"I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own"-Mythbusters

Have you ever noticed that people who are diagnosed with cancer seem to die rather quickly after being diagnosed, whereas some people live for decades without being diagnosed, and yet actually have cancer?

The mind is a powerful thing.  As is science.  As is the belief in the impossible.  The vet said he didn't think he could cure Stella, and I chose not to believe him.  I rode the rollercoaster, feeling my stomach rise into my throat on the plummeting downward, and feeling the elation every time a tiny tail wag lifted my spirits.  I've watched Stella try to chase squirrels, go for long walks, and take a nap in the good grass (finally!):

She's been awake more often these days, and when she sleeps it's a deep sleep that usually involves snoring.  Her nose has just about stopped leaking green goo completely, although now I do as my friend did with her child, and have to pick crusty "boogies" from Stella's nose in the morning.  I actually call them "snotsies" but I probably should stop since a passerby might mistakenly hear, "Stella, you have some Nazi's on your face."

She doesn't like breakfast anymore, but she eventually eats in the afternoon and ends her day with a midnight snack.  She's become strong enough to fight off Angie and me as we try to give her the injections.  Sure, she still coughs a lot during the night, and she isn't completely snot-free, but it's clear now, not green.

I told Stella last night and that she had to do whatever it took to appear better this morning.  Our appointment with the vet was at 11:30, and she needed to give the impression of a dog feeling well so he didn't think she hadn't improved at all.  At the very least, I didn't want to subject Stella to any more injections.

Stella rose to the challenge.  We slept in, as she had completed her two weeks of antibiotics and could start her morning needle-free, and rather than a quick pee at the end of the driveway, she wanted to go for a brief fifteen minute walk around the 'hood.  She had a spring in her step and wanted to meet another dog that was up ahead of us on a walk.

On the ride to the vet's, her left nostril dribbled slightly, but just as it would with any nervous dog.  The moment we got to the front door, Stella turned to head back to the car--just like any healthy dog would.  I told her she was doing really well at appearing healthier than before and she sat with me while we waited for the vet.  But she didn't even wag her tail for Mia, the receptionist who had given her that orange bunny toy.  She knew damn well that coming here was never a pleasant experience.

The doc was in better spirits since I last I saw him, and he was patient and kind to both Stella and me.  He clipped her toenails, gave her some eye drops (he said she had eye infection...I guess it wasn't bad enough to warrant me giving her meds for it though), and Stella didn't dribble nose-goo at all.  Instead, she enacted her latest defense mechanism: like a porcupine loosening his grip on his spines when stressed, Stella lets loose a flurry of dander, and it appears if she has just returned from running around in a blizzard.

I waited twenty minutes while they took her in the back for her blood tests and x-rays and hoped and wished and prayed that the tests would confirm her increasing health.  I was already dismayed to see the scale betrayed me: Stella still weighed 28.5 pounds.  But with how much more energy Stella's had, I assumed the x-rays would confirm that she wasn't as sick as before.

The vet brought me in to look at Stella's x-ray.  He showed me her first x-ray when she came in almost a month ago, and that there was a little bit of fluid in her lungs.  The one taken five days later showed more fluid.  And the one today: you could barely make out her heart.  And there was an odd something near the top of her lung, which had been there from the first x-ray, but seemed to have enlarged.  A tumor?  Maybe.  But was it worth putting this poor pup through all that pain to find out?  Probably not.  He did extract some fluid from her lungs, and he said it was milky white.  I think he might send it out for testing, but I'm not sure.

He didn't think the antibiotics had done any good, so Stella will no longer be subjected to injections anymore.  He did give her subcutaneous fluids, as she was lacking potassium and sodium.  He suggested I give her Gatorade or PediaLight to help her get a bit more vitamins and minerals with her fluids.  Her bloodwork showed that she wasn't metabolizing food at all.  No matter how much food we gave her, it just wasn't being processed.  I wondered, then, where did it all go? 

Her white blood cell count was high again--meaning that she is still fighting a bacterial infection.  He did mention that when she looked awful and sick, her count was low, but when she appeared better, her count was high.  And here's why I'm not a doctor: doesn't that make sense?  I mean, wouldn't she look better if her body was fighting off an infection and look worse if the infection was winning?

