She is beautiful, we are going home in the morning, and I managed to luck out all the way until about fifteen minutes ago on changing a dirty diaper. Considering how many of those she's produced over the last 44-ish hours, I'd call that a minor miracle.
There is much more to say. About the delivery itself, about the hospital and staff, about Dr. Best, about Monkey and the Cub, and the fierce and the tender of them towards their little sister, and about how all of that feels, knowing we are done. But I am sleepy and she is fussy, needing to be picked up every couple of minutes for the last hour and change. And so all of that will have to wait until we get home. For now, I just need to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me and with me over the last five plus years. Thank you for welcoming me back and for hanging in with me over this last stretch. Thank you or listening and for your words. I am having a hard time expressing how much your words have meant to me without sounding like a massive cliche. Oh, screw it, cliche or not, here goes. You have made me laugh, which is generally and always welcome, but is also somewhat remarkable, given the road so far. You have made me cry, with sadness, and recognition, and validation of being heard and understood. You have abided, and I am deeply, deeply grateful.
And oh, so sleepy. More from home, including pictures. We have a whole bunch, but very few made it off the camera yet.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
6 years ago this week
Six years ago last week, towards the end of it, I was frantic. Happy too, but mostly frantic. My hunch from the weekend before that, when I suddenly threw up my breakfast only to feel absolutely fine the very next moment, proved right-- I was pregnant. So I called my GYN. At my regular appointment several months before we'd discussed my history and the fact that we were planning to begin trying come summer. She'd said that while they do not routinely check progesterone levels and don't tend to prescribe progesterone supplementation, she understood why I would be nervous given my history, and so she would put a note in my file to do these things for me when the time comes. Ha! Because when I called to talk to ask her for testing and supplementation, she just flat out told me that there is no conclusive data that supplementation helps, and they just don't do that. Yes, sure, but we talked about this, and you were supposed to do this for me. The worst part was, of course, that I was relying on her and did not have anyone else I could call up on a Thursday afternoon to try to get these things straightened out. Her response was something about how she would never say that and how she thought I would probably want a doctor who would be a better match for me. No shit.
To be fair, I received a letter from her a while later where she acknowledged that she did find the notation from our visit in the file, and she even sent me a prescription for progesterone. Though she still thought I'd want a different doctor. Again, lady, no shit.
By the time I got the letter, her behavior still stung, but not nearly as much because by then, though I did not know it yet, I had already spoken on the phone to the most important medical professionals of the next six years, and maybe, not to be grandiose or anything, maybe of my entire life. And between her leaving me to fend for myself and that first phone call with Nurse Kind, there was another doctor, to whom I will be forever grateful for his kindness and professionalism, which put together helped me keep my head on through the next week.
After I hung up with the GYN of poor memory, I needed to find someone who'd help. I called my friend Natalie. I didn't really want to tell anyone yet, but I met her OB/GYN a few years before, when she and her husband asked me to come with them to her second, now planned c-section. (Not two years before that she'd labored for a day and a half, pushed for several hours, and ended up with an emergency c-section.) Dr. N radiated confidence. He was funny, and you could tell he loved his job. You could also tell he was on the ball. That morning he bent the rules for us, for my friends, because he could see just how nervous Natalie's husband was-- he allowed a second non-medical person, me, into the OR. Moral support and all that.
So when I called Natalie, frantic, from my car, I wanted to know whether she thought Dr. N would be able to help. Natalie was also at my house when I threw up the previous weekend, so she wasn't shocked when I called. She called Dr. N, then I called Dr. N, and then he ordered the tests and wrote me a script for progesterone. That test and two repeat tests later, hCG was rising like gangbusters, but progesterone was not, it was actually sliding, slowly. This is where the professionalism comes in-- after that third test, Dr. N called to say that he thought I probably needed a high risk doctor, and that he was not, and did I have someone I could call? By that time I was already planning to call the practice where I was when I had Monkey, but it was so nice to be treated with this level of care and consideration.
When I called the practice they told me that the doctor I had when I was pregnant with Monkey had left the state, and I needed to pick someone else. They also said I was in luck-- they had this new high risk doctor, he just started, and so his schedule was fairly open still. He came from Texas and was very nice. Would I like to go with him? I had no idea just how in luck I was when I ambivalently accepted this new doctor. I also said I had concerns, and they said a nurse would call. Nurse Kind called later that day, took my history, and listened to my concerns. Dr. Best called later to say he wasn't convinced by the research that progesterone supplementation actually helped, but that there is no reason not to do it, given my history. He upped my suppository dosage, but didn't want to go to injectables because of the slightly higher risk to me later on in the pregnancy that was associated with that formulation. I hadn't yet laid eyes on him, but he was already talking my kind of medical language-- evidence-based, but not dogmatic, thoughtful and considerate, but not pandering. I liked him and I knew I could trust him. When I met both him and Nurse Kind later, I only liked them more. And it didn't hurt any that he was just about the most handsome man I've ever seen in person. (Think this is why he ended up on the practice's promotional poster? Nah, probably just a coincidence...)
That pregnancy was A. Which means that Dr. Best and Nurse Kind have been there for three out of the four of my children. They have also met Monkey and ask about her all the time. They understand. Knowing they are my team made the last two pregnancies, while certainly not easy, something I could deal with. In fact, knowing they are my team is what made it possible for me to even think that I could handle another go round, given the ups and downs of the pregnancy with the Cub.
Yesterday was my last appointment for the pregnancy. If all goes according to plan, I will see Dr. Best tomorrow before my induction (he's around, though he's not officially working on the floor), and both of them at the 6 week appointment. Nurse Kind asked that I send pictures from time to time. She walked in with that oh, wow misty look, and I suspect I looked like that too. We sat there talking about 6 years ago and that first phone call. She said she'll be keeping tabs on us on Thursday. Man, I am going to miss her.
Even Dr. Best was a little misty, though with a good dose of mischievous too, joking about me joking with him and the new tech who was, I gather, just getting acclimated with the practice. She's nice, though I hope I get to see their usual tech, K, again. I am going to miss her too. Dr. Best was talking about how well he thought I was doing this time around, how from his point of view this has been a qualitatively different pregnancy, in terms of my fears and anxiety levels. I said not exactly as far as the daily normal base level, but that this time there have been far fewer actual reasons for freakouts, and so I've had fewer above that already difficult to take normal. Interestingly, his perception is that I was also more freaked out during my pregnancy with A than now. I probably was, to some degree, because I had that crazy premonition and was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.
Dr. Best was also very pleased yesterday that my cervix is getting ready to get this show on the road-- I am more than 3 cm already, anterior, and 50%. So if me make it all the way to tomorrow's scheduled induction, he thinks it will be a fairly easy process. But, he said, you know you don't have to wait. I know, I know.
I want this to be done. I hope this is the end of my reproductive phase, and I hope it's a happy end. I am also wistful. Or maybe mindful is the word. I am grateful to be here. I am grateful for the people who helped me get here. I am a little sad about what this road has looked like. I love all my children-- the two here, who despite what they sometimes say, are crazy about each other, get along better than most siblings I've seen, and who are waiting, mostly patiently, along with us; the one we are all waiting to meet, the strong baby girl who rolls more than she kicks and tends to hide her face on ultrasounds; and my beautiful first son, who I miss every day, the one who never got to be oh, so many things. I want to feel this place fully, and I want to remember what this place felt like. Which is why I am happy to see that the sun is peaking out after the gray and wet morning here-- we were planning on taking some family pictures today, and if the sun keeps, we'll be able to do that outside.
Happy July 4th, everyone!
To be fair, I received a letter from her a while later where she acknowledged that she did find the notation from our visit in the file, and she even sent me a prescription for progesterone. Though she still thought I'd want a different doctor. Again, lady, no shit.
By the time I got the letter, her behavior still stung, but not nearly as much because by then, though I did not know it yet, I had already spoken on the phone to the most important medical professionals of the next six years, and maybe, not to be grandiose or anything, maybe of my entire life. And between her leaving me to fend for myself and that first phone call with Nurse Kind, there was another doctor, to whom I will be forever grateful for his kindness and professionalism, which put together helped me keep my head on through the next week.
