It's been a year since I've felt brave enough to put any of my thoughts in writing. I've been floundering in a turbulent ocean of emotions. I apologize in advance for the inarticulate ramblings below.
When I try to reflect on the past year, there is a haze. I think I am probably still in that haze. I'm in the middle of an ocean; I can't see solid land. On rare, sunny days, I enjoy riding the waves, it feels exhilarating, I try to convince myself to be excited for where they take me. But many days are grey, I am treading water, just trying to conserve energy. And suddenly the past week, I feel like I might be drowning again, looking up from the bottom of the ocean. I know there is light above, but it is so far away.
Last year was one of the darkest periods I've experienced since attempting suicide at 14. Therapy wasn't enough. I started an anti-depressant for the first time in my life. As weeks passed, I slowly floated up, I thought I was riding the waves pretty well. I ended my regular therapy appointments. We talked about having a second child, and I felt confident enough to slowly wean off my antidepressant. (Just because I'm Asian, doesn't make me smart.)
You know how they say you should consult with your doctor, you should pair therapy with medication, blah, blah, blah.
I'm that idiot who never listens.
And now I'm sunk again, feeling stupid and sad and angry and numb and confused and lost and alone. I know I need to ask for help. But it is so hard. And so humiliating because I feel like it is all my fault I am here.
This last plunge seems to have started with the Baby Veronica case. On one hand, it spurred me to advocacy. I felt brave enough and strong enough to begin posting about the case on my personal Facebook page. I started talking to my broader circle of friends about adoption, and being more "public" about my thoughts and experience. I began to follow and share voices and perspectives in the adoption community. I didn't feel like I needed to hide behind this anonymous blog.
And yet, maybe I was never fully truthful -- even to myself.
I like to think I'm pretty self aware, even if the facade doesn't match the interior. On the outside, I am a successful wife, professional and mother. I am respected for my communications skills, my ability to work with others, my intelligence, my get-it-done (nicely!) attitude.
When it comes to the ability to perceive emotions in others and manage them, I'm a straight A student. [My latest therapist suggested this was actually a survival skill developed in childhood. Hypervigilance, perhaps.]
And yet, when it comes to my own emotions, I am flunking out. I have been able to compensate, to hide this weakness, somehow, in my professional life to date. (In my personal life, well ... I have a very patient and accommodating partner. Those who know my dark side might suggest he is a saint.)
But lately, I feel like the mask of control, of promise, of perfection, is about to fall. I cannot sustain the act. I am about to be revealed for a fraud.
Triggers are a bitch.
I heard Eminem's song "Headlights," featuring Nate Ruess, on the radio for the first time Wednesday. I started crying in the car, but I didn't understand why. I brushed it off, picked up my daughter from preschool, and pushed the song (and my reaction) out of my mind.
Thursday, I read Deanna Shrodes' conversation with Rebecca Hawkes, "Adoptees and Anger Toward Our Natural Mothers (And Others)." My initial response was, "Amen!" I wanted to share with my friends, but couldn't figure out exactly what I wanted to say about it, so I tried to push it, also, out of my mind.
Yesterday, I heard a nationally-known rape survivor speak. I was there for work. Before she spoke, event organizers made a point of saying the event was a "safe space." They acknowledged the speaker's talk might be triggering for some people, and they had trained crisis-intervention counselors on hand. Professional hat on, I was thinking how that could make a great angle for a story. How we support each other? I suppressed any personal feelings; after all, the professional me is still in the (nutcase) closet..
Today, I am wishing I had never heard her speak. Instead of feeling inspired, I left feeling confused and, today, depressed.
She spoke of how we all have problems, and when we have hard times, we always have a choice. We can stay in bed feeling sorry for ourselves or we can get up and "do what has to be done." She talked about not living in the past, not wallowing in self pity, punishing your abusers by being happy and moving forward.
On a good day or week or year, I can get on the empowerment bandwagon. In fact, times when I have come out of the nutcase closet, revealed some of my personal struggles, and been complimented for my "success," I'm pretty sure I've said those exact words.
But I had trouble finding comfort in those words last night. And that wasn't the worst of it.
Over and over, the speaker emphasized her family's love, and how it helped her survive. That no matter what happened to her, she knew her family would always love her. She focused on the sound of her mother's voice, memories of her father and brothers. She was so secure in her knowledge of their love for her.
