One Man's Normal

If I actually manage to start and finish one post in a single day, then tomorrow, July 4, 2010 will be the day that I take my 56th and final dose of Interferon.  A year and a month in my life.  It both seems like it's been going on for years, and also like it was days ago since I did the first injection.  It doesn't seem like time has flown by because nothing happened this last year, quite the opposite.  I think that because so much was going on over the course of those 13 months, time really did fly by.  Had it been mundane, boring and uneventful, time would surely have dragged on.

Let's take a quick journey through this time first:  On June 14, 2009 at around 9:00 pm I injected my first dose of Interferon.  About a month prior to this, I started really getting some serious food religion.  I expected that it was very likely that the Interferon was going to really take a whack at my appetite, and I wanted to make sure that if I wasn't going to able to eat enough food, that at least what I ate would be the most nutritious, healthy and fresh food, and that I would also be eating a balanced diet.  So starting in early May, I started going to the Pleasant Hill farmer's market, which is only about 3 miles from my house, if even that far.  I canned, froze and pickled myself into oblivion.  I put up enough food, including almost 100 fully prepared and then frozen meals; enough to make a Mormon wife proud.  I seriously cut down on my intake of highly-processed, junk and fast food.  I read In Defense of Food, and took it on as a religion.  I continue to see the rewards of that decision:  Do I feel healthy and strong and vibrant?  No.  But do I think this last year could have easily been a lot worse if my nutritional needs had not been met so well.  Absolutely yes.

I lost my 16 year old Basenji, Kaelii, when she fell into the koi pond on a warm summer afternoon and drowned.  I finished up the dealing with the will contest brought by Ken's family and saw it through to resolution.   I started to take my writing seriously and see if it could be turned into my craft; the jury is still out on that one.  I cut off my hair, that over the prior 3 years had grown to a length that had it about 1/3 of the way down my back.  I ended an almost 3 year relationship with Brian.  Though it was the right thing to do, it still didn't make the process any easier.  Ending a relationship is never easy, and it's not just the cost that it exacts upon you, there is another person involved, and their feelings need to be given as much weight as yours.  I spent the month and a half prior to Christmas baking, cooking and canning my way into oblivion, because I decided that the few Christmas presents that I did give were going to be gift baskets of homemade food.  I said the few presents because as much as I love Christmas, which I do, the present giving and receiving part is really not that meaningful to me.  If you're ever going to give me a present and you want it to be meaningful to me, don't give it to necessarily mark an occasion or a holiday, do it because you want to give me something.  That tends to be how I gift most of the time.

Early this spring, I started taking my first few tentative steps into the dating world - we can tackle that subject another time.   As part of my new food religion I decided that I was going to do a vegetable garden, so I've spent the last 4 months basically redoing my gardens; everything from changing out a lot of was was previously planted, putting in a bunch of fruit trees, redoing the irrigation to make it more efficient and less water-consumptive (and screwing up the job a few times in the process, but I tend to learn best from my failures).  Right now I'm just starting to eat the first fruits of my labors.  I've also learned a number of lessons in the gardening school of hard knocks.  I've figured out what grows well in my area and what doesn't.  I've learned that when you over-water your garden; you tend to make a lot of your plants susceptible to disease, most specifically fungal diseases, which then makes the plants more susceptible to pest damage.  I learned that squirrels really like tulip bulbs.  It's the squirrel version of potato chips, and if one wants to grow them in squirrel country, one must be very clever and put in a lot of extra work to make the bulbs inaccessible to the squirrels.

Then, 2 months ago, the one dog of mine that has become my most beloved dog in all the years that I've lived with them nearly died because of my negligence.  He has recovered, I've mostly figured out a way to stop beating myself up about it, and well, that brings us up to now.  This was a quick review, and I'm relying on a frequently faulty memory, but that is the stuff that sticks out in my memory.  There is one more fairly big thing that happened this last year, but it wasn't one specific thing that happened at one specific point in time; this is really more of a process.  This process deserves a name, I think, so I'm going to call it:

Things a Year on Interferon Taught Me

1. I don't scare easily.  You can tell me that I have yet another horrible disease, that the only treatment is a year long, that the drugs are very toxic and will wreak havoc on my body, and still, that at the end of the day, I've statistically got at best a 30% chance that it will work.  Not only can I digest all of that, but I will still say "OK, let's do this thing."
2. You can throw 10 or 15 things at me all at the same time; not fun things either, and somehow I will manage to find a way to handle it all and still maintain at least a modicum of my sanity.  Now granted, dealing with all of it might mean that I put off half of it, but I still know it's there and I just tell myself that I'll get to it eventually.  Now that eventually might be a while; I've still not hung the vast majority of my artwork, finished painting a bathroom, all the trim in the house, and finishing up the touch-up painting everywhere else in the house, and I've been in the house for 2 1/2 years now, but I know that it's still there waiting for me (the work, that is).  I also know what my limitations are, having lived with chronic disease for more than half of my life, so I know that all in all, the stuff that I don't get done really doesn't matter in the long run, so I can fret and worry, or I can triage my list, and get the work done in the order of importance, and just let go of what I can't do.
3. I've always thought that I'm way too scatter-brained.  After this last year, with having my brains pharmaceutically scrambled, and as a result having to slow things down enough to process all of the information coming at me, I've realized this:  Maybe I'm not that scatter-brained, maybe I just have an inordinate amount of information coming at me constantly, and that even in the best of circumstances it's more than I can handle.  Maybe the problem isn't so much that I'm absent-minded as it is that I don't know my limits and continue to try to manage more than I really can or should handle.  Or maybe not.
4. Don't ever let yourself feel any false sense of security.  Just when you think you have a problem licked, when you might just get a very rude awakening.  When you think you finally have the tiger caged, you might look a little more closely and see that you really have the tiger by the tail.  A couple of months ago, my barrage of adverse reactions to the Interferon didn't go away, but they did seem to be getting less severe, and nothing new and weird seemed to be happening.  As such, I started to think "hmm, maybe the worst is over."  The second that I had that thought I should have slapped myself.  About that time, the mouth sores, which had been at bay for months, came back with a vengeance.  3-4 days after every injection, I would have a day where from the moment I woke up, I felt like I had the worst flu ever.  This week it happened on Thursday.  I could barely get myself out of bed, take care of the dogs and the cat, try unsuccessfully to eat something and then to fall onto the sofa, from which I could barely get up for the rest of the day.  I had chills and a fever of between 101.5 and 102, severe muscle aches, lethargy, and just a general malaise.  The next morning, it was gone, and other than feeling a little residual fatigue, it was as if nothing ever happened.  A fever from Interferon is common, but usually happens early on in the therapy, becoming less severe as one gets further into the treatment cycle.  It almost always occurs within 10 hours of injection.  But I am me, and my body never seems to do anything the way that it is supposed to, so I ought not be surprised.  These are just examples of what has been happening lately, but there were many others.  I just don't need or want to go through an entire laundry list to make a point.  
5. This is kind of an offshoot of number 2, but I still think it bears discussion as something discrete:  I have found out that I can watch a lot of shit hit the fan all around me, and keep my composure, even if the fan never gets turned off.  I've developed an ability to be able to just say "oh well" when what is happening around me is out of my control, rather than trying fix things that I can't fix, and even more, to be able to do this without getting an ulcer.  Loved ones die, pets die, people get sick, sometimes with more than one thing at at time and relationships fail.  Those are just the facts of life.  Accept that or go crazy trying to avoid the inevitable
6. My idea of normal is a bit skewed.  When I say that I'm feeling good, what is good for me is very likely pretty crappy for most people.  That is what living with a chronic disease does to you - you adjust your sense of what is normal to the circumstances that you have.  So when I think that things are going great, if you looked at the situation, you might think I was either crazy or in denial.  But I know what my limitations are and I don't have unrealistic expectations, so for me, when I think things are going well, for me, relatively, they are.

I've really not wanted to put a lot of fanfare into tomorrow, I really have wanted to try to if not ignore it, at least not make a big deal out of it.  It's not like really something that I think bears a celebration.  The end of a crappy experience isn't something I want to celebrate, it's something that I want to lay to rest.  People don't celebrate anniversaries of divorces, funerals or personal tragedies, I really don't want to celebrate mine.  I just want this last 13 months to have meaning and to then just go away.  The most obvious way that this will be a meaningful experience will be if it works, and at this point, all indications are good.  A less obvious way might be that even if it doesn't work that I learn something significant from the experience, and again, I think I've succeeded.  I've not just learned something about myself from this, I've learned a whole bunch of somethings.

Then there is one last thing that I've asked myself:  If I had known from the outset how really crappy this entire experience would have been, would I still have done it, even factoring in knowing how statistically unlikely having a good therapeutic response was going to be?  Yes, absolutely.  It was worth the risk, and in my opinion, I really had nothing to lose.  I wasn't going to get better by doing nothing, so what were my options?

So here we are, 13 months later, and after a little trip down memory lane, I have to say, it's been an interesting time.  But I can pretty much say that about all my life, especially my life since February, 1983, when on my first visit to San Francisco I made a very poor judgment call.  I'm just lucky that I've survived the consequences of that decision, and rather than blaming the rest of my life on it, I used it to grow.  Allegedly.




Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.runnymedesilkys.com.

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Lucky Me, Part 2

 I walked into the hospital that sunny afternoon feeling a very mixed up mess of emotions: gratitude, relief, anxiety, anticipation, even some optimism, fear, sadness and most of all, guilt. At that point I still couldn't let go of blaming myself, feeling that the guilt was some kind of worthy punishment for my unforgivable negligence in following my own protocol.

I check in with the receptionist, and tell her I'm here to pick up Danny. "Oh, well have a seat, it's going to take awhile, there is a lot to put together: paperwork, medications, instructions. That will probably take 45 minutes or so". Ugh; I thought that was why Rick told me to come a couple of hours after he talked to me, so they could get it all together. I'm ready to bitch about it, then I just lump it back down my throat. I remember how signals get crossed in hospitals all the time. And in the grand scheme of things, I'm tickled pink that Danny is still alive. Sidebar: If you, like me, are a word/language geek, and wonder where some of these idioms (like tickled pink) derived from, Google it; it's fascinating. Here is the story on tickled pink: http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/tickled-pink.html.

So I sit. Luckily, I brought a book to read so I nosed my head down into Huck Finn and waited. Have you ever noticed that the more you try to look busy to avoid conversation with a stranger or someone you know, but that you don't particularly want to talk with, the more they are likely to try? Of course it happened. But it was a sweet lady in her 60's. Somehow I let it slip about what happened to Danny, and after that, it knew I couldn't extract myself until she was good and ready to stop asking questions. Damn.