After I hung up with the GYN of poor memory, I needed to find someone who'd help. I called my friend Natalie. I didn't really want to tell anyone yet, but I met her OB/GYN a few years before, when she and her husband asked me to come with them to her second, now planned c-section. (Not two years before that she'd labored for a day and a half, pushed for several hours, and ended up with an emergency c-section.) Dr. N radiated confidence. He was funny, and you could tell he loved his job. You could also tell he was on the ball. That morning he bent the rules for us, for my friends, because he could see just how nervous Natalie's husband was-- he allowed a second non-medical person, me, into the OR. Moral support and all that.
So when I called Natalie, frantic, from my car, I wanted to know whether she thought Dr. N would be able to help. Natalie was also at my house when I threw up the previous weekend, so she wasn't shocked when I called. She called Dr. N, then I called Dr. N, and then he ordered the tests and wrote me a script for progesterone. That test and two repeat tests later, hCG was rising like gangbusters, but progesterone was not, it was actually sliding, slowly. This is where the professionalism comes in-- after that third test, Dr. N called to say that he thought I probably needed a high risk doctor, and that he was not, and did I have someone I could call? By that time I was already planning to call the practice where I was when I had Monkey, but it was so nice to be treated with this level of care and consideration.
When I called the practice they told me that the doctor I had when I was pregnant with Monkey had left the state, and I needed to pick someone else. They also said I was in luck-- they had this new high risk doctor, he just started, and so his schedule was fairly open still. He came from Texas and was very nice. Would I like to go with him? I had no idea just how in luck I was when I ambivalently accepted this new doctor. I also said I had concerns, and they said a nurse would call. Nurse Kind called later that day, took my history, and listened to my concerns. Dr. Best called later to say he wasn't convinced by the research that progesterone supplementation actually helped, but that there is no reason not to do it, given my history. He upped my suppository dosage, but didn't want to go to injectables because of the slightly higher risk to me later on in the pregnancy that was associated with that formulation. I hadn't yet laid eyes on him, but he was already talking my kind of medical language-- evidence-based, but not dogmatic, thoughtful and considerate, but not pandering. I liked him and I knew I could trust him. When I met both him and Nurse Kind later, I only liked them more. And it didn't hurt any that he was just about the most handsome man I've ever seen in person. (Think this is why he ended up on the practice's promotional poster? Nah, probably just a coincidence...)
That pregnancy was A. Which means that Dr. Best and Nurse Kind have been there for three out of the four of my children. They have also met Monkey and ask about her all the time. They understand. Knowing they are my team made the last two pregnancies, while certainly not easy, something I could deal with. In fact, knowing they are my team is what made it possible for me to even think that I could handle another go round, given the ups and downs of the pregnancy with the Cub.
Yesterday was my last appointment for the pregnancy. If all goes according to plan, I will see Dr. Best tomorrow before my induction (he's around, though he's not officially working on the floor), and both of them at the 6 week appointment. Nurse Kind asked that I send pictures from time to time. She walked in with that oh, wow misty look, and I suspect I looked like that too. We sat there talking about 6 years ago and that first phone call. She said she'll be keeping tabs on us on Thursday. Man, I am going to miss her.
Even Dr. Best was a little misty, though with a good dose of mischievous too, joking about me joking with him and the new tech who was, I gather, just getting acclimated with the practice. She's nice, though I hope I get to see their usual tech, K, again. I am going to miss her too. Dr. Best was talking about how well he thought I was doing this time around, how from his point of view this has been a qualitatively different pregnancy, in terms of my fears and anxiety levels. I said not exactly as far as the daily normal base level, but that this time there have been far fewer actual reasons for freakouts, and so I've had fewer above that already difficult to take normal. Interestingly, his perception is that I was also more freaked out during my pregnancy with A than now. I probably was, to some degree, because I had that crazy premonition and was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.
Dr. Best was also very pleased yesterday that my cervix is getting ready to get this show on the road-- I am more than 3 cm already, anterior, and 50%. So if me make it all the way to tomorrow's scheduled induction, he thinks it will be a fairly easy process. But, he said, you know you don't have to wait. I know, I know.
I want this to be done. I hope this is the end of my reproductive phase, and I hope it's a happy end. I am also wistful. Or maybe mindful is the word. I am grateful to be here. I am grateful for the people who helped me get here. I am a little sad about what this road has looked like. I love all my children-- the two here, who despite what they sometimes say, are crazy about each other, get along better than most siblings I've seen, and who are waiting, mostly patiently, along with us; the one we are all waiting to meet, the strong baby girl who rolls more than she kicks and tends to hide her face on ultrasounds; and my beautiful first son, who I miss every day, the one who never got to be oh, so many things. I want to feel this place fully, and I want to remember what this place felt like. Which is why I am happy to see that the sun is peaking out after the gray and wet morning here-- we were planning on taking some family pictures today, and if the sun keeps, we'll be able to do that outside.
Happy July 4th, everyone!
Thursday, June 28, 2012
38 at 38
I turn 38 today.
(And SCOTUS gave me a present! Thank you, Chief Justice Roberts! You really should have, though I did not at all expect it. :))
So I turn 38 today. It's a weird thing, somehow. I was not looking forward to this birthday at all. Partially because there was no way for me to know what the day would bring. We could've had a live baby by now. We could've had a dead baby by now. Hell, we can still have either today-- it's only 1pm here*.
I am also 38 weeks today. And have an induction date scheduled for next Thursday morning. Dr. Best, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, tried to schedule us for the evening of the 4th, since most rooms on the L&D floor have an excellent view of the city's big fireworks. Sadly for him and JD, this plan was shut down by the scheduling powers that be. I am ok with it-- the 5th was always the date I had in the back of my mind as the longest we'd go, though given how my pregnancy with the Cub went, I really didn't think we'd get there (or even here, for that matter). When Nurse Kind said that she'd rather get the spot for the morning of the 5th before that one goes and we have to look at further dates, I felt myself starting to get panicky-- not so sure I could get my head to stay on even a day past the 39 weeks mark.
It is strange to be here, at 38 weeks. I did really well for a long time in this pregnancy not having assumptions or expectations. Or almost not having them. I sort of expected pre-term contractions. And those did start, and earlier than last time. At which point I sort of began expecting to have this pregnancy continue to follow the script of the Cub's, to include a high number of L&D visits, some amount of bed rest and, eventually, an early-ish delivery. So up until about two weeks ago I didn't think I would ever be this pregnant again. JD keeps commenting on how vast I look. But the truth is, I look good. I haven't looked this good or felt this good in pregnancies with either of my boys. Last time I was this pregnant, it was Monkey on the inside, and I was more than ten years younger. But that pregnancy included a few hospitalizations too and some amount of modified bed rest, for partial placenta previa. And, as I recall, some amount of foot swelling towards the end. This time? I keep shaking my head because at this point while I need to wear wrist supports to drive and I do get tired somewhat easily, and I am not getting much sleep, and I waddle, I feel good. I move, I get things done, and I don't even have stretch marks. I know-- shoot me.
Honestly, I like that I am feeling this good. (The only explanation I have is the workout program I did last summer. I mean I still have definition in the arms, so that's something. That, and I think we've gotten luckier with infections this time, in that I haven't had any.) But it's a mindfuck. I told my doctor, the first time I saw him this go-round, that I wanted the world's most boring pregnancy. It hasn't been that, but it has been probably as close as I was going to get. And I am still waiting for the other shoe to drop. At the end of last week's appointment, after Nurse Kind booked our induction date, I went out to the reception area and booked the rest of my appointments up to then-- two remaining BPPs, two remaining NSTs, two remaining doctor visits. It was so very surreal to not only actually expect to still make every one of those, but also to know that if this baby lives, these will be my very last ones at this office ever, except for the 6 week follow up. My last BPP is tomorrow morning, and they will estimate her size again-- last time she dropped into the 30th percentile, you know, plus/minus a full pound, from the 50th where she'd resided since they'd started measuring her. Is that where the shoe is hiding? Probably not, since, you know, it's plus/minus a full pound on the estimate, but I am also not about to whistle a happy tune.