The vet asked, "Is she happy?" and I said, "Yes, I think she's improved.  She's more into doing things now." 

"Then that's what we want," was his reply.

Now that the facts were in front of me, hearing him say, "I think we just need to make her comfortable and let her be happy in her last remaining....however long she has" (I thought he was going to say weeks, but didn't specify), didn't sound as mean as it had the first time.

He's a man of Science.  And Science has spoken.  But I am a woman of Mystery...kidding.  I'm a Woman of Science as well, but I leave room for Faith, Miracles, and Hope.

For instance, there's room in my life for that whoever/whatever that appears to the canine guests.  Two nights ago, whoever/whatever it is that visits at the end of my couch appeared to Stella.  I was actually hugging her and her head was buried in my chest when she whipped her head around as if startled by a noise and looked up to lock eyes with something at human head height, next to the piano.  She didn't wag her tail, but she didn't take her eyes away.  I don't know who it is, but I know it can't be the Angel of Death as the other dogs have seen it too.  I actually was hoping that this visitation was a sign of good luck for the dogs who have spent time here.  But perhaps it's just someone checking in.

I've been bewildered by everyone asking how I've been doing and "Are you still okay doing this?" I have been too naïve to understand--or too stubborn to accept--their line of questioning.  I want to believe that Stella will still get better.  I don't want to give up on her.  I don't want to think that she had to spend her last few days here with me rather than in a home with other dogs to play with and a big backyard to lay in the sunshine. 

What if I hadn't seen those x-rays?  What if I didn't know the blood test results?  That's how I started out two weeks ago.  I was going to let a dog with kennel cough stay with me while she recovered.  Now it's evolved into me running hospice care.  But that's not because that's what I believed; it's what science is trying to tell me.  And I'm trying to understand why it is then, that she got out of the shelter, that she was rescued and her journey has taken her here.

Science has spoken.  It says Stella is still sick.  But Science is like that asshole in the cubicle down the way: he's quick to point out the problems, but never seems to have any solutions.  I guess that's where I step in with all the things that fill up the holes Science leaves behind;  I come with Hope and the power of belief.

It has taken me all afternoon to write this.  Usually I write these in an hour.  But this afternoon has been a rollercoaster, and I'm a bit nauseous.  I have spent time crying, writing, sobbing, writing, and trying to figure out how not to let my energy affect Stella.  I think it has affected her.  She's been shut down all day after a morning more traumatic than last Saturday when I made her bleed.  She needs time to recoup.  I vowed to not allow negative energy around Stella.  I need to keep my promise.

After writing a relatively hopeless email to Stephanie updating her on Stella, I went out to the living room to see how Stella was doing.  She wanted to lie up on the couch so I put her up there.  I then held her snow-cone ice-cup for her while she licked it, and then she stopped, shivering from her brain freeze.  While I was involved caring for her, not only did my sadness disappear, but Hope whispered in my ear:

The antibiotics DID work.  They DID rid her nose (and my couch, the carpet, and my bed) of gross green goo.  That was what the doc cultured and that's why she was on the meds she was on.  But now he has the fluid from her lungs.  What if he cultures that?  What if all this time Stella's been fighting more than one illness?  I had said from the beginning that her nose was doing better but she was still coughing.  The antibiotics were curing her from the nasal stuff...but NOT the lung issue.  So we need to find out what's in her lungs.

I couldn't finish writing this blog until now because I wanted to have Hope in it.  It took all afternoon, but the sounds of my crying finally stopped drowning out Hope who had been trying to tell me all day not to give up.  Science gave up; Hope never will.  And if it takes Hope kicking Science's ass to get Stella better, then I'm willing to build the fighting ring.

All You Need is Love...and Antibiotics

People who write reviews of amusements parks know this, and now so do I: you can't write a review of a rollercoaster while you're riding it.  And that's exactly what I've been doing for the past few days.

Stella's health is not getting progressively better on an even-paced slow upslope.  She's just having more good moments than bad moments.  But the bad moments truly are bad, and the good moments are getting better by the day.