At the precise moment that my patience was just on the verge of starting to wear thin (but I'm putting up a good front), they came and got me and shuffled me into an exam room. Huzzah, free at last. Rick came in without Danny at first and proceeded to tell me that although he was continuing to improve, he was still very listless. He was, however, eating a little if they spoonfed him baby food and drinking water. He could walk, but with the combination of the narcotics for the pain and the extent of his injuries, he was very unstable on his feet. I'm getting a little antsy as I hear more negative news, but then he stops and says he is going to go get Danny. He comes back, Danny walking next to him, slowly and wobbly, but walking. The last time I saw him he was so shocky that he didn't even recognize me or respond to me. I take a deep breath and then look at him and say "Well hello, little Doodle Doo" (a nickname, don't ask where it came from), he looks at me, looking a little drugged out, but comes over and wags his tail, a couple of side to side wags. That alone almost made me cry, but I just knelt down and kept sweet-talking him, my eyes fully welled up and the waterworks ready to open up.

I need to stop here and tell you that ever since Ken died I cry, a lot; sometimes more over things that make me happy, and most of the time over things that make me melancholy. At first I found it annoying and embarrassing in public, but then I let go of my self-consciousness and let 'er rip. What this made me realize is that before Ken died, it took a lot to make me cry. Even as a child, I rarely cried when injured or sad. My mother says that as a baby I didn't even cry much. I was very active and interested in my surroundings, but I rarely cried, unless it was something serious. I don't know if it's my Montana upbringing and being a part of the "boys don't cry" generation, or if I was just a bit dead inside, but since then, it doesn't take much. Those 2 days after the wreck, I cried at everything. I made a delicious breakfast, and cried about it. Something went wrong with the drip irrigation system I put in and I cried about it. A hokey commercial came on, I cried about it. The Giants won a game or a player I like made a really spectacular play, and again, I cried. If anything in my daily life had the smallest of bumps in the road, the waterworks would open up. It was, acutally, downright comical when I think about now, with some distance. As I am writing this text, now 5 weeks and 2 days post-accident, I'm still pretty hair-trigger for crying, but whatever the stimulus is now, it's at least a slightly more appropriate response to the triggering event. Sometime in the prior week I watched an encore broadcast of Oakland A's pitcher Dallas Braden pitching a perfect game: for you non baseball geeks, a perfect game is recorded to the pitcher, not the rest of his team, though they are integral to him getting one. A perfect game is no runs, no hits, no errors, and no walks issued. 27 batters up, 27 batters down, none of them reach base, and the pitcher's team commits no defensive errors behind him. What even made this perfect game even more spectacular was that it was done against the team that at the time (and still now actually) had the best record in the major leagues: The Tampa Bay Devil Rays. To make it even more incredible, the A's are in the American League. In the American League, the pitcher doesn't have to hit; that place in the batting order goes to the designated hitter, or as us National Leaguers like to call the position, The Designated Sissy. The DH is generally someone off the bench, maybe not the best defensive player, usually older, but they can still crush the ball out of the yard. They are there purely to produce runs, preferably home runs. Pitchers, at least historically, are notoriously horrid pitchers. My Giants are lucky to have 2, maybe 3 starting pitches that are certifiably legit hitters, and the other 2 are at least good bunters. Pitching is a full-time occupation as one develops and maintains their craft, so in the process, they have to let something slide, and the most innocuous thing to let go is one's batting practice and coaching sessions with the batting coach. The best hitting batters are usually ones drafted out of college, in my observation. In college, everyone has to hit, and they are expected to be productive. Kids that are drafted into the farm system straight of high school, not so much. The pros get them and get straight to the task of turning them into great pictures, while not necessarily trying to make them good all-around productive players. I'm not sure that is so much of a good thing, but it is what it is.

Now even if you're almost completely disinterested in the game and I've nearly put you to sleep at this point, I really doubt that you could have watched the 9th inning of that game and not gotten a little choked up. Me? By the time they got to the 9th inning, my face was drenched. The last play, a ground ball hit to the shortstop, relayed to the first baseman, and the runner thrown out at first, a play known as a 6-3, got turned, and I got going even more prolifically. Mind you, this was not an easy 6-3. There are a number of things that can make the play more difficult: the shortstop might catch it on a funky hop, they need to reset their body to throw, their throw to 1st base might be offline, or a combination of factors could be involved, but despite it being very much not a routine 6-3, they turned the play. Dallas went jumping off the mound like a 5 year old, and when his catcher got to him and went to give him a hug, Dallas jumped up in his arms and wrapped his legs around the catcher. Then he looks up into the stands. His grandmother, who raised him, happened to have come to the game that day; they live out in Stockton, about 1 1/2 hours away, and at the start of the 9th they brought her down to just above the dugout. Dallas saw her, started to sob even harder as she ran over to him, grabbed him, and hugged him as tightly as she could, all the while sobbing into his uni. There were cameras and microphones right there, inches away of course, and you could hear him and her sobbing in each other's arms. I haven't got you yet? Well here is my trump card: The game happened on Mother's Day. As I write this now, tears are running down my cheeks and my eyes are fully welled up. As for me, at that moment, I was crying, actually sobbing out loud, alone thankfully except for the non-judgmental dogs, with tears almost shooting out of my eyes. Seriously, I was so over the top I couldn't see where the top was anymore. This is what happens when I watch something like this a full four weeks after the best dog I've ever had nearly gets killed. And this is the second time that I had watched it, to make it even more ridiculous. That darned dog of mine owns my heart, and it took a lesser love of mine, baseball, to bring it home even more clearly.

I managed to hold it together, choke back the tears, and just stayed down on the floor, stroking Danny and talking to him quietly. It was so amazing to see this dog that I had scooped off the pavement 72 hours earlier, nearly dead, to be walking and wagging his tail when he saw me. Rick continued talking, telling me that they had kept him on the IV's until the last possible minute in order to make sure that he was well-hydrated and also so that they could continue to give him the Fentanyl (IV narcotic) as long as possible. He told me that they had removed his urinary catheter, and there had been no incontinence, so it appeared that we had dodged the bullet on the possible spinal cord injury. He had not pooped yet, but he had only started eating that morning, so he was almost 72 hours without food in the meantime. I was told to try to small but frequent feedings, and as a last resort, baby food meat is usually the last thing a dog will eat, which makes sense, since to me it smells about halfway between dog and human food, it's seasoned with salt (dog food isn't), and it's rich. Stinky and rich food, doggy heaven.

I put a lead on Danny, grabbed all of his hospital records, paid the bill, took copies of all his X-rays, got the medications and headed out. As soon as we got out the door, Danny stopped, he had to pee. And pee he did, a veritable river of it. Since his urethra had been irritated from the catheter, I could see a little blood in the urine, which I knew was normal from working in hospitals. The irritation also had cut his urine stream down to a trickle; a very slow trickle, so this pee session went on for proabably about 3 minutes. I put him in the car and we drove home. Well, not directly home. I have to admit with some embarrassment that I've not fully lost my taste for fast food, in spite of the amount of pontification I've spewed as of late, giving inventory of the many evils it wreaks upon the human race and the planet; nutritionally, ethically, ecologically, etc.. My fast food guilty pleasure is Taco Bell, and I knew that there was one about another quarter mile down Monument Blvd. (the street the hospital is on), so I ran for the border. My tastes are simple when it comes to Chez Bell, and that meant a couple of crispy tacos, a bean burrito (which also kind of smells like wet dog food, oddly enough) and a Coke. And then I head home.

We get home. I have all the other dogs in the dog room already, so I bring him in to the house, take him outside in case he needs to relieve himself again, and we have another marathon pee session. I then take him in, put him in his pen, and he immediately lies down and falls to sleep. He is really very listless. He is obviously Danny, but so not the real Danny, that anyone who had ever met him would have figured it out in a minute, if it took even that long. He had already wasted most of his muscle mass, especially notable in his rear legs. Before the accident, Danny was the most muscular dog I've ever owned, and all of my dogs have always been pretty lean, mean and cut. Danny was particularly so; his legs looked like Lance Armstrong's, and if you ever tried to get him to do anything that he didn't want to do, you quickly found out how much strength a 24 lb. dog could have. Plus, his athleticism and endurance were unblievable: I have a 7 foot long sofa in the family room. All the dogs can jump up onto it over the arms, about 36 inches. Mini Me can jump onto it over the backside, at least 4 feet. When I bring the dogs into the house, they would almost always enter through the sliding door from the back yard into the family room or my bedroom. In the family room, one end of the sofa is about 4-5 feet from the door. Danny wouldn't jump onto the sofa, he would hurdle it, from end to end and never touch a toe to it. That is 36 inches vertically and 84 inches horizontally. The way I'm feeling now from the drugs, I think it's doubtful that I could long jump 7 feet. When I was a kid, yeah, but not now, and even as a kid, I was 70 inches tall (still am). Danny is 17 inches tall. Even if I stood him straight up on his hind legs, I'm pretty sure that he's well shy of 48 inches in height. That dog was an amazing athlete, and on top of his speed and strength, he had incredible stamina and unbelievable speed and reflexes.

The dog that I brought home that day reminded me of a very elderly Basenji. Plus, he was in terrible pain from both the abdominal surgery and the hip and sacral fractures. He could get up and move around slowly, but every time that he got up, and this went on for a couple of weeks, he would scream in pain and he walked very tentatively. Because of the location of the sacral fracture, for the first 2 weeks he would almost never bear any weight on the left leg. That was pretty weird, even the vet thought so, because the car hit him on his right side, and there were 2 hip fractures on that side. Just goes to show - the size of and the amount of normal stress a specific bone takes does not correlate to the amount of pain it will induce when fractured. I've broken toes twice, that is my extent of bone fractures in my lifetime. It was always a little toe, and at the time the fracture occurred (stubbing my toe in a dark bedroom both times), the pain was so excruciating I thought I was going to pass out, and I am no sissy about pain. I can take a lot before it breaks me.

But back to Danny, because this story is about him; it's not always all about me: I got him settled into his little hospital pen in front of the sofa and went and got some canned dog food (100% chicken meat) to see if he would eat it. Nope. So then I went and got one of the jars of baby food that I had bought at the store right before I went to get him. I got meat only: Chicken, turkey, beef and ham. I got a jar of beef, opened it and stuck in under his nose. He ate it right away. Maybe only 3 or 4 good licks, about 2 ounces at most, but he did eat. I figured that he was just home, no need to go and push him right from the get-go, so I left it at that. I then brought a small bowl of water over and stuck it under his nose. He drank maybe 3 or 4 ounces, and that was it. He then turned away and limped slowly into the kennel at the far end of the pen, lay down and shut his eyes. I figured that was pretty clear body language, so I let him be for a few hours.

A few hours later I tried the same thing with the food: no interest. I had brought a spoon with me, so I tried to spoon feed him and it worked. He managed to finish the remaining half of the jar of beef. I gave him the water, he drank, and again, went back to his kennel and went back to sleep. Those first few days, I doubt that more then 30 minutes elapsed between the times that I would check on him. I was not used to having him so quiet and it freaked me out. Invariably, as long as he was breathing, if he was sleeping I left him alone. During the first 4 weeks, I barely left the family room. I slept on the sofa, and if I left the house, it was never for more than an hour, and usually it was just to get some groceries.