Even now it is easier for me to imagine something going wrong than everything going right. I used to have "getting to the labor floor with a live baby inside" as a sort of a finish line in mind. Not that I've never known things to go bad after that point, but it really was a sort of a testament to how my previous labors have gone, as well as to the faith I had in how my particular hospital does things in L&D. But last week a careless remark from someone who should really know better (ahem, husband) had me suddenly coming up with all kinds of scenarios where things go south. Because why the hell not, right?
Yesterday, walking to my sister's house, I was trying to figure out what it would mean if she died on my birthday or if she died the day before and was born on my birthday. It's a thing I've been doing for a while-- thinking through the what ifs of baby death occurring on other significant family dates. With the Cub, I was most worried about him possibly dying before or the day my sister was getting married. This time, we've already made it past JD's 40th, complete with a party shared with a friend, and the back-to-back anniversaries, my sister's and ours. In the longer-past event horizon, we made it past Monkey's tenth birthday (and A's due date the day after). What I figured out is that I tend to just hold my breath on these days and hope we make it through. It's not that it would be less horrible if my daughter died on a different day. It would just be less loaded of a day, and hey-- there's enough shit in grieving without having to take it as that specific kind of a cocktail, you know? After today, there's only one significant date between here and the induction-- my sister turns 30 on Tuesday (yes, my family really does pack it in there-- and you should see the rest of our July). Monkey, therefore, thinks it would be an excellent day for her sister to be born. When she says it, I mentally add "alive"-- it really would be a pretty good day for her to be born alive.
So I am 38. I turn the number in my head, and on my tongue. It's not doing anything new, really. Many friends have been turning 40 this year, and I think in my head I've been "almost 40" since that wave started up in earnest in the fall. I wonder whether that feeling might change over the next year, whether it might become important to me, perhaps around the time I turn 39, that I am in fact not yetdead 40. I guess we shall see. In the meantime, I am tip toeing through the day and the rest of this very weird time. If I walk quietly enough, maybe I can make it all the way to next Thursday.
*Clearly, it takes me forever to write a post. In my defense, it wasn't all in one sitting. Damned errands. And dinner. :)
(And SCOTUS gave me a present! Thank you, Chief Justice Roberts! You really should have, though I did not at all expect it. :))
So I turn 38 today. It's a weird thing, somehow. I was not looking forward to this birthday at all. Partially because there was no way for me to know what the day would bring. We could've had a live baby by now. We could've had a dead baby by now. Hell, we can still have either today-- it's only 1pm here*.
I am also 38 weeks today. And have an induction date scheduled for next Thursday morning. Dr. Best, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, tried to schedule us for the evening of the 4th, since most rooms on the L&D floor have an excellent view of the city's big fireworks. Sadly for him and JD, this plan was shut down by the scheduling powers that be. I am ok with it-- the 5th was always the date I had in the back of my mind as the longest we'd go, though given how my pregnancy with the Cub went, I really didn't think we'd get there (or even here, for that matter). When Nurse Kind said that she'd rather get the spot for the morning of the 5th before that one goes and we have to look at further dates, I felt myself starting to get panicky-- not so sure I could get my head to stay on even a day past the 39 weeks mark.
It is strange to be here, at 38 weeks. I did really well for a long time in this pregnancy not having assumptions or expectations. Or almost not having them. I sort of expected pre-term contractions. And those did start, and earlier than last time. At which point I sort of began expecting to have this pregnancy continue to follow the script of the Cub's, to include a high number of L&D visits, some amount of bed rest and, eventually, an early-ish delivery. So up until about two weeks ago I didn't think I would ever be this pregnant again. JD keeps commenting on how vast I look. But the truth is, I look good. I haven't looked this good or felt this good in pregnancies with either of my boys. Last time I was this pregnant, it was Monkey on the inside, and I was more than ten years younger. But that pregnancy included a few hospitalizations too and some amount of modified bed rest, for partial placenta previa. And, as I recall, some amount of foot swelling towards the end. This time? I keep shaking my head because at this point while I need to wear wrist supports to drive and I do get tired somewhat easily, and I am not getting much sleep, and I waddle, I feel good. I move, I get things done, and I don't even have stretch marks. I know-- shoot me.
Honestly, I like that I am feeling this good. (The only explanation I have is the workout program I did last summer. I mean I still have definition in the arms, so that's something. That, and I think we've gotten luckier with infections this time, in that I haven't had any.) But it's a mindfuck. I told my doctor, the first time I saw him this go-round, that I wanted the world's most boring pregnancy. It hasn't been that, but it has been probably as close as I was going to get. And I am still waiting for the other shoe to drop. At the end of last week's appointment, after Nurse Kind booked our induction date, I went out to the reception area and booked the rest of my appointments up to then-- two remaining BPPs, two remaining NSTs, two remaining doctor visits. It was so very surreal to not only actually expect to still make every one of those, but also to know that if this baby lives, these will be my very last ones at this office ever, except for the 6 week follow up. My last BPP is tomorrow morning, and they will estimate her size again-- last time she dropped into the 30th percentile, you know, plus/minus a full pound, from the 50th where she'd resided since they'd started measuring her. Is that where the shoe is hiding? Probably not, since, you know, it's plus/minus a full pound on the estimate, but I am also not about to whistle a happy tune.
Even now it is easier for me to imagine something going wrong than everything going right. I used to have "getting to the labor floor with a live baby inside" as a sort of a finish line in mind. Not that I've never known things to go bad after that point, but it really was a sort of a testament to how my previous labors have gone, as well as to the faith I had in how my particular hospital does things in L&D. But last week a careless remark from someone who should really know better (ahem, husband) had me suddenly coming up with all kinds of scenarios where things go south. Because why the hell not, right?
Yesterday, walking to my sister's house, I was trying to figure out what it would mean if she died on my birthday or if she died the day before and was born on my birthday. It's a thing I've been doing for a while-- thinking through the what ifs of baby death occurring on other significant family dates. With the Cub, I was most worried about him possibly dying before or the day my sister was getting married. This time, we've already made it past JD's 40th, complete with a party shared with a friend, and the back-to-back anniversaries, my sister's and ours. In the longer-past event horizon, we made it past Monkey's tenth birthday (and A's due date the day after). What I figured out is that I tend to just hold my breath on these days and hope we make it through. It's not that it would be less horrible if my daughter died on a different day. It would just be less loaded of a day, and hey-- there's enough shit in grieving without having to take it as that specific kind of a cocktail, you know? After today, there's only one significant date between here and the induction-- my sister turns 30 on Tuesday (yes, my family really does pack it in there-- and you should see the rest of our July). Monkey, therefore, thinks it would be an excellent day for her sister to be born. When she says it, I mentally add "alive"-- it really would be a pretty good day for her to be born alive.
So I am 38. I turn the number in my head, and on my tongue. It's not doing anything new, really. Many friends have been turning 40 this year, and I think in my head I've been "almost 40" since that wave started up in earnest in the fall. I wonder whether that feeling might change over the next year, whether it might become important to me, perhaps around the time I turn 39, that I am in fact not yet
*Clearly, it takes me forever to write a post. In my defense, it wasn't all in one sitting. Damned errands. And dinner. :)
Sunday, June 24, 2012
The scary puppy post (and scary long-- sorry)
You know the cute puppy from the previous post? This is the post about the Bad Thing (TM) that happened to him, how we got lucky, and how the whole thing messed me up. I am not sure that the last part was a necessary consequence of the first two put together, but in the context of my pre-existing crazies, it might not have been easily avoidable.
This magnet is prominently displayed on the filing cabinet at the emergency check in at the big veterinary hospital where the main act of the drama went down. It's funny, and, as it turns out, prescient. Which, I am sure, is the reason it is positioned in that very strategic location.
So let's rewind reality, about oh say... 11 weeks and three days. Monkey and JD are out of the country, attending a family wedding. The Cub is visiting my parents. V the puppy and I are having a pretty good week. I am actually getting stuff crossed off the all-mighty list, I am getting work done. I am even hoping to get to blog (no, honest-- that too was on the list for the week, just never happened). And on Thursday night, V and I are off to puppy school. I'd never gone before-- the timing hadn't worked out, but I'd heard much about the characters from JD. So we manage a walk and a puppy dinner before getting into the car, and I am feeling mighty pleased with myself.