Friday marked my 33^rd birthday and the first birthday I've had in which I've woken up to the sounds of a dog snoring at the end of my bed.  As much as this gave me great joy, it also did not allow me to sleep in.  I think running the vaporizer all night helps her breathe, and thus she's done slumbering earlier in the morning, but it really is making me want to sleep longer.

However, not having a job means that like Stella, once a few menial tasks are completed, I can take a nap.  Feeding her is priority number one, but giving her an injection without help involves her and I playing a life-size game of chess in my living room.  I don't want to stress her out, so I try to just sit next to her, but she reads me so clearly that as soon as I sit down, she's up and across the room to get comfy as far away from me as possible.

I did finally get the injection in, and with minimal shrieking.  I was on my own for the day as Lou had a gig so he and his mom were busy, and Linda was still sick.  But I didn't mind.  I wanted to be able to do this on my own.  (Did I mention my friend who injects  his cat on a daily basis?  If he can do that, I can do this.  Failure to do so was not only detrimental to Stella's health, but also my pride).

We spent the early afternoon outside.  Stella had gone for a walk - a real walk, as in down the street - on Thursday, and Friday she wanted to just soak up the sun in the parking lot.  She immediately plopped down in front of the first garage, and since I didn't feel like just standing there for an hour, I grabbed a chair and finally put to use the second dog bed I had bought--the indoor/outdoor water repellant one.  At first Stella didn't understand why she would have a dogbed, but once I put it down, she got cozy.

That evening, a friend stopped by and saw Stella for the first time.  He saw her chow down and couldn't believe she was that thin.  I wish I had Stella's metabolism (but not her hairloss).  When it came time for the injection, my friend tried to help me by telling me, "Oh, just grow a pair and do it.  She knows what you're up to.  Just do it and get it over with."  So as he sat there reading a book, not helping at all, I did it, but half of it didn't make it in.

When I was finished my friend looked at the After-Injection-Stella, her face shoved into the pillow, her eyes half-closed, and groaning with every exhale.  "Awww, I've felt like that when I've been sick too."  Stella is very expressive with her discomfort.

However, in only an hour's time she was peacefully sleeping and I actually went out for the evening.  And when I returned, she was still on the couch.  My birthday ended as it had begun: with a dog on my bed. (Note: once again, not really on her section of the bed.)

Saturday was not so good.  Stella has gotten to the point that when I simply take a bit of scruff in my hands, she shrieks as if I've injected her.  In fact, she went through the entire gamut of emotions this time, and I hadn't even done it.  When she finished her dramatics I informed her I hadn't injected her, so she should prepare herself for a repeat performance.

An hour of chess-playing in the living room, and I finally "grew a pair and just did it."  Stella shrieked, louder than usual, and rolled over.  I got all the medicine in, and I ignored her shrieking to the best of my ability as I tried to rub the injection site to make it feel better, but she refused to stand up.  I looked down at the carpet and saw a spec of blood.  I looked at my hand:  blood.  I tried to flip Stella over to see where the blood was coming from, and she went limp and heavy, trying to stop me from flipping her over. 

I got her half up, and to my horror, her fur was soaked in blood.  I got a paper towel so I could see how much was really coming out.  Her black fur covered the real damage.  I checked the needle, thinking I broke it off, but I hadn't.  I couldn't figure out how I had really hurt her.  But I had.  Now not only did I need her to forgive me, but I had a crisis on my hands.  I kept pressure where the largest amount of blood was, since I honestly couldn't find the source of bleeding.  The paper towel was covered in blood, and I was worried she might not make it to the vet's.  I called Diana, but I got voicemail.  I called her cell: voicemail again.  I called Lou, since Diana said I could call him if she didn't pick up.  He is, after all, a teenager so his phone is always handy.  His phone too, went to voicemail.  Before I could fully acknowledge that I had just called a fourteen year old to ask him to ask his mom to give me a ride someplace, Stella stopped bleeding.

I had two parties to attend on Saturday: one at 2:00 which Harry was rumored to be at, and I wanted to reunite with my little foster boy.  And the other was a friend's birthday party at 8:00.  However, after the bleeding incident, Stella shut down for the day.  She looked miserable.  She felt miserable.  Two o'clock came and went and I just couldn't tear myself away from the sad girl on my couch.  But I really wanted to see Harry.