The next time he woke up he came over to the edge of the pen closest to me (I was on the couch) and just stared at me intently. I realized that he hadn't gone to the bathroom in a good 6 hours or so; the last time I took him out was when we first got home. I reached over and went to lift him over the pen, and got the most bone-chilling, heart-wrenching scream with his head a few inches away from the ear. Not only did it make me cry to know he was in that much pain, it also made that ear ring for a good 30 minutes. After that I remembered to keep my ear away from his head whenever I was picking him up. We went out to the yard, and I set him down in the grass, front legs first. Barely a whimper. This was the way I continued let him out of my arms for a long time. I even sometimes still do it to this day (June 25, by the way), more out of habit, but it can't hurt and might help minimize the stress on his rear. He walked a few steps and started peeing...and peeing...and peeing. It was like when I first pottied him in front of the hospital on our way home. It went on for a good minute or more. I knew he had a lot of fluid in him; mostly because he looked thick, almost fat, and I knew that after 3+ days of not eating that it was not that he was chunky, he was just tanked up; so much so that between that and the trauma from the accident, water was going where it wasn't supposed to be due to leaky capillaries (known as third-spacing in medical vernacular). Those smallest of blood vessels were damaged and letting water leak out of the blood and into the surrounding tissue. I picked him up, but super gingerly this time, and he let out a little yelp, but it was much better than a few minutes ago. I actually noticed that for the first 3 weeks or so, he would always have a lot more pain when trying to stand or when being picked up after a period of rest than he was after moving around for a bit, which made perfect sense, when I've got an injury getting up to move is almost always when the pain is worst. I got him back inside, set him slowly down into the pen and went and got a can of the chicken baby food. I took it over to him and he turned his nose up. I got a spoon and tried to get him to lick the food off of the spoon, but he wasn't having it. So I went over, got another jar of the beef and took it over. As soon as I put hit under his nose, he took some licks, and ate about half of the jar. I tried to spoon-feed the rest of the jar to him but he wasn't having it. He then took about a 4 ounce drink of water and laid down again. It was getting late, it had to be about 11 pm by now, so I left him alone for the night. I set my phone to alarm every hour to wake me up to check on him, only to find that unnecessary, since I uncannily seemed to wake up a few minutes before it alarmed every time. He slept through the night, and looked about as comfortable as I expected he could be, but that was ok. My boy was home now, and I just felt in my heart that things were going to be fine.

On Saturday morning at around 6:00am, I decided to get up, so I folded the comforter and sheet I was using on the sofa, put them away, and then took care of the dogs. That first night, I had left all the Silkys to sleep in the dog room, loose. It's something that I've had to do on a rare occasion and they do fine with it. They were excited to see me, since they were used to sleeping in their kennels next to my bed and having me within eye and earshot all night. I fed them, cleaned up the room, cleaned out the dog run and then went in to take care of Danny, who was still sleeping until I went over and called his name. He awakened, slowly got up, with a lot of effort and a couple of really shrill screams from pain. By the way, I need to back up here, lest you think I was making him tough it out through the pain: I was giving Danny the maximum dose of a strong veterinary narcotic every 6 hours on the nose, the most frequently that was safe. So the pain that I was seeing was under a heavy cloud of sedation.

I got him up, took him out to the lawn to go to the bathroom, and he urinated and was ready to go back in. I tried to feed him, and he wasn't interested, turning his nose at whatever I offered him. He did drink and actually drank a pretty good amount. I noticed that he was looking much more bloated than the night before, but I tried to convince myself that this was expected with his injuries and not worrisome. If you stood over the top of him and looked down, it was kind of like looking at a snake that had just eaten a rat, with a pronounced bulging out in the center of his body. Throughout the rest of the day I tried to get him to eat, to no avail. I called the hospital and asked to speak to the vet on-call, who happened to be Matt, and I told him what was going on. By this time, he was getting very urpy, belching almost constantly, and a few times he vomited up the water that was in his stomach. Matt said that despite how tanked he looked, he may still be dehyrated, and instructed me to give Danny 200cc of IV fluid subcutaneously (under the skin, not in a blood vein). He said if I had any concern whatsoever to call him. He told me that he was on until 8pm and that Ben would be taking over for the night when he left. It was then about 3 pm. For the next few hours things stayed the same. I called Matt, and told him everything, injecting that if he was manageable at home that I would rather deal with it here. That is probably the stupidest thing I had said in longer than I could remember. Matt said I could give him another 100cc of fluid, and that if he wasn't doing any better I should probably bring him back in, at least for them to give him an exam. Despite a nagging feeling that my decision might not be the wisest one I ever made, I continued to try to manage him myself. About 7 pm, after he once again vomited up water that he had just drunk, he looked restless, so I took him out to go to the bathroom. I looked down at his urine stream and it was bright fluorescent yellow: RED ALERT. I looked in his eyes, and the whites weren't; they were the same bright yellow. That was it, the last straw: I decided that we were going back to the hospital immediately. I called Matt first to let him know that we were coming in, packed Danny up and headed out the door.

I arrived at the hospital in about 10 minutes, went to the receptionist window, and she sent us directly into an exam room. In no more than a couple of Minutes, Matt came into the room. He looked at him, shook his head in the way that you don't like to see a doctor shake their head and said only "Oh, Danny." I then told him what had transpired since I took him home the afternoon before. I was getting ready to tell him about the jaundice when he said something about it first. I also told him about the belching and vomiting, and that he hadn't eaten. I told him how dehydrated he seemed to be in spite of sub-Q fluids: his skin turgor (elasticity) was terrible and his mucous membranes in his mouth were bone dry. I told him that I was thinking that he was third-spacing the fluids and he agreed. We went over the list of prombles that he thought were most worrisome: his listlessness, jaundice, vomiting and gas, and dehydration. They needed to get him rehydrated with IV fluids, check his bloodwork, probably do an abdominal ultrasound to hopefully see what was going on with his liver and his digestive system. It was pretty obivous that he needed to say, so I didn't even ask. He told me that he would be going off shift in about an hour, but that Ben was going to be in overnight, and I would probably hear from him sometime between 9 and 10 pm. I left, depressed and disheartened. On the drive home the waterworks started, and I figured, screw the other people around, I'm just going to cry right now until I'm done. That ended up being the rest of the drive home. I got in the house, fed the dogs, sat on the couch and just looked at the 4 walls. I'm not sure how long this went on, I really lost track of time. At some point the phone rang, and as I suspected it was the hospital. Ben was on the other end of the line. He told me that they had him back on IV's and his heart rate had come down, so his hydration was probably improving. They did a chest X-ray and it showed that he had some fluid in his right lung. They had run blood work, and things weren't too bad, other than his bilirubin, which was 24. A normal bilirubin level is 0.2 - 1.5. When I had Hepatitis A a couple of years ago, mine peaked at 8 and I looked like a pumpkin. They had done an abdominal ultrasound, and nothing was really standing out. They were fairly certain that he had a bile duct obstruction; that was the only logical explanation for such a rapid spike, but on ultrasound everything looked absolutely normal. Nothing else they saw in his GI tract was explaining it, or giving any explanation for his stomach shutting down. He then told me that they were going to continue hydrating him and monitoring him closely, plus they were going to start him on a couple of gastric motility drugs to see if they could get his gut going. If nothing changed he told me to not expect to hear from him until the next morning.

The next morning the phone rang, and it was Ben. He told me that there weren't really any notable changes overnight. They were continuing to try to get him to eat and drink, and he would drink, but then later on would vomit all the water back up. He told me that he maybe looked slightly better, but if so, it wasn't by much. This is how things went on for pretty much the next 4 days. At one time, he would look better. 6 hours later he would look worse. At one point they gave him another blood transfusion. His red cell count was borderline as to whether or not he needed it, but he still had half a unit from the transfusion a week ago.

Thursday pretty much sucked. I got a call in the morning, and it was Rick. He told me that they had been completely stymied by his bilirubin, which that morning actually hit its peak level of 27, He had spoken to the GI specialist at the specialty clinic next door, and she had looked at everything, and was still convinced that he had a bile duct obstruction. He also had called UC Davis (the vet school) and spoken to a couple of specialists there, and they said the same thing; that this was reading like a bile duct obstruction, in spite of what diagnostic tests (ultrasound and X-rays) were showing. The intensivist at UC recommended that if they couldn't figure out what was going on, that they should consider doing an exploratory surgery. That was really the only way to see for sure what was going on inside. Rick told me that he was first going to have a board-certified radiologist come in and do another ultrasound, which they ended up doing at some time in the early afternoon. At about 5 pm I got a call from Rick: He told me that they did do the ultrasound and nothing new was showing up. He then told me that they had done a repeat chest X-ray a few minutes ago, and they now had an answer: On film they were now seeing a hernia of his diaphragm on the right side, and that his stomach, duodenum and biliary duct (which dumps the bile into the duodenum when things are working right) had all slipped through the hole and were up in his lung cavity; it appeared that the bile duct was kinked up at the duodenal junction, and the stomach was kinked off at that spot as well . He said that this would explain both his inability to empty his stomach, and the reason for his astronomical bilirubin values. He explained that from the film, it looked like the very lateral edge of his diaphragm had sustained some very severe damage at the time of the accident, but it took a week for the muscle tissue to become necrotic (die), which then allowed for an opening between the lung cavity and the abdominal cavity. He said because it appeared to be so far off to the lateral edge of the diaphragm, it hadn't impaired his breathing. He then told me that Danny needed surgery, and he wanted to do it as soon as possible, but he needed my consent. He also told me that although he does a lot of surgery and had been a vet for 30 years, he still wanted to have a board-certified surgeon come in and do the surgery; Danny just had too much going on, and with all his complicated issues he just felt the specialist was the way to go. He was going to call him in as soon as he had my ok. I of course gave it, and hung up the phone; it was around 5pm.

About 10pm I got a phone call, of course it was from the hospital. It was Rick, and his voice sounded far more upbeat than I had ever heard it. He told me that they got in, and things at the site of the hernia looked pretty much as they expected it to, so they moved the stomach and small intestine back down into the abdominal cavity. They then looked thoroughly around in his abdomen to see if there was any other trauma that they had missed. He said that the rest of his gut looked remarkably healthy, and he was very optimistic that he would recover quickly now that things were back where they bolonged. He told me to go to bed, and he would call me in the morning with an update.