Half way to school I hear a funny sound, look and see a... um... pile of what was, going in, his dinner. While I pull over and call the school to see whether they think we should turn around and go straight to the vet (remember-- I'd never had a dog before), V thinks about it for a few, and-- look away if you are squeamish,-- eats the whole pile back up. Yum. And since the school is letting the answering machine pick up, I decide to keep going. When we get there, I ask about our little gross adventure, and the teacher tells me puppies do that kind of thing. Oh, ok then. I actually have a video from that night, of V being playfully chased by a much smaller, but very feisty French Bulldog. It was very, very cute. But knowing what must've been happening on the inside for V, I look at that video and wonder.
So the next day, after teaching my class and office hours, I still had a few things on tap-- namely submitting some stuff for work and, later, a haircut appointment. You know, because I actually had time to spend on myself. So I am working on the submission, minding my own business, when I see the puppy start to make the freakiest oval on the rug-- he'd throw up just a bit of the lunch he'd just consumed, then move over a bit and do it again. In the end, he'd made a shape'o'piles on the rug. Extremely appetizing. While I shoot an email to JD to say WTF? and also, do I take the puppy to the vet now?, and did I say WTF yet?, V starts to go around the piles and eating them back up. Capital W weird, no? And then he goes to play outside.
Call the vet, who says we're open until 7-- go get your haircut if he's playing and call us if he's off when you are back. Sounds like a plan. Except as I am finishing the submission, the puppy walks into the house, lays down by the couch, and starts to whimper. For maybe 30 seconds. Then gets up and goes out to play again. But did I mention I'd never had a dog before? The whimpering? It freaks me out. So I call the stylist, who works out of her house and is a dog person, and tell her that I am worried about the puppy and could we push it because I will take him to the vet now. She's on board with it, and off to the vet we go.
Where, of course, V starts to act like his usual self. By which I mean wanting to play with every dog in the joint. Because? OMG!DIDYASEETHAT????IT'SAPUPPY,ANDSOAMI!!!!!!!LETME!!LETME!!LETME!!! It's crazy enough that I make a crack about how if my daughter paid the puppy off to pull this on me so that I miss my haircut, I will be very miffed (did I mention Monkey doesn't like me getting haircuts? She plays with my hair for fun, so if it gets too short for her after a haircut, she disapproves). Funny, no? Though I am fully aware, even in the moment, that the joke only works if it does, in fact, turn out to be nothing.
So finally we get to see the doctor. Who says the puppy's "acting appropriately." Though his belly is a bit tender, so maybe a bland diet for a few days. I must not look too relieved because then she says that the puppy doesn't need an X-ray, but that they can do one in abundance of caution. You know, to calm me down.
This is where we take a short diversion for a love letter/ode to Tash. Because way before we ever got the puppy, Tash had told me, early and often, to never ever get a pet without first getting pet insurance. I have ears (and eyes-- she's said it in chats too), and she has tales that demonstrate rather convincingly why that's the case, and so when we finally had the date for V's arrival, I got on JD's case to pretty please figure out the insurance thing but yesterday already. Turns out, things are a bit more complicated these days, since there is a whole new model of pet insurance out there, and we ended up going with that new model in the end-- it's cheaper out of pocket and covers all kinds of bad things. If you want to know more, I can explain in the comments-- I think the post is getting too long already. Short version is having pet insurance saved us thousands of dollars, literally. And I still owe Tash a beer or something stronger. Am daydreaming of when she will finally show up to collect.
Back to the story. I lurve the information age. Because see, while I was fairly sure our insurance was good to go by then, I wasn't sure sure. And the person who made it happen was not so very on the same continent at the time. But text messages, they cross oceans and all that. So I sent one, and JD called me a few minutes later. The reason I am telling you this long form is to underscore than the X-ray we got the puppy was universally believed to have been for the benefit of calming me down, since, as a first time dog owner (did I mention?) I seemed to have been a bit out of sorts still. That is, JD promptly told me that I didn't need our insurance's particulars, since it is a mail stuff in for reimbursement kind, but that since I still sounded nervous, he thought we should get the X-ray. So we did.
A sidenote-- they bring the image to show you on a freaking iPad. Which is both way cool and a bit crazy. But hey, it was fast and it was easily available for me to see, so I am not complaining. The thing on the image, though? Thin and bright. Metal. A needle? Really? Even the doc couldn't believe it, so she ordered a second X-ray at a different angle to make sure it wasn't a thin piece of something. It wasn't. Second X-ray, same result. The puppy ate a frigging needle!
At this point they tell us we should go to the big veterinary hospital, and pronto. And I get that this is fairly urgent, but my brain is still protecting me-- I am not clear on either how urgent or how dangerous. The office gives us electronic copies of the X-rays and tells us to go straight to the hospital, but we stop by the house first to grab a few things. In my defense, the house is about a mile from the vet's and is almost on the way.
When we get to the hospital, things at first do not seem to be moving that fast. We check in, and we are supposed to wait in the special doggy ER waiting area. It is separated, you see, from the cat ER waiting area. No, not kidding. It is also to the other side of the big open central area from where non-emergency animals hang out. Which meant that V was being kept away from the dogs he knew were in the building by his mean owner. He barked early and often, presumably to explain to the dim-wit holding his leash that there were DOGS to sniff, and not more than a few seconds away. Eventually, he barfed a bit more, and shortly after an ER doc arrived. Who was funny and warm and clearly disappointed that the fresh haul didn't contain the needle from the X-ray. She then explained to me that they would try to get the darned thing by means of endoscopy, but she wanted me to know that if they fail, he'd have to have gastrotomy, which is a fancy term for opening the dog up and getting the thing straight out of his stomach.
So V got weighed and I had to sign off on being willing to spend many many dollars for the first procedure, and also that I am willing to spend more if that fails and they have to cut. A nice technician then led the puppy away, leaving me with his collar and leash. And I waited. Can't tell you how long-- I don't have a sense anymore. Finally the vet came out, sat at the table with me and told me that they'd tried to get the thing via endoscopy for good twenty minutes, but that there was so much grass and wood chips inside that they literally couldn't find the needle in that haystack.
This was the first time I sank. Not literally-- I was sitting after all. But you know what I mean-- my insides, all of me, just sank. Before this news I thought I was so fucking clever-- made sure to have insurance, made the catch on the behavior that neither my husband nor the vet made. I rocked, see? And suddenly I was the first time dog owner idiot who let her dog eat grass and gnaw on sticks (he was bringing those in over the last couple of days and making a thorough and quick job of them). The ER doc tried to talk me off of that particular ledge. She said that these things he was doing were his instinctual way of dealing with the foreign body. That's how he was trying to protect himself.
She told me to go home, since they would have to keep him at least overnight after the surgery. She promised to call as soon as they were done. I thought I'd calmed down by then. I drove home, I had dinner with my sister and her family. I waited for the call. But when three days later we still couldn't find the collar and leash that I was sure I remembered taking from the hospital to the car with me and then bringing into the house, and finally I'd called the hospital and they had it, well, that's when I knew I was not fine that Friday night. Managing to acquire tactile and visual memories of something that never happened? I was not fine.
Eventually the nice ER doc called. Surgery was a smashing success and the surgeon was happy they'd done it because, and I quote, he wasn't sure the grassy mess they took out would've made it out on its own. They weighed the mass-o-grass, and there was a full pound of it. They also found the needle, complete with a good length of black thread, yellowish and kinda rusting itself. I don't have any yellow needles. He did not eat OUR needle. He must've found it on a walk or, alternatively, under our deck, if the previous owners dropped it there accidentally however many moons ago. We were incredibly lucky-- he only had a small ulcer on the esophagus and he had no perforations of the stomach, and apparently no infection. He'd need to stay overnight, as promised, but we could get him the next day. We ended up leaving him an extra night and then having my sister and brother in law pick him up and take him to our house, since I had to fly to get the Cub back from my parents. The hospital they told me not to visit the day after the surgery-- V had already revealed his boisterous nature, and they were worried he'd need sedatives after if I come but then go and leave him there.
This is after. Sunday after the Friday. His tummy is shaven and he has scary looking staples in it. And his discharge instructions say, as point number one, to keep the puppy chilled and as inactive as possible for the next two weeks. Yup, a four and a half months old terrier puppy. That was going to be no problem. No problem at all.
