I’m pretty sure they help keep your urine from spraying out between the bowl and the seat. As someone who is a designated toilet scrubber, I approve of this function.

I am naturally slim, always was. Somehow, it’s more socially acceptable to admit to surgical body sculpting and radical diets than to say this. We, as women, are supposed to spend our entire lives hating our images, taking ever more extreme measures to look like a continually changing physical ideal. Men seem to be jumping on this bandwagon for themselves, can be found waiting to have their eyebrows threaded, pedicures done, chests waxed, and of course, cosmetic surgeries.

How much more can we hate ourselves? We starve, we shave, pour hot wax and rip it off, send electric shocks through our pores, apply acid to remove layers of skin, vacuum fat, lift, tuck, stick bits of plastic on our eyeballs, we paint, we polish, tattoo, pierce, inject water, silicone, and botulism.

But after I logged off, and kept thinking, that pesky little voice in my head kept whispering. You know the voice, the one that calls you out on your own bullshit and contradictions. Is this really so different than any other plastic surgery done for purely cosmetic reasons? I’ve never had any plastic surgery done, and I’m not likely to, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if an opportunity presented itself. The younger, more militant me hates this.

I have what I like to think of as probiscis magnificus. Yanno, a nose that qualifies as a shnoz. When I was younger, the opportunity for a nose job presented itself. Did I already hate my nose, wish it didn’t look like a mountain climbing challenge? Yes I did. But I declined the offer, because it was so against my political views, my belief that each of us needs to embrace who we are, including our physical characteristics. In other words, my shnoz is and always was a part of me, and our physical self contributes to who we become, our self image in every way. I’d also had my nose broken twice. It hurts like hell, and I wasn’t in a phase of life where I wanted to volunteer for pain.

At this stage in my life, though, I’m not so young, perky, or firm. I’m in reasonably good shape, but my skin isn’t so tight. I’ve nursed three children. I know who I am, and understand physical changes won’t change the woman I’ve become. So I’ve thought about it, and if I won the lottery, I might have a rhinoplasty done, and a boob lift to get the girls back to the zip code they used to reside in. Is there a difference between these procedures and labiaplasty? I could justify a nose job for medical reasons, the two breaks left me with scar tissue that make my nasal passages permanently stuffy and a snore that rivals an old coal train. No justification other than vanity for a breast lift. I think this means I don’t have the right to judge anyone else’s elective procedures. What’s the line?

Description unavailable (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Rompe La Cabeza

Question mark made of puzzle pieces (Photo credit: Horia Varlan)

In English, the word is puzzle. In Spanish, the phrase is rompe la cabeza, or rompecabeza. Translated literally, “breaks the head.”

Flower Child is my puzzle. A beautiful, delicate, complicated puzzle. For now, and for far too many years already, trying to put these pieces together…the Spanish feels more appropriate than the English. Breaking my head, trying to make sense of what is and what’s to come for my sweetness. The modern medical world is an absolute maze; so basically, it’s wandering through a labyrinth, trying to locate puzzle pieces, and then getting lost in an attempt to trace back to see where they might fit.

I used to like jigsaw puzzles. I found them relaxing. I had a teacher who used to call those types of hobbies mental masturbation. Made sense. But now? No, the very sight of those stamped cardboard pieces induces a PTSD type reaction.

English: Image from The Great War taken in an Australian Advanced Dressing Station near Ypres in 1917. The wounded soldier in the lower left of the photo has a dazed, thousand-yard stare – a frequent symptom of “shell-shock”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Except for one teeny tiny contradiction, it isn’t “post” anything. I live it, we as a family live it, every day.

This morning I didn’t get up at 5AM and work on a story, or Mrs Fringe. This morning I got up at 5 to go over paperwork and organize copies of medical reports. Another visit to a new specialist, this one specializing in the puzzle pieces that make up each of us. Three hours of going over medical history–Flower Child, me, Husband, Nerd Child, Man Child, and extended families. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the emotional equivalent of sucking down a chocolate milkshake when you’ve got a molar in dire need of a root canal. A quick physical, looking, bending, measuring, hemming, hawing, instructing, and note taking. Then a trip down to the lab, and 80 reminders to FC about “girl power” while waiting for a blood draw, and of course, the positioning of the doll, the iPod, and the negotiating about what the treat will be afterwards.