At about 8am on Friday Rick called to tell me that Danny was recovering from surgery and doing remarkably well. Overnight his bilirubin had dropped from 25 to 4, and he was starting to eat and drink, and no belching or vomiting so far. He then told me that they wanted to watch him for at least another full day, but if things continued to improve as they had overnight, that he might possibly come home on Saturday. I got an update later that evening, around 10, and they told me that he had been doing well; he was getting up and walking around slowly, he was eating a little bit and drinking and still keeping it down. His bilirubin was now down to 2, and h seemed to be in a fair amount of pain, so they were keeping him pretty well narcotized. Rick told me that he actually felt that he was ready to come home today, and I could come and get him anytime. I told him I would be there in an hour. So once again I made sure that his hospital suite in the family room was all set up, I fed the other dogs and the cat and got everybody settled in and headed off to bring Danny home.

When they brought Danny to me in the exam room, his tail started to wag immediately. He still looked pretty sad, more like a 10 year old Basenji than like a 2 year old, but he looked 10 times better than he had 8 days ago when I brought him home the first time. I gathered up Danny, his meds, his paperwork and headed out. He actually walked at a pretty brisk clip as we were leaving and I can't say that I blame him. Had it been me I would have wanted to get out of there and go home myself. He got outside, took a pee, and I picked him up gingerly and put him in the car. He let out a little yelp, but nothing that made me too jumpy.

After what turned out to be his final return home, recovery was slow and steady, but he never took a backwards step. The first week the biggest problems were pain management and nutrition. For the pain he continued to take the Tramadol 4 times a day for about the first 5-7 days. Every time that he stood up from lying down, he would yelp. If I would pick him up to lift him out of the pen, he would yelp, and it was a very shrill yelp, so it certainly got my attention. He started eating the day he got home, and never refused to eat again. He would not eat a lot at the beginning, and for the first 5 days or so, he would only eat baby food, off of a spoon. A couple of times I would put a bowl of kibble in, and the first time he actually ate it, the second time, not. After about another 5 days, I was able to transition him over from baby food to wet dog food, and it seemed that the stinkier it was the better. After another 4=5 days, I was able to transition him back onto his kibble, and though it took him another week or so to snarf it down like he used to do, he would eventually eat a full portion over a couple of hours. Note: When you have a multi-dog household, you can't just leave dog food lying around and let them graze at their leisure. That is, unless you like breaking up fights. My dogs are fed twice a day, in their kennels. The rule is, ignore your food for 5 minutes and I take it away. Thus, all my dogs eat quickly. I also can tell faster if one is sick, because if they snub the food at a feeding, usually something is wrong, so that is a a good diagnostic tool. Within less than another week, he was eating at a normal pace again.

The incision healed quickly and 8 days after surgery, I removed the staples, cleaned up the incision, and everything looked great. He was still moving slowly, but at least a little better each day. By this time, the most notable thing that would tell you that he was not normal yet was his muscle tone. His rear leg muscles were completely atrophied and his gait was still pretty unsteady. By about 3 weeks after coming home, I was finally starting to see a little improvement in his muscle tone. What was really the most positive and obvious change, however, was in his personality. Every day, his tail would wag a little more exuberantly every time I talked to him. He was now actually wanting to come out of the kennel and walk around just about the time that his period of cage confinement was up; between 6 and 7 weeks post-injury. Sometime around week 5-6, he started to yodel (the joyful= melodic howl that some Basenjis make when they're happy. Danny was a big-time yodeler before the accident, definitely the most prolific one I ever owned, and I was continually praying that his happy go lucky temperament and his yodel would come back. I knew that if he was yodeling, that meant that to him, life was good.

By week 7 I started to let him hang out with the pack for more extended periods of time; up to a couple of hours. So here we are now, at, 8 weeks and 2 days after the accident. Other than a still rather undermuscled rear, you would have absolutely no idea what this wonderful dog went through. Last night he was having a big time wrestling match with Mini Me, my youngest Silky and his BFF. He got so wound up that he tried to launch himself over my body and flew off the couch, and in the process nearly made me lose my dinner from digging his feet into my abdomen as he jumped. He is full-time back with the pack, and very happily so. He is yoldeling at least as much, if not more than before the accident. His tail never stops wagging and once again, Danny wakes up every morning like today is going to be the best day he ever had. This last Sunday, my friend Patti came by with her 5 month old Basenji puppies, 2 girls, and had a play date with Danny. He was wonderful, other than trying to hump the little girl Frani every few minutes, but he played with them, and it was obvious that he loved having some of his own kind around. After they left, he was pooped and took a nap, but once he woke up, it was like old Danny was back. He has quit listening to me, ignores all commands and does pretty much exactly what he isn't supposed to - like most Basenjis, and I couldn't be happier.

I really dodged a bullet on this one. The Silkys were unscathed when they got out. Danny got hit, hard enough that it made his survival a surprise, and yet, I have him back. My wallet is about $17,000.00 leaner, but no money was ever better spent. He got incredible care. He was in the hospital for a total of 11 days between the 2 admissions. He had major abdominal surgery, multiple ultrasounds and X-rays and at least daily bloodwork, most days more than once. He had ICU-level care, and the progress notes in my copy of the medical records showed that it was indeed very intensive nursing care. They never gave up on Danny, and fought to the end to figure out what was wrong. They gave me back my dog and made it possible for me to forgive myself and to smile again.  Not so lucky Danny. Lucky lucky me.

(Danny, 4 weeks after the accident)

Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.runnymedesilkys.com.

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Lucky Me, Part 1

That statement can both be read as cutting and deeply sarcastic, or it can be taken at face value; both would be accurate.

Tuesday May 4: This was really no different from most recent days: I had spent some time working in the garden, both in front of and in back of the house. At about 4pm, I was setting myself down to watch the Giants game. At about 4:30 there was a loud knock and my doorbell ringing. "Crap", I think to myself "just as the game is starting". I pause the game and go to answer the door.

On my front step is one of the contractors who has been working on my neighbor's house. He asks me: "you have dogs, right?" That is a question that you never want to hear from someone at your door. My heart immediately sank. I said "yes", and he then said "I think they got out, and one of them has been hit by a car". Danny. I knew it immediately, there was no doubt in my mind. Why I knew I can't tell you, I just knew.

At this point I need to backtrack a bit and describe where my house is situated: I live on a small 5 house court. The north side of my house borders a very busy town road (between 2 freeways and it connects to 3 towns). Not only is this a very busy road, but 4:30 pm is right in the thick of rush hour. The speed limit is 35 mph, and thank God, most often people do obey the speed limit.

I immediately went running out the door, in socks, didn't bother to put on shoes. I turned the corner onto Geary, and a block down I saw a crowd around a small red dog in the road. I could tell immediately that it was Danny, even though my vision isn't so great right now. As I was running past one of my neighbors (who I have only met once before, when I found a stray in my cul de sac); he started following me and asked "Do you also have 2 Yorkshire Terriers?" "Yes", I said, he had them in his garage, he told me, I could come get them later, that they had gotten across the road without getting hit (unbelievable!). He said that one was wearing a collar with the name Hillary on it and the other one was also a girl. That was Mini, I told him. I then had a moment of clarity, and screamed out "Wait! I have 3 Silkys, there is a boy named Bobby" He assured me that he and the other neighbors would look for him while I took care of Danny.

When I got to him, there was a small crowd around him. He was holding his head up weakly, in a daze, obviously in serious shock, and he didn't even acknowledge me when I called his name. I reached down to scoop him up, and the woman that was driving the car that hit him shouted "Wait, you don't know if his spinal cord is damaged." I told her that I realized that, that I was also an RN, and I could tell that if I didn't get him to the vet immediately he wasn't going to make it. I wasn't able to process this until the next day, but I felt so sorry for this lady. She obviously cared or she wouldn't have stopped, and I could see the horror in her eyes. If I knew how to find her I would apologize to her for having put her in the position to have to deal with this; it was unfair, and it was my fault. But that is water under the bridge, I have no idea who she is, and the bell can't be unrung. I do hope, however, that in some way she was able to deal with what happened. I also hope that somehow the universe lets her know how much I appreciate that she stopped and tried to do something to help while they were trying to find Danny's owner. By the way, that was major screw-up #2 in the situation: I didn't have Danny's collar on him, so there was no identification. None of my dogs are running around sans collar any more. I don't care if they are locked up in their kennels with three more locked doors before the street. This incident proves that even with all the appropriate precautions, all it takes is one human error to topple the house of cards. Had somebody not figured he was mine and come knocking at the door, well...it's an outcome I don't even want to picture.

I scooped Danny up, ran back to the house and put him in the van. Thank God I had left a big fluffy comforter in there, it was perfect. I ran in the house, grabbed my shoes and keys and went running out the door. Then I had a single moment of clarity, and ran to the dog room (which I built into part of the garage) to see if there was any chance Bobby was there. I couldn't believe it, he was. It makes sense actually, Bobby is pretty much of a chicken and not prone to running off on a whim. He was more than happy to stay put. So I locked the gate that I had so stupidly left open, closed the dog door to the run just for good measure, so that he was locked in a room until I got home, and then ran out the door to the car.

I didn't have enough clarity to remember to go tell the neighbor that I found Bobby, and he wasn't standing out there when I came out anyway, and I was losing Danny fast. Luckily, there is an emergency clinic 3 miles from my house, and I've been there once before, so I bypassed the regular vet that I use out there, who is one mile from my house and went straight to the emergency hospital. It was almost 5:00 anyway, and since the regular vet didn't have overnight staff, they would have likely sent me there anyway, if they could get him stabilized.

I head off, and of course the traffic is terrible, barely going the speed limit. I get on the freeway, and it's moving well, but my exit is only a mile from where I entered the freeway. I exit the freeway, which drops me onto the street that the emergency hospital is on. This street is a major thoroughfare, and one not adapted to the traffic out here. I goes from one lane to two, to three, back to two...you get the idea. It was nearly at a standstill. The entire time from when I got in the car, I had been talking non-stop, yelling actually, at Danny, just trying to keep him conscious, telling him (me) that he would be ok, he just needed to hang in. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and it was getting worse every minute. The hospital is only about a mile after you get off the freeway, thank God. It easily felt like it took an hour, but it was probably about 7 minutes or so (it would normally take no more than 2 minutes).

I 2-wheeled it around the corner into the parking lot, and shot out of the van like I had been shot out of a cannon. I picked Danny up off the floor in the back, and went running to the door. There was an older lady holding a 900 year old Pomeranian in front of me, and I'm thinking "crap, I need to just run around her". The minute that thought hits my head, she looks at me, grabs the door, and shooshes me in. I didn't know this at the time, but she was the receptionist, and though her old dog was not in the best of shape, he just came to work with her. After we get through the door, before I can say a single word, she unlocks the door back to the hospital area and sends me through. The minute I cross through the door, there is a vet tech waiting for me, like they knew I was coming. She grabbed Danny from me, and before she disappeared, all I could get out was "He was hit by a car!" I didn't need to tell her that, probably; she obviously knew that it was life or death, and with a young dog, more often than not if it's life or death, it's an HBC injury.