It was relatively doable while he was taking drugs. It got a lot harder when he no longer was. It was particularly tough the night Monkey and JD got back from overseas. And he was not at all on board with the whole only going outside to do business and only on a leash plan. But in the end we managed, and all of us survived.
The next time I felt myself losing it was after everyone was back under the same roof, and things were on the mend. For some reason, driving back home one day I let myself really understand what the breeder told JD when he asked her how fast puppies recover from such surgeries, in her experience, that is. When he told me, days before, I didn't really process it. I mean I understood what the words were saying, but not what they meant. She'd said that most often needles are found on necropsies, but that if people know the needle is there, with no money for such surgeries and not many vets qualified to do them anyway, most often all an owner can do is feed the dog bread mixed with cotton balls, essentially to do what V did for himself by eating grass-- coat the foreign body and hope it comes out the other end. So driving home that day it suddenly hit me what it must feel like to be that human, sitting with your dog, knowing all you can do is feed the dog fucking cotton balls with bread. Knowing your dog would most likely die, and most likely from a raging infection. I thought I was going to throw up.
When JD called the insurance company to ask how to file the claim (they were wonderful, btw), he also asked about how frequent claims like this were. And the nice lady told him that usually these claims come with serious courses of antibiotics for a profoundly raging infection as well as with removing damaged sections of the intestine.
So yes, I probably saved V's life, or at least his quality of life. And likely because I was so inexperienced with puppies that I worried enough about the smallest changes from his usual to take him in right away, whereas an experienced dog owner might've written those off as the weird things puppies do. And after I'd exhaled, after rationally speaking everything seemed to be improving, I realized that I was still on edge. The blowback, something I should've expected, but didn't, had me in a crazy hypervigilant overdrive about the pregnancy. Because see, I saved the dog. I noticed something nobody else did. I, therefore, might have the power to notice something similarly obscure that would jeopardize my baby's life. And what's worse, I was the only one with that power. The only one.
The day of the surgery I was 26 weeks 1 day. I didn't have an appointment scheduled until 27w5ds, and it wasn't until right about 27-1 or 27-2 that I even realized why I was as on edge as I was. So when I showed up for that appointment, I couldn't hold it anymore. I told Nurse Kind that I was losing it, that I had the worst time trying to be vigilant. She wanted me to tell Dr. Best the same thing, and I did. I thought I had to wait until about 32 for the thorough monitoring. Turns out, NSTs are best done starting then, but BPPs can be started as soon as 28 weeks. Which was coming up rapidly. And Dr. Best was not in the mood to be shy about those. We started BPPs that very Friday, at 28w1d.
That? That was not only incredibly validating, but also calming. Not right away, mind you, but when Friday rolled around, when the ultrasound goop hit my belly? Yes, yes it was. Because suddenly I was no longer the only one with the power to help my baby-- the doctors, and ultrasound technicians, and big machines, they all had my back. They all had her back. I knew then and I know now that a BPP passed with flying colors is no guarantee of live birth or even of survival for the next week, until the next BPP. And hey, the very day of my first BPP I also got the first run of my first real contractions for this pregnancy. So it's not like the clouds parted and I became a blissful pregnant woman, far from it. But it made me feel better, not to mention valued and respected, and I will forever count that as one of Dr. Best's greatest hits.
Finally, and blessedly, the end. Oh, wait-- PSA: If you are contemplating getting a new pet, please, please, please do yourself a favor and get pet insurance. All set. Now it's really the end.
So let's rewind reality, about oh say... 11 weeks and three days. Monkey and JD are out of the country, attending a family wedding. The Cub is visiting my parents. V the puppy and I are having a pretty good week. I am actually getting stuff crossed off the all-mighty list, I am getting work done. I am even hoping to get to blog (no, honest-- that too was on the list for the week, just never happened). And on Thursday night, V and I are off to puppy school. I'd never gone before-- the timing hadn't worked out, but I'd heard much about the characters from JD. So we manage a walk and a puppy dinner before getting into the car, and I am feeling mighty pleased with myself.
Half way to school I hear a funny sound, look and see a... um... pile of what was, going in, his dinner. While I pull over and call the school to see whether they think we should turn around and go straight to the vet (remember-- I'd never had a dog before), V thinks about it for a few, and-- look away if you are squeamish,-- eats the whole pile back up. Yum. And since the school is letting the answering machine pick up, I decide to keep going. When we get there, I ask about our little gross adventure, and the teacher tells me puppies do that kind of thing. Oh, ok then. I actually have a video from that night, of V being playfully chased by a much smaller, but very feisty French Bulldog. It was very, very cute. But knowing what must've been happening on the inside for V, I look at that video and wonder.
So the next day, after teaching my class and office hours, I still had a few things on tap-- namely submitting some stuff for work and, later, a haircut appointment. You know, because I actually had time to spend on myself. So I am working on the submission, minding my own business, when I see the puppy start to make the freakiest oval on the rug-- he'd throw up just a bit of the lunch he'd just consumed, then move over a bit and do it again. In the end, he'd made a shape'o'piles on the rug. Extremely appetizing. While I shoot an email to JD to say WTF? and also, do I take the puppy to the vet now?, and did I say WTF yet?, V starts to go around the piles and eating them back up. Capital W weird, no? And then he goes to play outside.
Call the vet, who says we're open until 7-- go get your haircut if he's playing and call us if he's off when you are back. Sounds like a plan. Except as I am finishing the submission, the puppy walks into the house, lays down by the couch, and starts to whimper. For maybe 30 seconds. Then gets up and goes out to play again. But did I mention I'd never had a dog before? The whimpering? It freaks me out. So I call the stylist, who works out of her house and is a dog person, and tell her that I am worried about the puppy and could we push it because I will take him to the vet now. She's on board with it, and off to the vet we go.
Where, of course, V starts to act like his usual self. By which I mean wanting to play with every dog in the joint. Because? OMG!DIDYASEETHAT????IT'SAPUPPY,ANDSOAMI!!!!!!!LETME!!LETME!!LETME!!! It's crazy enough that I make a crack about how if my daughter paid the puppy off to pull this on me so that I miss my haircut, I will be very miffed (did I mention Monkey doesn't like me getting haircuts? She plays with my hair for fun, so if it gets too short for her after a haircut, she disapproves). Funny, no? Though I am fully aware, even in the moment, that the joke only works if it does, in fact, turn out to be nothing.
So finally we get to see the doctor. Who says the puppy's "acting appropriately." Though his belly is a bit tender, so maybe a bland diet for a few days. I must not look too relieved because then she says that the puppy doesn't need an X-ray, but that they can do one in abundance of caution. You know, to calm me down.
This is where we take a short diversion for a love letter/ode to Tash. Because way before we ever got the puppy, Tash had told me, early and often, to never ever get a pet without first getting pet insurance. I have ears (and eyes-- she's said it in chats too), and she has tales that demonstrate rather convincingly why that's the case, and so when we finally had the date for V's arrival, I got on JD's case to pretty please figure out the insurance thing but yesterday already. Turns out, things are a bit more complicated these days, since there is a whole new model of pet insurance out there, and we ended up going with that new model in the end-- it's cheaper out of pocket and covers all kinds of bad things. If you want to know more, I can explain in the comments-- I think the post is getting too long already. Short version is having pet insurance saved us thousands of dollars, literally. And I still owe Tash a beer or something stronger. Am daydreaming of when she will finally show up to collect.
Back to the story. I lurve the information age. Because see, while I was fairly sure our insurance was good to go by then, I wasn't sure sure. And the person who made it happen was not so very on the same continent at the time. But text messages, they cross oceans and all that. So I sent one, and JD called me a few minutes later. The reason I am telling you this long form is to underscore than the X-ray we got the puppy was universally believed to have been for the benefit of calming me down, since, as a first time dog owner (did I mention?) I seemed to have been a bit out of sorts still. That is, JD promptly told me that I didn't need our insurance's particulars, since it is a mail stuff in for reimbursement kind, but that since I still sounded nervous, he thought we should get the X-ray. So we did.