The testing least likely to yield information is expected first, in three to four weeks. The rest of the results should be back in four months. Follow up appointment in six months. An extra vial of blood was drawn, in case nothing useful is found in the testing done today, it will be used for round two of more detailed testing, taking another 6 months for results. Now we play the hurry up and wait game.

Sundial (Photo credit: njj4)

Nothing Much

Yawning Galapagos Tortoise (Photo credit: Jen Bowman)

One of these days that’s going to be me. I’ll run into a friend I haven’t seen in a while and she’ll say, “Hey, Mrs Fringe, what’s been going on?”

I’ll answer, “Nothing much.” And mean it. No discretion, no walking away sniffling, just a nice boring stretch.

Maybe my next life.

Yesterday morning, right before Nerd Child had to leave to go back to school, Old Senile Dog began making some strange noises. Coughing and retching. Ok, sucks, but dogs get sick, pet him a little to try and relax him. No. Because it progressed to throwing up nothing but foam, bile and weirdness, and his back end kept giving out. And the sound he was making was eerily similar to a death rattle. Freak out time!

Call the vet, a hurried and distracted goodbye to Nerd Child, half walk, half carry the dog to the vet’s office on the next block. He looked bad. Really bad. I knew it wasn’t just my perception when the woman sitting with her Shitzu shoved her little bundle back into its carry bag and inched away. Another woman waiting at the counter brought the paperwork and pen over to me, so I wouldn’t have to try and move him any more than necessary. Tech came out and brought him into the back right away.

The vet comes out, I go over the symptoms, how long, etc, and now I’m noticing how reassuring she isn’t being. Calm, lovely, efficient, but no hint of “don’t worry, he’s going to be ok.” This taps into my inner loon, I can barely remember and articulate what he gets fed, and I just keep repeating over and over, “Is he in pain? I don’t want him in pain, don’t let him be in pain!”

She takes half a step back, lies and tells me he isn’t in pain, and I accept this because I want it to be true. I call Fatigue, and babble about what the vet said.

Bloat with twisted intestine, emergency surgery needed, maybe a mass caused it, maybe they’ll find necrosed tissue of the stomach and or spleen by the time the surgeon opens him. Much quiet drama throughout the day, Little Incredibly Dumb dog is beside herself, barely left his bed since I left with him. Flower Child wasn’t much different.

Oh yeah. Flower Child. I don’t know if I’ve talked about it here, but Big Senile Dog is more than a beloved pet. He works as Flower Child’s aid/service dog. Completely untrained for this, he was already our pet when FC first started having seizures and other fun. He has been amazing. He alerts for seizures, he alerts if she is at all unwell and I’m not right there.

Oh, I’ll let you in, but I won’t let you out. ~Big Senile Dog

He sees her as his job, no one is allowed to get close to her if he doesn’t know them and trust them. When her seizures cause loss of consciousness, if I don’t already have her on the couch or bed, he places himself so she lands on him and not the ground. He isn’t perfect, he tends to be overprotective of her. He works for her, but has zero interest in cuddling or being cuddled by her. He won’t play with her, that would be beneath him. If she needed him and a tempting steak walked by, he’d bay for my attention and then go grab the steak, going back to her only after said steak was eaten. On the bright side this would take him about 0.04 seconds.

He’s a pest. He can jump seven feet straight up into the air to leap a fence, grab a chicken, or put his face into the face of someone he doesn’t think should be too close to his family. One year we went on vacation, and Sister In Law, whom he adores, took care of him. She took him to doggie day care while she went to work so he wouldn’t be lonely. He jumped the fence in their backyard, and waited there until she returned at the end of the day, howling only once he heard her voice. He cries and bays if I walk away from him at any time for any reason when out in the street, even if it’s Husband holding his leash. He howls and bays if we’re all outside, to warn the world that his charges are coming through and they’d best move out of the way. But he’s our pest, and we love him, adore him, and the work he does for Flower Child is priceless.

The surgeon called last night, the surgery went well. YAY! No mass, no resection of his stomach needed. Double YAY! This leaves the odds in his favor for a full recovery.

Snoopy_happy_dance_large (Photo credit: imjkbryant)

This morning, I take Flower Child to school, and wait for the vet to call. This afternoon, I will pick her up early, and take her to an appointment with Dr BigShot. Nothing much.