The receptionist tells me to go wait in the waiting area and in a few minutes a vet will be out to talk to me after he assesses the situation. I told her that my neighbors had 2 of my dogs in their garage, and they were looking for a 3rd, and I asked if I could please go tell them that I found the dog and also get the girls. She told me "no, you need to wait". I'm a little pissed at her actually, so I say, I'll leave a credit card with her (which I had actually forgot to pick up when I left the house), and she still insisted "no". I was getting really perturbed with her, and I think about just bolting and then coming back, but a cooler part of my mind prevailed and I stayed put. I was worried for my poor neighbors, looking for a not lost dog, but then I remind myself that I might be losing the dog I have here. I sat for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than 20 minutes. I'm called back to an exam room, and the vet comes in, and the look in his face is one that, from being a nurse myself, is the face that you don't want to see.

He tells me that when they got Danny back there, he wasn't breathing. They put a breathing tube in him and were able to resuscitate him, but he was in severe shock, his blood pressure was almost too low to measure and he was not getting adequately oxygenated. By the road rash on the left side of his head, they were able to tell that he had been impacted on his right side. "Crap", I think to myself. "That's the liver, the stomach, pancreas, spleen and left lung". Not good, not good at all. He then tells me that with the force of the impact, he was very concerned about his spinal cord. He was not moving his rear extremities, had no pain response and was holding his right front leg stiff and extended straight out. He told me that considering the amount of shock, he really couldn't assess neurological damage for hours, even up to a couple of days. Then there was all the possible organ damage. I told him I was an RN, he could shorthand it, which he did, and then told me about all the possible organ damage, most of which I had already thought of. Then he told me "there is also a very strong likelihood of both spinal cord and hip injuries, possibly very serious, but until we can get him stabilized enough to shoot some X-rays there is really no way to tell".

Then he tells me "you have a few options here. The first one is the one that you don't want to talk about, and I'm certainly not suggesting it is what you should to, but I have to give you that option. Or we can treat him, try to save him and then assess injuries, likelihood of recovery and see if there are ones that we can't do anything about, and you then may still be back at the first choice". Then he says "right now, considering that I don't have that much information to work with, I'm going to tell you that at best we're looking at a prognosis of 50/50 that he can recover. It helps that he is young and was healthy, but still, the injuries appear to be very critical, and that is how I would list his status now: Critical." He then says "if you decide to have us try to save him, even in the best case scenario it's going to be expensive, likely very expensive, so consider that as well." With no hesitation I tell him "save my dog". He then tells me that he is going to write up an initial estimate that I will need to sign and leave a deposit on. The estimate would have minimum and maximum likely costs listed, and the deposit would be in the amount of the low estimate. He then told me that he should have more information in 3-4 hours, and he would call me back then. Once more, I said "save my dog", and he nodded his head and went back into the hospital area.

I walked out of the exam room and up to the receptionist's desk, and before I could say anything she told me "you need to wait for the estimate from the Doctor, it should only be a few minutes, but you need to sign it and leave the deposit". I then tell her that I left my wallet at home, which I had realized a few minutes earlier, and again asked "can I please go deal with my other dogs and come back? I'll be less than 30 minutes, and you have my verbal authorization". She tells me "no, your other dogs are safe, just wait it won't be that long". Arrgh! I want to sock her, but I suck it back, and just remind myself that they must have a reason for the way they do things, and she was right anyway, my dogs were safe. It gave me enough time to realize that she wasn't the problem, I was, and the real problem was just me being irrational. I remembered how many times I had to be her when I was still working in the ICU, and had to occasionally gently snap people back to reality and get them to calm down and breathe. Then I look at her, and think "she is a really sweet lady, and she obviously loves that decrepit old dog of hers. I've been there with old decrepit dogs myself, and I know how endearing they are. So I sit and wait.

In about another 20 minutes (which seemed like hours), she called me to the desk and gave me the estimate. The low estimate was about $2500 and the high estimate was about $4800. I actually thought that wasn't that bad, and then she told me that the estimate was for the first 24 hours. "Crap", I think, "if he makes it, this is going to me more than a 24 hour hospitalization". Then I tell myself maybe not, then I realize that is a daydream, then I just tell my racing mind to shut up. I sign the paperwork, tell her that I'll call her back with the credit card number when I get home, which she says is fine, and I thank her and leave. I'm so glad I gave myself that little reality check before I went off on her. I'm sure she was used to it happening, considering all the crisis they deal with, but there was no need for me to do it. From that moment on, I will tell you that I can say nothing but positive things about everyone at the hospital, that place is amazing. I had taken Hillary there 2 years ago when she went into labor distress with her first litter, and they were really good and I liked all of them, but in comparison to this situation, that was nothing. Scary, but I didn't have the dread that I had this time.

I got back into the car, and my head flooded with emotions. I thought I was going to cry, pass out, throw up or some combination of the three. I just took a breath and drove back home. I really don't remember that drive, as is the case for a lot of the next couple of days. I got home and ran across the street, and went to knock on the first door. No answer; crap. I then turn around, and the guy next door is coming up. He says "you're the guy with the dogs, right?" I tell him yes, and he tells me "I'm sorry, but we couldn't find your other dog". I apologized and told him that I found him at the house, but I wasn't able to come back until now, that they wouldn't let me leave the hospital and I wasn't going to go look for him before taking Danny in. He says no problem, he is just glad that I found the dog. He then asks how Danny is doing. I can barely mumble "not good, but I won't know more for a few hours". We go to his garage, he opens the door, and I pick up the girls. They were a little wigged out, something I'm sure I didn't make any better, but I thanked him and left. The last thing he said was "good luck with your other dog, I hope he recovers". I thank him, and head home with the girls in my arms.

I drop them off in the dog room, realize that I need to feed them, and go in the kitchen. About 20 or 30 minutes later, I realize that I'm in the kitchen, but just standing there, blank, completely out of it. Tears are running down my face but I can't cry and I'm shaking like a leaf as I try to make their dinner. I never shake, I'm pretty steady-handed, so I know that I'm pretty messed up. I feed them, clean up and go back into the living room. I plop onto the sofa, and the Giants game is still on. I try to watch it, and then realize that I can't handle it. I try to find something to watch or listen to just to put some sound in the background, but I can't handle any noise. I sit in the silent room, try to read, and can't. So I just sit there, then pace around, then sit, pace, etc. for I don't know how long. At some point I get a call from the hospital.

The vet tells me that they have been able to get him somewhat stabilized. They drew some lab work; his electrolytes were off, his liver values were starting to climb and his kidney values weren't that great either. His red blood cell count was also dropping, so they knew he had some internal bleeding but they wouldn't know how much until they repeated the test in a few hours. His blood pressure was somewhat better but still too low, so that could also be indicative of bleeding, but could also be just from the shock. They had taken some X-rays, and could so far tell that the bottom half of his right lung was collapsed. He also had 2 small hip fractures, and his right hip was dislocated; the head of the femur was not sitting in the hip joint. He said that all of these would likely heal without surgery, but there was one other thing that was even more troubling. He had a dislocation at the ileosacral joint. This is where the tail sets into the hips. The reason that this was so concerning was because there was a good chance with this injury that he could have spinal cord damage, and in that area were the nerves that controlled bladder and bowel function. If that were the case, then there was a chance that he would not have control of his bowels and bladder, and it would not return. They couldn't assess this for probably a couple of days, at least one day, so I really shouldn't make any decisions based on that information, but I did need to know that it was a concern. He told me that with all this information that he had now we were still looking at 50/50 odds. He was also at high risk for serious liver damage, but that was actually the best news, because if he could withstand it, the liver is the one organ that regenerates as long as you have at least 30% liver function. The other big concerns were bile duct obstruction, and most worrisome, pancreatitis. With injuries as severe as his, traumatic pancreatitis was always a substantial risk, and of course, it was very difficult to definitively test for. He then told me that they were going to try to get him more stabilized, run some more blood work and later on do an abdominal ultrasound and he should then have some more information. He told me that he would call me at least once more that evening, more if there were any concerns.

About 10 pm the phone rang and it was the hospital again. The vet told me that they did an abdominal ultrasound and that it actually didn't look too bad. There wasn't anything concerning in the findings. They didn't see any active bleeding, the other organs looked pretty normal. His pancreas looked ok, but an ultrasound wasn't very reliable as a diagnostic tool for pancreatitis. There was a blood test that they would do later on, and even though it was the best test, it was still not that reliable. They repeated a chest X-ray and they did see a little bit of fluid in the bottom of the left lung and a little in the right lung as well. Considering the extent of the trauma, that wasn't that bad. He told me again that he was still guessing that his prognosis was 50/50, but he was upgrading his condition from critical to very guarded. He told me that he was going to be on until 8am the next morning, and that as long as Danny was stable he wasn't going to call me until the morning. He told me to call him anytime if I was concerned, and I told him that for me, no news was good news, and I would rather he took care of the animals than to babysit me. I got the dogs, went to bed, and even though I didn't think I was going be be able to sleep, I tried. I had no interest in TV and I couldn't read. I decided to meditate; even if I wasn't successful, it was still better than not trying to slow my mind down and lay there with a racing mind. Unbelievably, I was actually able to meditate for 20 minutes, actually falling asleep toward the end of the session. I turned off the lights, put my head to the pillow and woke up the next morning at 6:00.

I got up, let the dogs out, meditated and then fed them. I wasn't hungry and couldn't force myself to eat. I had barely eaten since the afternoon before, and even though I tried, I still couldn't eat. I fed the dogs, and by the time I was finished the phone rang and it was the hospital. The vet, Rick, told me that Danny had been relatively stable through the night. His blood pressure was still low, and they had been doing pulse oxymetry (a non-invasive test for blood oxygen level) all night and his was low. Not critical, but low enough that they needed to keep him on oxygen. There could be a couple of reasons; it could be the fluid in his lungs and/or it could also be because his red blood cell count had continued to drop. The vet told me that they were getting close to the point where he would need a transfusion but that they were going to sit on it for a few more hours. He asked for my authorization for the transfusion, and I am pretty sure that I told him "anything within reason to save him". I did not want to save him if his quality of life would not be good. If he was going to be incontinent, crippled or even require lifetime intensive care, this was not a good life for a dog, and at that point I would surrender to the voice of reason and euthanize him. He told me that he was off for the day, but that the on-duty vet, Ben, would be calling me in the early afternoon with an update. He then told me that he still estimated his prognosis was 50/50, but he upgraded his condition to guarded. The one thing that they still could not accurately assess was possible neurological damage. He then told me "you could come visit him if you like", but I declined, as I did every time they offered, which was a number of times, at least 5. My stated reason was that I didn't want to stress him out by coming and then leaving. That was the truth, but at least very early on, I think at a subconscious level I knew that I wouldn't be able to handle seeing him in the condition that I was visualizing in my head.