A sidenote-- they bring the image to show you on a freaking iPad. Which is both way cool and a bit crazy. But hey, it was fast and it was easily available for me to see, so I am not complaining. The thing on the image, though? Thin and bright. Metal. A needle? Really? Even the doc couldn't believe it, so she ordered a second X-ray at a different angle to make sure it wasn't a thin piece of something. It wasn't. Second X-ray, same result. The puppy ate a frigging needle!
At this point they tell us we should go to the big veterinary hospital, and pronto. And I get that this is fairly urgent, but my brain is still protecting me-- I am not clear on either how urgent or how dangerous. The office gives us electronic copies of the X-rays and tells us to go straight to the hospital, but we stop by the house first to grab a few things. In my defense, the house is about a mile from the vet's and is almost on the way.
When we get to the hospital, things at first do not seem to be moving that fast. We check in, and we are supposed to wait in the special doggy ER waiting area. It is separated, you see, from the cat ER waiting area. No, not kidding. It is also to the other side of the big open central area from where non-emergency animals hang out. Which meant that V was being kept away from the dogs he knew were in the building by his mean owner. He barked early and often, presumably to explain to the dim-wit holding his leash that there were DOGS to sniff, and not more than a few seconds away. Eventually, he barfed a bit more, and shortly after an ER doc arrived. Who was funny and warm and clearly disappointed that the fresh haul didn't contain the needle from the X-ray. She then explained to me that they would try to get the darned thing by means of endoscopy, but she wanted me to know that if they fail, he'd have to have gastrotomy, which is a fancy term for opening the dog up and getting the thing straight out of his stomach.
So V got weighed and I had to sign off on being willing to spend many many dollars for the first procedure, and also that I am willing to spend more if that fails and they have to cut. A nice technician then led the puppy away, leaving me with his collar and leash. And I waited. Can't tell you how long-- I don't have a sense anymore. Finally the vet came out, sat at the table with me and told me that they'd tried to get the thing via endoscopy for good twenty minutes, but that there was so much grass and wood chips inside that they literally couldn't find the needle in that haystack.
This was the first time I sank. Not literally-- I was sitting after all. But you know what I mean-- my insides, all of me, just sank. Before this news I thought I was so fucking clever-- made sure to have insurance, made the catch on the behavior that neither my husband nor the vet made. I rocked, see? And suddenly I was the first time dog owner idiot who let her dog eat grass and gnaw on sticks (he was bringing those in over the last couple of days and making a thorough and quick job of them). The ER doc tried to talk me off of that particular ledge. She said that these things he was doing were his instinctual way of dealing with the foreign body. That's how he was trying to protect himself.
She told me to go home, since they would have to keep him at least overnight after the surgery. She promised to call as soon as they were done. I thought I'd calmed down by then. I drove home, I had dinner with my sister and her family. I waited for the call. But when three days later we still couldn't find the collar and leash that I was sure I remembered taking from the hospital to the car with me and then bringing into the house, and finally I'd called the hospital and they had it, well, that's when I knew I was not fine that Friday night. Managing to acquire tactile and visual memories of something that never happened? I was not fine.
Eventually the nice ER doc called. Surgery was a smashing success and the surgeon was happy they'd done it because, and I quote, he wasn't sure the grassy mess they took out would've made it out on its own. They weighed the mass-o-grass, and there was a full pound of it. They also found the needle, complete with a good length of black thread, yellowish and kinda rusting itself. I don't have any yellow needles. He did not eat OUR needle. He must've found it on a walk or, alternatively, under our deck, if the previous owners dropped it there accidentally however many moons ago. We were incredibly lucky-- he only had a small ulcer on the esophagus and he had no perforations of the stomach, and apparently no infection. He'd need to stay overnight, as promised, but we could get him the next day. We ended up leaving him an extra night and then having my sister and brother in law pick him up and take him to our house, since I had to fly to get the Cub back from my parents. The hospital they told me not to visit the day after the surgery-- V had already revealed his boisterous nature, and they were worried he'd need sedatives after if I come but then go and leave him there.
This is after. Sunday after the Friday. His tummy is shaven and he has scary looking staples in it. And his discharge instructions say, as point number one, to keep the puppy chilled and as inactive as possible for the next two weeks. Yup, a four and a half months old terrier puppy. That was going to be no problem. No problem at all.It was relatively doable while he was taking drugs. It got a lot harder when he no longer was. It was particularly tough the night Monkey and JD got back from overseas. And he was not at all on board with the whole only going outside to do business and only on a leash plan. But in the end we managed, and all of us survived.
The next time I felt myself losing it was after everyone was back under the same roof, and things were on the mend. For some reason, driving back home one day I let myself really understand what the breeder told JD when he asked her how fast puppies recover from such surgeries, in her experience, that is. When he told me, days before, I didn't really process it. I mean I understood what the words were saying, but not what they meant. She'd said that most often needles are found on necropsies, but that if people know the needle is there, with no money for such surgeries and not many vets qualified to do them anyway, most often all an owner can do is feed the dog bread mixed with cotton balls, essentially to do what V did for himself by eating grass-- coat the foreign body and hope it comes out the other end. So driving home that day it suddenly hit me what it must feel like to be that human, sitting with your dog, knowing all you can do is feed the dog fucking cotton balls with bread. Knowing your dog would most likely die, and most likely from a raging infection. I thought I was going to throw up.
When JD called the insurance company to ask how to file the claim (they were wonderful, btw), he also asked about how frequent claims like this were. And the nice lady told him that usually these claims come with serious courses of antibiotics for a profoundly raging infection as well as with removing damaged sections of the intestine.
So yes, I probably saved V's life, or at least his quality of life. And likely because I was so inexperienced with puppies that I worried enough about the smallest changes from his usual to take him in right away, whereas an experienced dog owner might've written those off as the weird things puppies do. And after I'd exhaled, after rationally speaking everything seemed to be improving, I realized that I was still on edge. The blowback, something I should've expected, but didn't, had me in a crazy hypervigilant overdrive about the pregnancy. Because see, I saved the dog. I noticed something nobody else did. I, therefore, might have the power to notice something similarly obscure that would jeopardize my baby's life. And what's worse, I was the only one with that power. The only one.
The day of the surgery I was 26 weeks 1 day. I didn't have an appointment scheduled until 27w5ds, and it wasn't until right about 27-1 or 27-2 that I even realized why I was as on edge as I was. So when I showed up for that appointment, I couldn't hold it anymore. I told Nurse Kind that I was losing it, that I had the worst time trying to be vigilant. She wanted me to tell Dr. Best the same thing, and I did. I thought I had to wait until about 32 for the thorough monitoring. Turns out, NSTs are best done starting then, but BPPs can be started as soon as 28 weeks. Which was coming up rapidly. And Dr. Best was not in the mood to be shy about those. We started BPPs that very Friday, at 28w1d.
That? That was not only incredibly validating, but also calming. Not right away, mind you, but when Friday rolled around, when the ultrasound goop hit my belly? Yes, yes it was. Because suddenly I was no longer the only one with the power to help my baby-- the doctors, and ultrasound technicians, and big machines, they all had my back. They all had her back. I knew then and I know now that a BPP passed with flying colors is no guarantee of live birth or even of survival for the next week, until the next BPP. And hey, the very day of my first BPP I also got the first run of my first real contractions for this pregnancy. So it's not like the clouds parted and I became a blissful pregnant woman, far from it. But it made me feel better, not to mention valued and respected, and I will forever count that as one of Dr. Best's greatest hits.
Finally, and blessedly, the end. Oh, wait-- PSA: If you are contemplating getting a new pet, please, please, please do yourself a favor and get pet insurance. All set. Now it's really the end.
Monday, June 18, 2012
They grow up so fast! (*sniff, sniff*)
The thing about falling off the wagon is that when you get back on, you feel like you must explain. Or at least I do. And my excuses? They are rarely anything but lame. This time is no exception. I fall asleep all.the.time. Truth be told, it's really more about I spend the day trying to be at least semi-productive, clearing items of various size off the to-do list (though don't ask about the big "apply for better jobs" one-- the experiences of doing that over the last couple of years leave me mostly depressed and wishing, in the rare instances when something appropriate pops up in the ads, to postpone doing of this as long as humanly possible) because I think I will be able to write a bit later in the evening. And then the evening rolls up on me, and I go clunk. Or click, like the light. See? Lame. Ok, switching gears, because really, I am bored with me and my sad tale of sleeping sickness.