At four o'clock I finally left the apartment.  I drove all the way to the party, and when I got out of the truck to walk up the street to the house, I realized I couldn't.  I was torn.  Stella was probably just sleeping, but my gut was telling me I was needed at home.  I went into the party, learned that Harry wasn't there yet, attempted to converse with one person, and found myself on the verge of tears.  I needed to go home.  Stella needed me.  I can't ignore my gut feeling.

I went home, and within ten minutes of walking in the door, Stella got up to finish her breakfast and since she was eating again, I put down more food for her so she could continue.  And then she rushed to the door.  She really, really had to take a dump.  There's no way she would have made it three hours without me there.  Sometimes the gut instinct you're listening to is actually your dog talking.

I didn't attend the second party of the night either.  The fact was, I was traumatized by the morning.  I had really hurt Stella.  I didn't want to ever do that again.  I needed to find a solution.  I got approval from Stephanie to find a professional to come in and give her the injections. Taking her to the vet's every day is way too traumatic, and I was stressing Stella out and making things worse.  The only option was a vet tech or someone of the sort that made housecalls.

Oddly, there isn't such a thing available on a Saturday night in Los Angeles...at least not one I could find that wouldn't cost something exorbitant.  My friend had mentioned that her pet sitter gave injections.  Duh.  Pet sitters totally could do the job!  So, I called Angie and she not only could do it--she could do it Saturday night!

That first injection didn't go terribly well.  Not all of the meds went in, but given my state of inability to ever wield a needle to Stella without shaking, I think she did much better than I could have.  I'm trying not to think of it as failure; I'm thinking of it as knowing my limitations.  I respect other people for recognizing their shortcomings, so I respect myself for realizing that giving injections to dogs is simply beyond my capability.

It really was less stressful than any injection before.  I got to be the comfort person for Stella, not the mean one.  And she didn't shriek. 

Today was even better.  Angie got the full injection in, and with minimal crying from Stella, and then we were on with our day.  I didn't grow a pair, but at least I found someone who had.  I think Stella appreciated it too. 

It was a good day for Stella.  The sun was shining, and we spent some more time in front of my neighbor's driveway, Stella's favorite spot to sit.

We walked around the neighborhood for half an hour, and Stella explored.  She found the softest spot under a staircase of an apartment building.

I was happy she sat there, since usually her grass-choice decisions are quite ghetto.  Unlike Harry who went for the softest, deepest, most aromatic lawns, Stella went for the anthill-ridden, never-watered, weedy, dirty, wet lawns that looked like "before pictures" in a landscaping instruction manual.

On our way back from our walk, we stopped to watch one squirrel chase another in the alley.  I wondered if it was a game or if one of them really was pissed off at the other.  As the one being chased headed toward us--me standing next to a dog--I had a brief moment of panic suspecting the squirrel might have rabies.  It literally was barreling forward, directly at us, without pausing.  Even Stella was so shocked she forgot to make a grab for him as he sped by within inches of her.  The moment he was behind us, Stella registered the event and actually took chase. 

The squirrel jumped up on a tree, and if Stella had 100% of her canine capacities in order, that squirrel would have been roadkill.  He was at her head height.  Again, the element of surprise was to his advantage as Stella wasn't sure what she was supposed to do.  She lunged in a half-hearted attempt and the squirrel went a few more feet up the tree.

Since the squirrel wasn't foaming at the mouth (and I could see that clearly since he was within a couple of feet of my head), I stopped worrying about rabies and was excited to see Stella engaged in her surroundings.  She lay by the tree for a spell, just taking in the 'hood, and keeping an eye out for any other squirrels.

Stella had many good moments today.  It was a day filled with tail wags, even for Angie who returned in the evening to give Stella another injection.  That sparkle in Stella's eye was starting to shine brighter and the rest of her body was following suit.  Sure, she's scrawny and she's missing some fur, but she's alive and happy to be so.  She wagged her tail all through her lunch and dinner, and said a shy hello to my neighbor with a tiny tail wag.

I finally believe it: Stella is getting better.  Her nose isn't runny in the morning anymore, and she doesn't cough quite so much.  And now that she's not worried about me coming at her with a needle and making her bleed to death, she's much more relaxed.  As am I.  Now Stella's only concern is: which bed now?