I have to say here, I was really amazed by how consistent they were with keeping me updated. They called me every day, at least twice a day and usually 3 or more times without me ever asking. I was always told I could call at any time, but I never did. They did such a good job of keeping me updated that I never felt the need to check up on them. Also, it was more important to me that they take good care of the animals (and the owners that needed it) instead of me. I knew what the deal was, and there was nothing that they could say or I could ask that would make me feel any better. That said, the other thing that really impressed me is how good they were about really making me a part of the medical team. My opinions were valued, my questions were answered honestly and my concerns were always addressed. This is an expensive place, and you never want to have to use it, but if I ever have a really sick dog, even if it's the middle of the day and I can see my own vet, I'll never hesitate to go there. It is a very well-run hospital, and all the staff, from the vets to the techs to the office staff are all first class.

Late that afternoon the new vet called me to tell me that because he continued to not be adequately oxygenated, and also because his red cell count had dropped more he wanted to transfuse him, and I said go ahead. Otherwise, he was continuing to stabilize and now was moving all 4 limbs, though he was still holding the right front leg fully stretched out and stiff. That was promising, but they would still not know about any nerve damage from the ileosacral dislocation until they removed his urinary catheter, and that would not be until at least the next day (Thursday). He told me that he would call me again between 9 and 10 pm to give me an update before bedtime.

About 9:30 pm he called, and told me that he had given Danny a transfusion of 1/2 of a unit of blood, and his red cell count had improved significantly. His pulse oxyimetry reading was almost normal at 95%. A normal healthy dog would be 98% and above (the percentage of hemoglobin that is actually carrying oxygen). They were going to leave him on oxygen at least through the night and then reassess in the morning. Still, they were saying that his chances were 50/50, but upgraded his condition to guarded but stable. The reason that they continued to be so cautious about giving me too much hope was for a couple of reasons: First was that they still couldn't completely assess his neurological status since his bladder was catheterized and heavily narcotized (he was on a Fentanyl drip - a very strong opiate). The other reason was because the critical time period for internal organ damage to show was typically at 5 to 7 days post-injury. He could have too much damage to the liver, severe damage to the intestines, and stomach, he could be brewing a case of panreatitis, and this was the least likely, but he could also be brewing an infection. Despite this information, I was finally starting to feel hopeful. On the day of the accident, as I was driving him to the hospital, even though there was a huge cloud of dread over me, I still continued to tell myself (and Danny) that he was going to make a complete recovery. I told myself that all along for that matter, but by this point I was finally starting to believe it. I knew that dog better than anybody. I knew that he was about as strong a dog as he could possibly be, tough as nails, and perpetually happy. The way that I have often described Danny is thus: Every morning when Danny wakes up, it's the best day that he has ever had. Even as I was feeling more optimistic about his recovery, at that point a really big fear of mine was that this amazing spirit, this perpetually happy countenance, this incredible joie de vivre, would be lost forever. When I called my best friend Deanna the next day to tell her what had happened, she was devastated. Now I have to tell you, Deanna has never been a huge fan of the breed. She is not a hater, but Basenjis are definitely not one of her favorite breeds. When she could talk, she choked up and said "Oh my God, Parry, this is horrible. Danny is the happiest dog I have ever seen". And she meant not just the happiest Basenji, the happiest dog, period. In the last 2 years he has won over a lot of people, even non-Basenji people, because of his happy, silly, goofy, kissy temperament and his perpetually wagging tail, something that is not typical of the breed. I went to bed Wednesday night in a much better head space than the night before.

Thursday morning, the on-call Vet, Matt, who I had bonded with the most so far, called me to tell me that he was off oxygen and breathing on his own. He had held his red count through the night for the most part, but it was still on the low end of normal. He recommended that they transfuse the other 1/2 unit; it was already paid for anyway, and the better that he was perfusing (pumping well-oxygenated blood and getting it to the tissue), the quicker that everything would heal. I agreed, and he told me that they would give the blood. He also told me that he had perked up noticeably, and was moving all 4 extremities on his own. They actually stood him up, and he was able to stand, very wobbly, on his own. Matt felt that neurologically he was probably out of the woods, but that they still wouldn't know for sure until the catheter came out. During the day they repeated the ultrasound, and everything looked pretty good. I was told that it also jived with the neurological improvement that they were seeing (though I'm not sure how they could tell that). He told me that he would be going home, but that Ben (the vet at Danny's admission) would be coming in, and he would call me in the early afternoon. Stupidly, I asked "When do you think he will be able to come home? I can handle pretty intensive care, I can be home 24/7, and as soon as he is ready, I can handle it". He told me that if things continued as they did, maybe he could come home the next day, but that was a very optimistic prediction. I never should have asked, and later on, I never should have pushed the issue.

That afternoon the vet Rick called. Danny was slightly improved from the morning. They had given him the transfusion and he was still off of oxygen, but his pulse ox reading still wasn't normal. He then said something amazing to me: He said "I don't know if I told you, but I grew up with Basenjis - my best friend's dad bred them, and I know how tough they are, but I have never seen a small dog - Basenji or otherwise, as tough as your dog. I really don't know how he survived. He also has the most incredible Basenji temperament I've ever seen. Even now, as we've weaned down his Fentanyl and he is more perky, he is great with all the procedures. He hasn't tried to take out his IV or his catheter. I'm really quite taken aback". He also told me that all of the staff loved him as well, and that he was the celebrity patient. I stupidly asked again about discharge plans, told him what Matt had told me, and he told me that he felt that was extremely optimistic but not out the question. He then told me that we had already gone past the high estimate, so he was going to need to send me an updated one to cover through Friday afternoon. Though that last thing wasn't the most wonderful thing to hear, I was more than happy to pay it; I just knew at this point he would make it. About another 15 minutes the fax of the estimate came: the low end. was about $6000 and the high end was around $7700. The rest of that day was uneventful; I got a status call before bed, but it was basically a "he's continuing to improve and we're feeling better about his recovery" message.
Friday morning Rick called me; he is really the one who was Danny's primary vet, he had been on shift the majority of the time that Danny was there, and as such, really became invested in him and his recovery. He told me that Danny had been doing well through the night, he was stable, eating a little bit (hand-fed), mostly baby food, and drinking water. He told me, however, that Danny was still pretty listless, and he was not sure if Danny would be going home that day. I was a little let down, but decided to concentrate on the good part of the status report, and take what I could get.

At about 3pm, Rick calls me back - actually a little early for the usual afternoon update: "Come on in and pick up Danny, he's ready to go home, just give us about an hour and a half to get everything ready", which meant medications, medical records and X-rays for my regular vet and a bag of IV fluid in case he needed some hydration. Oh, and the bill. Hallelujah, I am jazzed. I scramble to get his sick bay ready for him so it's all set when he gets back. I had a big scrap of floor vinyl that I use for my whelping box and puppy pen when I have litters. I also got a larger wire crate, a bunch of bedding and a 4x4' exercise pen. I put the kennel and pen on the vinyl, with the kennel and one end, and clipped the pen to it. I then took some black thick garbage bags, cut them to the correct width and taped them to the walls of the cubicle that I created. I knew that if I didn't Bobby would (and did) circle the cubicle, growling and get Danny worked up. Even though Bobby did try to stir things up when he came in the room and smelled Danny, he quickly gave up, finding that his stirring the pot was in vain. Then I pretty much filled the whole interior with bedding: Actual dog beds, fleece throws, blankets and a pillow. I then got myself ready and headed off to pick up Danny, a bit fearful of seeing him, since I hadn't seen him since dropping him off after the accident, and I had no idea what to expect. (to be continued)



Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.runnymedesilkys.com.

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The Garden of Eatin' (or Chicken Soup for the Soil)

May 2, 2010, Authors Note: This post was started on March 26, 2010, and has been languishing away for weeks, only for a lack of some final text (minimal), and editing. For some reason, I've been blocked on getting it edited of all things. I've never heard of editor's block, perhaps I've opened up a whole new can of worms. But for better or worse, this is getting finished today. It's time to move on, and I have a lot to tell. One caveat though: I've included information that has happened since the original draft of this post was finished. In the interest of making my writing less cumbersome, convoluted and confusing, I've just lumped all of it together, instead of constantly taking sidebars to say "since the original post, I've planted (fill in the blank) or I've done this (fill in blank)". Chronology isn't really important to the story anyway, as you will see.

Reading "In Defense of Food" left a rather strong impression on me. This was not so much in the information that he presented that was new to me, what it did was open up an inner dialog about mindful behavior, and also specifically how it (or lack thereof) effects my food choices, eating habits and social responsibility.

I've been trying to come up with a strategy for implementing change in all of the above, and it's complicated, to say the least. First of all, it's not just one thing, it's many things about my dietary habits that I've wanted to examine, and am now doing with resolve. It started in earnest when I got sick this last year, and has been at the forefront of my thoughts for most of the time since. I've already addressed some of the ways that this questioning of my food behaviors has affected my life: Farmer's Market every week in the summer (and it starts again in a couple of weeks, and I can't wait), canning, freezing, other preservation methods, preparing my own meals for almost all of my eating time and also the importance of basing my diet on whole, not processed, foods.

For the most part, I've really metered down my consumption of what I call "the white foods": white flour, white rice, sugar, processed and ready to eat "food", and just in general, empty calories. To say that I've been perfect would be most disingenuous. Sorry to have to admit it, but I do love the things that white flour makes: pastry crust, bread dough, pasta, roux, etc.. I still prefer white rice to brown, but I'm trying to at least mix it up and include some brown rice into my repertoire as well. As for sugar, I can't lie and say that I'm not consuming it. I do love my ice cream, and especially now that it's summer, the occasional soft drink. I find artificial sweeteners to be disgusting, both in taste and theory, so my poison of choice is still sugar.

In many of the above-mentioned areas, I had commenced change long before I finally went back to finish the book. I was eating seasonally, as well as preserving food picked at it's peak time of the year. For the most part, my produce, dairy and meats have been organic, as well as being locally-sourced. There were just in general a lot of really good changes that I was exacting on my lifestyle, but I didn't think that this was all I could do, I just wasn't sure what I was missing. It's amazing what you find out when you really start to listen to your body and give it what it is telling you it needs. Eating seasonally is a great example.

In the past I've never really paid that much attention to the importance of eating produce in season. I knew enough to know that summer fruit grown in the winter and imported from Chile never is very good, and is often downright awful. What I really noticed this last year, especially after going to the Farmer's Market every week and really paying attention to what was there, was how much better produce was that was picked at the absolute peak of its season. Even more remarkably, I could tell you what was likely to be the peak produce of that week before I went to the market, because that was what I was craving. This became even more apparent to me this winter, when there isn't really a decent farmer's market around here. I would be craving something, go to the grocery store and find it to be in peak season. It's happened over and over this winter, with pineapple, persimmon, citrus, avocado and now strawberries for example, and every time that I've bought what I was craving, it has been delicious.