So the title of the post. It is sooooo not talking about kids, mine or otherwise. But you knew that, right? This here is the long-promised fuzzy happy puppy post. Because the puppy? Is cute. Also, following JD's return suddenly a lot less crazy puppy-like in his behavior. An abrupt shift, really. Very strange and a bit disconcerting, though admittedly a lot easier to deal with.
This is one of his very first pictures this side of the pond. He flew in from the Old City, round about when he was 2.5 months old. Minutes out of the crate, and he's trying to make friends with Monkey. Right outside the cargo terminal at the airport. Monkey was a bit freaked, actually, as you might be able to tell from the awkward position of her hands. It passed, quickly, and these days she does a pretty good job bossing him around.
This next one is one of the first home shots, with a bonus glimpse of the Cub. See how tiny the dog used to be? The kid was sooooo excited for the puppy to come that when it finally happened, he was in the poor animal's face continuously, and eventually got a tiny bit nipped. He spent the next two weeks or so moving around the first floor mostly from couch to an adult and back again. Slowly, he began petting the puppy again, then playing nearby, then chasing. And now if you look up "a boy and his dog" in the great encyclopedia of cliches, you will undoubtedly see a picture of the two of them.
This is about a week later. Growing, gaining weight, taking a rare respite from getting into trouble.
About three more weeks later here. See how much more of a redhead (redbody?) he is?
The puppy is an Airedale Terrier, which, if you know anything about puppies, terriers in general, or Airedales in particular, should translate for you into plain English as "they be crazy." His name is a nerdy joke, stolen with absolutely no shame from the cartoon villain (not protagonist!) of "Despicable Me"-- his name starts with a V, and he is so named because we fully expected him to commit mischief with both direction and magnitude. (Get it? If not, congratulations, you are not a nerd! But do look up the movie and it will tell you the villain's name, and as a bonus there should be his picture in a bright orange jump suit.) If anything, V exceeded all our expectations in this area. Up until this week, that is.
About three more weeks. First doggy playdate. With a slightly older (and much bigger) Bernese Mountain dog.
And this is where we take a small break in photographic evidence and accompanying narration, to be filled in by the scary puppy post. *Cue ominous music.* On the plus side, that post is to include the cutest ever puppy-in-a-cone pic. It will also include a public service announcement and a love note to Tash.
So here's the much shaggier, much bigger dog, more than a month later. This is post the incident, and post recovery therefrom. The puppy doesn't really seem worse for wear, does he? Wish I could say the same for this owner. On the other hand-- cute, no?
A dog's life's is so tough, isn't it? This is a couple more weeks and nearly the height of the shaggy-- he's about to get a haircut (hairpull, actually-- fancy Airedale grooming thing).
So grown up! Why do haircuts make cute little things look so much more grown? In my experience that happens with toddlers as well as with dogs.
Our vet called him a beautiful specimen. Not that I am biased or anything, but methinks that this pic makes it tough to argue with the assessment.
Altogether now: awwwwwwwwww!
Yesterday. Getting shaggier again. And bigger. Tough to believe, but he does still have some growing to do.
And that makes us up to date on the puppy front. If you are not a dog person, apologies for way too many pictures. If you are, I hope this was fun.
Scary puppy post coming up next. And a post on gingerly stepping back into certain elements of past lives. Also, in Mel's words, about giving a fuck. Happens to be one and the same post.
Meanwhile, today, incredible as it seems, I am at 36w 4d. That would be the same gestation as I was the evening before the night I actually gave birth to the Cub. If nothing funny happens until then, sometime tomorrow I will be more pregnant than I've been but once before. Kinda crazy. More on that later too.
So the title of the post. It is sooooo not talking about kids, mine or otherwise. But you knew that, right? This here is the long-promised fuzzy happy puppy post. Because the puppy? Is cute. Also, following JD's return suddenly a lot less crazy puppy-like in his behavior. An abrupt shift, really. Very strange and a bit disconcerting, though admittedly a lot easier to deal with.This is one of his very first pictures this side of the pond. He flew in from the Old City, round about when he was 2.5 months old. Minutes out of the crate, and he's trying to make friends with Monkey. Right outside the cargo terminal at the airport. Monkey was a bit freaked, actually, as you might be able to tell from the awkward position of her hands. It passed, quickly, and these days she does a pretty good job bossing him around.
This next one is one of the first home shots, with a bonus glimpse of the Cub. See how tiny the dog used to be? The kid was sooooo excited for the puppy to come that when it finally happened, he was in the poor animal's face continuously, and eventually got a tiny bit nipped. He spent the next two weeks or so moving around the first floor mostly from couch to an adult and back again. Slowly, he began petting the puppy again, then playing nearby, then chasing. And now if you look up "a boy and his dog" in the great encyclopedia of cliches, you will undoubtedly see a picture of the two of them.
This is about a week later. Growing, gaining weight, taking a rare respite from getting into trouble.
About three more weeks later here. See how much more of a redhead (redbody?) he is?The puppy is an Airedale Terrier, which, if you know anything about puppies, terriers in general, or Airedales in particular, should translate for you into plain English as "they be crazy." His name is a nerdy joke, stolen with absolutely no shame from the cartoon villain (not protagonist!) of "Despicable Me"-- his name starts with a V, and he is so named because we fully expected him to commit mischief with both direction and magnitude. (Get it? If not, congratulations, you are not a nerd! But do look up the movie and it will tell you the villain's name, and as a bonus there should be his picture in a bright orange jump suit.) If anything, V exceeded all our expectations in this area. Up until this week, that is.
About three more weeks. First doggy playdate. With a slightly older (and much bigger) Bernese Mountain dog.
And this is where we take a small break in photographic evidence and accompanying narration, to be filled in by the scary puppy post. *Cue ominous music.* On the plus side, that post is to include the cutest ever puppy-in-a-cone pic. It will also include a public service announcement and a love note to Tash.
So here's the much shaggier, much bigger dog, more than a month later. This is post the incident, and post recovery therefrom. The puppy doesn't really seem worse for wear, does he? Wish I could say the same for this owner. On the other hand-- cute, no? 
A dog's life's is so tough, isn't it? This is a couple more weeks and nearly the height of the shaggy-- he's about to get a haircut (hairpull, actually-- fancy Airedale grooming thing). 
So grown up! Why do haircuts make cute little things look so much more grown? In my experience that happens with toddlers as well as with dogs. 
Our vet called him a beautiful specimen. Not that I am biased or anything, but methinks that this pic makes it tough to argue with the assessment. 
Yesterday. Getting shaggier again. And bigger. Tough to believe, but he does still have some growing to do.And that makes us up to date on the puppy front. If you are not a dog person, apologies for way too many pictures. If you are, I hope this was fun.
Scary puppy post coming up next. And a post on gingerly stepping back into certain elements of past lives. Also, in Mel's words, about giving a fuck. Happens to be one and the same post.
Meanwhile, today, incredible as it seems, I am at 36w 4d. That would be the same gestation as I was the evening before the night I actually gave birth to the Cub. If nothing funny happens until then, sometime tomorrow I will be more pregnant than I've been but once before. Kinda crazy. More on that later too.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
HNAFU: Headspace Normal, All Effed Up
The thing about choices, catches, calls, and all things of the sort is that they come with consequences. We are, of course, usually hoping for the good kind of those, but have to accept all comers, even the unforeseen kind. Which is why hindsight can be a bitch. And not only when what we see in the rearview mirror is a mistake. Uncertainty, as I found out, can be fairly profoundly haunting.
When the Cub was born, he spent a week in NICU, most of it because of an infection. Three weeks before he was born, I spent a weekend in the hospital on magnesium. I remember that when they put the loading bag of mag on, they said the dose would go down after the first bag. It didn't. I knew it was because the contractions didn't slow down yet-- I could read the monitors even if I couldn't feel them anymore. The thing is, though, that along with the IV fluids and the mag, they also gave me antibiotics, since I was presumed to be positive for group B strep-- it grew on the cultures from the amnio Dr. Best did after A died but before his membranes ruptured in the course of that induced labor. I could tell that when contractions didn't slow down soon after they started the mag, the thought was that we'd likely end up delivering that weekend, though it would be nice to make it past the 48 hours needed for steroids to take full effect. And so when contractions did slow down and eventually went pretty much to nil, I was more inclined to credit the antibiotics for presumably defeating the infection I presumed caused the PTL in the first place. We won't, of course, ever know for sure. But even Dr. Best says that my scenario is very possible, and is certainly no less possible than my contractions turning productive for no apparent reason that day.