I can tell you what is out of season without ever tasting it. When I saw summer fruits, and ones that I love, mind you, such as plums, melon, peaches, etc. at the grocery the other day, I had no desire whatsoever to eat any of them. I can tell you that they would have been marginal at best without ever taking a bite. If you want to test that theory yourself, here is the easiest test: With fruit, when it is at the peak of season and ripeness, all you need to do is put it close to your nose. A peach should smell peachy, Santa Rosa plums should smell sweet and floral, and a pineapple should smell like a pineapple, sweet, tropical, and intoxicating. Now go to your grocery store in the winter and smell a cantaloupe or a plum or a peach or whatever. I'll put money on you finding out that its bouquet is lacking, or completely non-existent.

Right now, strawberries are just coming to market: local, big juicy strawberries from Watsonville (south of San Jose, strawberry capital of the US), and they are fantastic. Not only that, I'm craving them. As much as I love strawberries, they're typically not a fruit that I tend to crave; for me a little goes a long way. But now, when they're so good that I can smell them when I hit the produce aisle, I want them all the time, and I'm eating them in everything. Citrus, on the other hand, is nearing the end of its season, and I'm desiring it less and less. Here is another little-known factoid: Have you ever wondered why you can get oranges and apples (and potatoes too) that are grown in the US year-round? They were indeed picked seasonally, but then go into cold storage at a temperature between 38-42 degrees, where they will keep for months. Other than potatoes, which I don't care if they're stored that long, since it's been done for generations in root cellars and they hold well. I think the difference is that they grow underground - being a tuber, unlike the cold-storage fruit, which grows on trees. I really don't like the idea that I'm eating 9 month old fruit. Then let's consider that carbon footprint that we're leaving by refrigerating these vast quantities of produce for months.

From reading the book, there was one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb. As I was reading it I realized that though small, this was revolutionary. I could exact a very direct influence on the locality and quality of the produce I was eating by doing something relatively easy: I should start growing as much of my own food as possible. I'm very spoiled by where I live, because we have a very long growing season, which makes it easy to eat your own homegrown food nearly year-round. I then started looking at why I hadn't done this before, and the main stumbling block that I had always come upon was that I felt that I didn't have the space to do one. The best gardening area that I had was one that I looked at all the time; it's directly outside of my family room, and for some reason I had it in my head that this area needed to be flowers. For some dumb reason I had it in my head that a vegetable garden wouldn't be pretty enough to look at. Then I thought otherwise; even if a vegetable garden wasn't pleasing to look at, and trust me, they are, the beauty is still in you producing your own food. And I go out and can stare at my vegetable garden for hours. In ways, it's prettier to me than my ornamental flora.

As I finished the book, it initiated a profound change in my feelings about aesthetics and beauty. What could be more lovely that to look out the sliding glass door and see a beautiful edible garden growing, one that required only a little love to produce lots of fresh and healthy food? The back of my house faces west, and is about 150 feet long. The vast majority of the perimeter, in front of the fence, is all raised beds that the original owner had put into the house, and they're fantastic. The wall of raised beds is bisected in the center by a beautiful water feature. The side to the south of the waterfall is the sunniest, especially in the summertime. It actually gets downright scorching back there during the summer, and even in spite of lots of good shade trees - birches, a fern pine, curly willow and a red maple that I planted last year, it still gets a lot of sun. That made the most sense for where to start the garden.

Originally it was my idea to just take part of the beds and plant crop rows between them, but as I started tilling the soil (well, Romulo, my manservant) and rolling compost into my clay, my idea got bigger, and then bigger and then bigger. Before you think I planted veritable field back there, the plot that is now my vegetable garden is approximately 250 sq. feet. It looks huge, until you start planting it. I'm doing a modified French Intensive garden, where the rows are mounded. Adding the vertical inches by mounding to the row spacing adds extra lineal inches, since both flat and vertical distance have the same effect. Or that is how I understand it anyway, and I can be suspect in this regard (my understanding, that is) on occasion; it's a byproduct of the know-it-all syndrome. In small gardens especially, size really matters. Even with adding this to my agricultural repertiore, the garden is not tiny, but by no means big. It's also L-shaped with about 10 foot span in the center, where the inside right angle of an L should be. That, combined with the L shape in the mix as well, made the makings of a real pain in the butt in setting up rows and having it be fairly symmetrical. This is far less about aesthetics than it is about ease of organization, though aesthetics are a concern for little old OCD me ("Everything has to be perfect!") Problem easily solved. I wanted to try growing potatoes this year, and they are one of the vegetables (awright fellow know-it-alls, I know the potato is really a stem tuber of the plant's rhizome) that has more partial shade tolerance than most vegetables. It makes sense, since my back fence was covered with Carolina Jessamine, a fast-growing vine that has some of the most invasive roots I've seen, even worse than the morning glory that I relocated.

I (Romulo) have spent many a weekend in the last many months trying to eradicate all the rhizomes (bulbs along the root) from the Jessamine. This is virtually impossible, but it does make management of that crap a lot easier when I take away its engine room. Rhizomes are extremely tenacious, and the more of them that you leave underground, the more they will keep popping back up above-ground. That's why you can pull up tulips, but unless you also get the bulb, you'll have tulips next year. That was a hypothetical example, I can't imagine anyone thinking that tulips are unsightly and need to be eradicated. My squirrels think I'm the coolest guy in town for planting the couple of hundred this year - I didn't know squirrels liked tulip (and a few other) bulbs, but I found out otherwise, as every morning I would arise (the squirrels get up earlier than me, of course) and go out to find one of my tulip beds looking like an artillery range, pocked with little tulip bulb sized holes, or a gopher's playground, except that these were just nice circular consistently-sized empty holes that had no tunnels. But they were so consistent in size I couldn't believe it; even my squirrels are OCD.

But let me disembark from that tangent's tangent I just rode in on. Point being, if you just get rid of the plant, if it is a stem and/or root-tubered rhizome, then you have to get all the way down to the tuber. Many of them also have this nifty (to them) safeguard in the the tubers tend to be connected to the stem of the plant by very fine delicate roots, so you can have a false sense of security about how well you've eradicated said nuisance plant. We (Rumolo) are still finding Jessamine tubers every time we (Romulo) till the soil. Those of you that live, as I do, in an area cursed with an abundance of Oxalis (a noxious invasive weed endemic to the Bay Area, looks a little like clover) know what I'm talking about - the bulb clusters are about a foot past very fine and fragile roots - a great survival technique. But the more rhizomes I get out of the soil the easier the weed management becomes.

Now let's disembark from the original tangent get back to potatoes. So the center of the L is a pretty sizeable space, especially since it's deeper because you've cut off a lot of feet from the center of the L. Those inches have to go some place, and that someplace means that my raised beds are deeper. Since potatoes take up more space than the average vegetable (rhizome tuber), the increased depth was great. It's also shaded by 3 birches, which are great for maintaining correct soil moisture, since they love excess water, being naturally a running waterside (river, creek , stream) growing tree. Potatoes rot quickly if the soil moisture isn't consistent, correct and carefully monitored. Mulching also helps a great deal with moisture regulation. They also have a few other quirks: Once they're about 9-12 inches above ground, you cover them about halfway up with mulch or straw, building a mound. Potato tubers are very shallow, and if they get exposed to air, they're inedible; they turn green and never finish ripening, or they just die. This means that every week or two, you're going out to build up your mound. I think the most critical period of having to make sure that the tubers are subterranean is up to when the plants flower, though you need to continue to monitor the mounds on a regular basis.

There are a couple of upsides to this mounding process: First and most importantly, you're introducing more soil-enriching organic matter that, as each time the plot gets tilled. When you live on a plot that is basically a big mound of dense gray clay, emphasis on dense, it's like trying to spoon out crystallized honey, it's a lot more work for me (Romulo), and in addition, that clay has to go somewhere. Right now I'm piling it outside my fence line. A month or so after the rainy season is over, I'll start some moonlight trips across the road to a big vacant city-owned lot and mound the crap clay there. Yes, I'm giving them extra work, but cry me a river: they have manpower (lots of Romulo's) and resources to deal with a little pile of clay, that is, if they ever find it, so no, I really don't feel guilty about it. I just don't want to get busted doing it, which even at night is risky.

Walnut Creek has a lot of cops and they are extremely bored; it's pretty much like policing Mayberry. Since I moved here, twice I've left my garage door open and gone to bed. Both times, there was a knock at the door at 3 am or so (scary cop knock) asking if I realized that I had left my garage open. The first time I nearly shit my pants, since I was sleeping to the office (during the remodel), which is next to the entry. Imagine the feeling of being butt naked, sound asleep, and then having flashlights shined on your white ass as they bang, not knock, at the door. That is one thing that television cop shows do not exaggerate, at least from my experience. I can imagine how harrowing and intimidating that would be if you were actually doing something that demanded that kind of a commando-knock arrest. Now that said, their boredom does allow for some very nice concierge-esque treatment, that is, as long as you're white or Asian. I see poor unfortunate landscape workers get profiled driving past my house all the time. They're easy to spot: Pickups with the bed loaded to the gills with mowers, weed whackers, leaf blowers and other miscellaneous equipment, and the cabin stuffed with 3 and often 4 Hispanic men crammed in like sardines. They're pretty obviously not on their way to a Cinco de Mayo celebration, with a truck loaded down with a lot of weed and illegal firearms. They're doing the crap work that none of us want to do and would rather pay to have it done for us.

How I got from mounding potatoes to guns, weed and fiestas is pretty impressive, but not terribly relevant to growing a vegetable garden, so back to the real story. By relocating non-food plants, making an empty palette, (Romulo) getting the soil turned, amended and mulched, I've been able to actually get a decent amount of space out of what initially looks like a too-small area for growing any significant amount of food. I still have a bit of space left, and that is after now planting 8 assorted pepper plants, summer squash, cucumbers, 3 varieties of heirloom beets and 1 non-heirloom variety, Swiss Chard and cabbage (2 kinds of each), lettuces, carrots radishes, peas (4 varieties) beans (3 varieties) , 4 San Marzano (giant Roma, best for canning and spaghetti sauces) tomato plants, and a multitude of assorted onions. That isn't all of it. For all intents and purposes, all of the perimeter of my backyard, save a small area behind the hot tub, is littered with mostly ceramic pots filled with tomato plants (7 to be exact), chives, shallots, herbs, including 2 varieties of Thyme, Parsley, Sage (2 varieties), Rosemary (how could I not grow those 4?), a couple of varieties of basil, marjoram, tarragon, 2 varieties of oregano, 2 varieties of chive, mint and arugula. I already have 4 containers of pickling cucumbers started, and am planting more "salad" cucumbers any day now. Then there are a couple of pots that I don't remember what I planted in them and a couple of empty ones, including one larger one that I'm going to trellis cantaloupe in. Speaking of trellising I'm also going to trellis a different variety of cantaloupe in a spot up in the raised beds. This week I also put in 4 sugar pie pumpkin (small ones, sweeter for cooking)plants in another bed outside of my bedroom and under the Red Maple I put in last year. Did I not know how to can and not have a freezer, I would be nuts to being doing this much. Luckily, I know how to preserve very well, and in the winter, there is nothing like eating something you grew, picked at its peak of flavor and preserved with love. Oh, and lest I forget, I (Romulo) have also planted 7 fruit trees: 2 avocado trees in the back (Hass and Zutano), a Meyer lemon, (my current one hasn't bloomed in almost 3 years), Persian (or Bearss) lime, a Black Mission Fig and a Fuyu Persimmon (the crunchy variety).

I still plan to support my local farmer's market this summer, but certainly for a lot less, especially vegetables. I'm still dependent on them for fruit, especially since I don't expect to harvest from any of my trees until probably next winter at the earliest. I really don't mind it at all, I got amazing fruit last year. I was really good about buying at peak of season, when the flavor was maximized. As I've been opening my canned peaches and freezer jam lately I can really appreciate the reward of that strategy. My raspberry jam tastes identical to how the fresh raspberries tasted when I bought them last May. The same goes for the peaches, which amazes me even more, since I've been eating the canned ones, not the ones I froze. The tomatoes that I canned (Italian San Marzanos) last summer are amazing; I've been using them in my cooking and they are better than any canned tomatoes that I've ever bought, even really expensive "gourmet" ones.

Happy Birthday to me. April 7 was my 50th birthday. Generally, I really don't put a lot of energy into thinking about my birthday. I don't see the day as me a year older on that day; in my mind, I'm a day older than the day before. 50 is a bit different though. It's half a century, and as far as numbers go, ages that end in a zero seem to be landmark, even watershed birthday ages. They tend to make one more contemplative about the last decade of one's life, and they can also stir up many emotions one is feeling about the new decade they are entering: excitement, fear, trepidation, melancholy. In Western cultures (I can't speak for others), there is a lot of emphasis on decades in one's life, and nearly everybody can relate to talking about how people change as they enter a new decade - the differences between one's 20's and one's 30's for example. It's very common to ascribe a set of generalized traits that one is expected to go through in the decade that they are in and in the next decade if they are at a point of crossing over into the next one. So as much as I would like to say that it was just another day, it really was not.

I first spent much of the earlier part of the day reflecting on my 40's, a time in one's life that is often described as being the decade that one both really hits their stride in, and also the one where one of the major challenge is usually the dreaded and infamous midlife crisis. I really thought back at what had happened in the last 10 years.

In 2000, Ken and I were starting our 9th year together. He had become involved in Planet Pooch, a dog daycare and boarding business the he owned with 2 partners. I am now the 3rd, but non-managing partner i.e., I own it on paper, but I don't get paid for it, since I'm not a working contributing partner.

In 2001, Ken and I went to Europe with Brian and Van, and had the most bizarre experience of being on the island of Mallorca (off the coast of Spain) on the ubiquitous and horrific day of September 11. We sat in our hotel rooms the rest of that afternoon (it was about 2pm in Mallorca when it happened) and watched over and over as they replayed footage of the WTC being hit twice and then falling. We ended up being stuck in Europe 2 extra days, since all flights in the US were grounded, and one of my most distinct memories of those days was having strangers come up to us on the street and offer their sympathies as soon as they figured out that we were Americans. This was also the year that we got our very first Silky Terrier, our beloved Bobby, aka Bob Barker.

In 2002, Ken and I started planning what would end up being our last renovation of our home on Diamond Street. The project was 2 years in the planning, with many hours spent with architects, contracters and the San Francisco Planning Department. That was also the year the Ken got promoted to Director of Engineering at the hotel, a huge, almost unheard of promotion, one in which he lept past many of the usual interim promotions that normally precede a promotion to a job that put him on the hotel's Executive Committee. Over his many years at the hotel, Ken had acquired a nearly universal reputation as one of the real leaders at the property; the General Manager was very fond of him and trusted him implicitly, not a trait that this man was known for. I, by the way, was very fond of the GM, and he and I had a rapport that I was told was unheard of from this man. The reason for that is very simple: Ken.

In 2004, the renovation started on Diamond Street. I had lived through years of renovations prior to this, living without a kitchen for months, perpetually in a cloud of dust and construction debris, but this was even more invasive. Once completed, the size of the house would be more than doubled, from about 1400 sqare feet to about 3000 square feet. The one saving grace was that we did have a working kitchen the entire time, so we didn't have to rely on a steady diet of burritos, pizza and KFC. 2004 was also punctuated quite sadly by the loss of our first pet together, our beloved Basenji Hodari. To this day, other than the last time that I saw Ken in the hospital, this is the most devastated and inconsolable that I ever saw Ken. After that, I never had Ken go with me when we had to euthanize a pet, something that happened 2 more times before I lost him as well. The devastating grief that I saw in Ken that day is something that will always haunt me. This was also the year that our 2nd Silky Terrier, and easily the sweetest dog I have ever owned, came to live with us, our Hillary.

2005 was a year of dust, clouds and disarray, both physical and psychologically. The house was in full-on demolition and rebuilding mode, and Ken's lifelong battle with crippling depression was clearly becoming a losing one. The things that kept him going, mostly work, alcohol and Xanax, were no longer working. His diabetes had become far less stable, as did his moods. More often than not he was sullen, shut down and pretty much emotionally inaccessible. That he managed to maintain such a good front with others still amazes me. Very few people had any idea how much he was suffering. In September, we took our last trip to Europe together, spending a week in September in Amsterdam. This is probably my last really fun happy memory with Ken.

2006-2009 on has been pretty much the fodder of this blog and the one that it replaced. These years were pretty uneventful (insert heavily sarcastic tone here), except for losing my favorite of any dog that I had ever had, our beloved Jaadii, Ken's suicide, a nearly fatal motor vehicle accident, selling our home of 15 years in San Francisco and moving to the suburbs, meeting, dating for 2 years and then breaking up with Brian, and getting involved in one of my new and possibly most favorite hobbies, drag. During this period I also went to Burning Man twice, something that I had always wanted to do. I also raised my first home-bred litter of puppies, a litter that included my 3rd Silky Terrier, Hillary's daughter Mini Me. I got Hepatitis A and C and spent 2 years feeling probably the worst that I have in my entire life, partly because it took so long to diagnose the Hep C. This was also the start of my still-ongoing intensive psychotherapy and antidepressant therapy, 2 things that not only likely saved my life, but they also gave me the tools to handle what came afterward and keep my sanity in the process.

I never really felt like I went through a midlife crisis, something that I fully expected to experience. I think that there are a couple of reasons for this. First of all, I've never really had an issue with aging. Because of living with HIV, I think I had a completely different outlook on aging, seeing it as a success and not a failure, something that I felt lucky to be experiencing. I've also been very lucky to be blessed with my mother's genes that have always kept me looking substantially younger than my actual age, especially from age 30 on. I never wanted the red corvette, the hot new boyfriend (how could anybody be hotter than Ken?), or some exciting adventure. I've never had the temperament of a thrill-seeker, and I think that once you put all these factors together, it makes pretty good sense why I never had this overwhelming experience of a midlife crisis. For me, my 40's were, in spite of much personal tragedy and adversity, the garden where I was able to grow the Me that I needed to get through the rest of my life, or at least the next 10 years. More than at any other time in my life, my 40's was a period that, despite all the happenings that should have spelled disaster, the time where I really actually thrived. I found out really how strong I am, and how much adversity I'm able to not only handle, but to learn from, grow from, and succeed because I used the adversities as lessons to grow from, rather than using them as an excuse for self-pity.

This was the time when I learned that when others treated me unfairly, or I perceived it that way, if I couldn't let go of my anger and move past these perceived slights, it wasn't their problem, it was mine. Blaming them and using these perceived injustices as an excuse to wallow in self-pity was really misplaced anger; I thought I was angry at them, when in reality, I was angry with myself. There wasn't just anger there either, that anger really was a cover for some very deep-seated self-loathing. This was the time when I finally figured out how to move past these grievances and resentments, take a long hard and honest look at myself, and finally learn that I didn't need to fix the world, I needed to fix myself.

The missing puzzle pieces that I needed to fix myself finally started to fall into place. I relearned how to meditate and pray. I found my way back to my soul, and planted the seeds in my spiritual garden that would lay the way to move forward. I developed a more disciplined and consistent approach in my spiritual practice, I started to learn how to become more attentive, mindful and fully present in each moment, even if I didn't always succeed in the execution. Failure stopped meaning capitulation and became a way to apply my lessons I learned in real life situations.

This was the time that I also finally started to do my first truly honest self-inventory, and not for the purpose of beating up on myself. It was apparent to me that change was impossible if I didn't first look at my demons, and honestly assess and own up to my mistakes and shortcomings of character. I had to own up to traits that I never wanted to acknowledge in myself: Bitchiness, catty behavior, an intellectual superiority complex, selfishness, self-centeredness, and most importantly, what was the root of all these traits: A deep and abiding self-loathing.

I am very much still a work in progress, but I can say this in all honesty: The person I was 3 years ago when my life turned upside down and seemed to be irreparably broken is as dead and gone as Ken is. Things might still suck a lot of the time, but that does not need to dictate my future happiness. I'm also succeeding somewhat at not letting these obstacles make me bitter and bitchy. Lashing out at others doesn't make me feel better about myself. To the contrary, it just makes me feel less worthy of love.

When I first started to really get into gardening this year, I have to confess that I was worried that I perhaps was just swapping this new obsession out for one of my previous ones. Now though, looking at the situation with some more clarity, gardening has really become a metaphor for my new life. I started with a crappy foundation (clay soil, which is nearly impossible to grow much in) and I took what I had, added what was necessary to make it more fertile, and I'm now growing not only fruits and vegetables, I'm growing a new me. Some is starting from only seeds, some from seedlings, and with some love, attention and care, it's thriving and springing forth new life. My new life is my real garden. I'm still not sure what kind of crop I'm going to get or where the whole adventure will finally end up, but I'm creating something of purpose and meaning. If the only thing that I harvest is enough fruit to give me seeds to plant my next garden, then I'll still feel some sense of success, but I know I'll succeed to a degree far greater than that. For you see, I now realize, nobody ever told me I couldn't do it. I can grow a new life. It may not be what I expect, but there is no going back, even if I want to. And I don't.

Last read: Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell and A Brief Account of the Destruction of the Indies, by Bartholome De Las Casas.
Current read: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, A Course In Miracles Workbook For Students; The Gifts of God, the poetry of Helen Schucman, and Selected Poems of Denise Levertov.




Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
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