Barely five days before that weekend at the hospital I wrote here about the crazy of being The Protector, the one person in the universe with the possibility of catching something that would save that baby's life. That weekend it really seemed like I might have. In the rearview mirror though? Things are a lot less clear when viewed from anywhere past point of Cub's delivery. Because see, the math goes fuzzy once the infection he was born in is included in the assessment. Now the assessment goes like this: I caught the PTL that started before 34 weeks, which helped to keep him cooking for those crucial weeks more, weeks he would've likely spent in NICU had he actually been born then. Yay for me! BUT what if he wasn't born when he was? What if the infection NICU ended up kicking in the balls was allowed to keep going on the inside? That could've ended a lot worse than a few weeks in NICU he was looking at had he been actually delivered when PTL hit. He could've died. He really could've died too.
This is the crazy-inducing what if game that I still can't wrap my mind around. This is really why I eventually agreed to see a shrink-- I knew we wanted another baby one day, and two things messed with my head when thinking about potentially trying again. First was that being The Protector was completely exhausting, but that because I did catch the PTL, it felt like I'd have to voluntarily sign up for precisely that level of crazy in any pregnancy that would follow. The other thing was that having made the catch on PTL, I may have set the Cub up for the danger of another infection later on in gestation. Some protector.
This is not resolved in my head to any satisfaction as yet. Though it helps that this has been a less eventful pregnancy in terms of the trips to L&D and happenings that precipitate those. Going into it I knew anxiety would come to stay, and I had to be sort of ok with it. Which I sort of am. But not enough to be zen or anything. And not enough that catching a life-threatening condition in our new puppy didn't then result in major anxiety blowback. Which is really why I am talking about this now-- I am going to tell the puppy story in the next day or two (provided I can stay awake enough to write, and the creek don't rise, of course), and I wanted to explain the headspace in which the crazy that fuels it all resides. The completely fucked up headspace, but the only headspace I've got.
When the Cub was born, he spent a week in NICU, most of it because of an infection. Three weeks before he was born, I spent a weekend in the hospital on magnesium. I remember that when they put the loading bag of mag on, they said the dose would go down after the first bag. It didn't. I knew it was because the contractions didn't slow down yet-- I could read the monitors even if I couldn't feel them anymore. The thing is, though, that along with the IV fluids and the mag, they also gave me antibiotics, since I was presumed to be positive for group B strep-- it grew on the cultures from the amnio Dr. Best did after A died but before his membranes ruptured in the course of that induced labor. I could tell that when contractions didn't slow down soon after they started the mag, the thought was that we'd likely end up delivering that weekend, though it would be nice to make it past the 48 hours needed for steroids to take full effect. And so when contractions did slow down and eventually went pretty much to nil, I was more inclined to credit the antibiotics for presumably defeating the infection I presumed caused the PTL in the first place. We won't, of course, ever know for sure. But even Dr. Best says that my scenario is very possible, and is certainly no less possible than my contractions turning productive for no apparent reason that day.
Barely five days before that weekend at the hospital I wrote here about the crazy of being The Protector, the one person in the universe with the possibility of catching something that would save that baby's life. That weekend it really seemed like I might have. In the rearview mirror though? Things are a lot less clear when viewed from anywhere past point of Cub's delivery. Because see, the math goes fuzzy once the infection he was born in is included in the assessment. Now the assessment goes like this: I caught the PTL that started before 34 weeks, which helped to keep him cooking for those crucial weeks more, weeks he would've likely spent in NICU had he actually been born then. Yay for me! BUT what if he wasn't born when he was? What if the infection NICU ended up kicking in the balls was allowed to keep going on the inside? That could've ended a lot worse than a few weeks in NICU he was looking at had he been actually delivered when PTL hit. He could've died. He really could've died too.
This is the crazy-inducing what if game that I still can't wrap my mind around. This is really why I eventually agreed to see a shrink-- I knew we wanted another baby one day, and two things messed with my head when thinking about potentially trying again. First was that being The Protector was completely exhausting, but that because I did catch the PTL, it felt like I'd have to voluntarily sign up for precisely that level of crazy in any pregnancy that would follow. The other thing was that having made the catch on PTL, I may have set the Cub up for the danger of another infection later on in gestation. Some protector.
This is not resolved in my head to any satisfaction as yet. Though it helps that this has been a less eventful pregnancy in terms of the trips to L&D and happenings that precipitate those. Going into it I knew anxiety would come to stay, and I had to be sort of ok with it. Which I sort of am. But not enough to be zen or anything. And not enough that catching a life-threatening condition in our new puppy didn't then result in major anxiety blowback. Which is really why I am talking about this now-- I am going to tell the puppy story in the next day or two (provided I can stay awake enough to write, and the creek don't rise, of course), and I wanted to explain the headspace in which the crazy that fuels it all resides. The completely fucked up headspace, but the only headspace I've got.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Hanging on...
I am not entirely off the wagon, though obviously I am not entirely on it either. More like hanging on to the sides of said wagon, being dragged through the streets. A lovely sight, really. I blame the tired (I fall asleep way before I intend to what seems like every other day) and the busy. The busy is a lot more fun than the tired, and I plan on talking about at least the last three days worth of busy. I might even have a link to share... For historical reasons, the last three days of busy are also a decently-sized mindfuck, so I need to stew on it for a bit before spewing forth with it.
I also have a couple of puppy posts brewing. With JD away, I feel all the more acutely the charge of, in the words of the fox from The Little Prince, the responsibility for what we have tamed. (Though the degree to which this particular relative of the wolf can be considered tamed differs in my mind from day to day-- I am mostly joking here, and he is getting more and more well-behaved, but he does, still, like to check on whether maybe he can appoint himself to be in charge around here, what with the big dude not being around and all.)
See, I've never had a dog before. Which probably saved this puppy's life a couple of months ago, last time JD was away. And, with a short time delay, resulted in a major anxiety blowback for me. The story will be the topic of the puppy post that's not all cuteness. But given that as background, let me just tell you that I freaked right the fuck out when he started behaving unusually yesterday (including gifting me with the mighty smelly piles in the house-- this from the months-ago-housetrained dog). The vet's office accommodated my panicked phonecall, even though they fully expected him to need at most some meds for stomach/GI issues. And that's all he did end up needing. Well, that and a bland diet, which means that I cooked for the dog more than I cooked for the humans today. He was back to his old self by morning, and I am grateful, even though he's a much bigger handful this way. Actually, this is how you know he's feeling better.
This concludes my post of lame excuses and coming attractions. I, of course, use the term "attractions" loosely. Except for the post with all the puppy pics, of course.
I also have a couple of puppy posts brewing. With JD away, I feel all the more acutely the charge of, in the words of the fox from The Little Prince, the responsibility for what we have tamed. (Though the degree to which this particular relative of the wolf can be considered tamed differs in my mind from day to day-- I am mostly joking here, and he is getting more and more well-behaved, but he does, still, like to check on whether maybe he can appoint himself to be in charge around here, what with the big dude not being around and all.)
See, I've never had a dog before. Which probably saved this puppy's life a couple of months ago, last time JD was away. And, with a short time delay, resulted in a major anxiety blowback for me. The story will be the topic of the puppy post that's not all cuteness. But given that as background, let me just tell you that I freaked right the fuck out when he started behaving unusually yesterday (including gifting me with the mighty smelly piles in the house-- this from the months-ago-housetrained dog). The vet's office accommodated my panicked phonecall, even though they fully expected him to need at most some meds for stomach/GI issues. And that's all he did end up needing. Well, that and a bland diet, which means that I cooked for the dog more than I cooked for the humans today. He was back to his old self by morning, and I am grateful, even though he's a much bigger handful this way. Actually, this is how you know he's feeling better.
This concludes my post of lame excuses and coming attractions. I, of course, use the term "attractions" loosely. Except for the post with all the puppy pics, of course.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