As I'm taking notes, I'm trying to ignore the emotions that begin welling from that strange, uncomfortable place in my gut. I'm having flashbacks to my childhood with a mother who convinced social workers, ministers, teachers and reporters that she was Maria von Trapp instead of Joan Crawford. I'm remembering sadness and fear and hurt and ... oh my god, I used to be so angry. Must. suppress. anger.
At this point, had my head been anywhere besides my ass, I should have excused myself. Or at least put down the pen, stopped listening to the speaker and tried listening to the sad little girl inside me.
But I didn't. So I was still writing when I heard her say she was grateful for what happened to her. Whoa. What? I looked up. She repeated, "I am grateful." My fingers suddenly clumsy, I struggled to record her exact words, but I managed to scratch out "grateful ... for experience ... for what allowed me to do ... people allowed me to meet."
I don't have to explain to "angry" adoptees and our allies why I have an immediate reaction when the concepts of gratitude and opportunity are connected with trauma.
I believe we should accept and validate each other's feelings, and even the speaker was careful to note that everyone's experience and feelings are unique. Rationally, I know her truth is not mine, and that is OK. But emotionally, I can't help wondering, what the eff is wrong with me?
I want to get to that place where I can choose to "move on." Where I can be grateful, not sad and angry about what has happened in my past. Where I can be sustained by the love of the family I have created. Where I can focus on what I have, not what I don't.
But I'm hurting.
The raw pain in Marshall Mathers' voice when he raps about his absent father: "Oh, what a tangled web we have. Cause one thing I never asked was where the f*** my deadbeat dad was. F*** it, I guess he had trouble keeping up with every address. But I'd have flipped every mattress, every rock and desert cactus. Own a collection of maps and followed my kids to the edge of the atlas."
It breaks me.
And yet, I am still so afraid to be angry.
Showing posts with label bad day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad day. Show all posts
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Monday, October 29, 2012
Once adopted, forever a child
Sept. 19, 2012
I’m trying so hard to keep my mind open to exploring and understanding this different culture, but I feel my brain shutting down. I’m trying to wrap my head around how to understand Taiwanese culture without comparing it to what I know, but I can’t break through. Perhaps it’s mental exhaustion, or emotional wariness, or some combination.
This week has been tough. Throughout my life, there have been people who have hurt me in various ways — directly and indirectly. To get to a safe and stable place today, I have ceased contact with those individuals and people connected with them.
Friday, one of those individuals attempted to email me. Since they did not have any personal contact information for me (by design!), they instead emailed my boss. My boss then printed the email and called me into her office to sit down and discuss what is an immensely personal and private topic.
I am so frustrated and tired and confused. I feel violated. These people who it seems had no care in the past for my physical and emotional well-being now also seem to have no respect for my professional reputation. My mind knows this is an unfair statement — their intentions in the past were good, despite the consequences to me — but my heart feels so hurt and hardened toward them.
This is very difficult, and I have a choice to make. When we travel to Taiwan, do I wish to reach out to them? Or, do I keep that door closed? This individual may be able to answer some of the questions that I have, but at what cost? Which culture’s rules must I follow? An individual-oriented culture that tells me I owe no one anything, that I have a right to personal information and no obligation to provide anything in return? Or a socially-oriented culture that requires a tit for a tat, by whose rules I must earn the privilege to information? Do I really want to open Pandora’s box, anyway?
When we talk about culture and values, all I see are rules that were designed to control a society — to keep the masses in line, to uphold the power of the ruling class. China has one of the longest sustained cultures, and surely that is creditable to its socially-oriented, collectivist values.
The rules of adoption have been set primarily by adoptive parents and adoption agencies. Money always has, and always will, equal power. Even though I am now an adult, when it comes to my adoption, I am permanently treated as a powerless child. Rules prevent me from disturbing the adults who are responsible for my past. “Children should be seen, not heard,” my mother would say. Even today, no one wants to hear me. The rules are designed to prevent me from calling out the grown-ups who were supposed to protect, not harm me. They keep me silent because I am dependent on them for even basic information about the circumstances of my origin. U.S. laws restrict information under the guise of protecting someone else’s privacy. Taiwanese culture restricts my ability to claim by figurative force knowledge that should be mine. Pride prevents me from seeking information from people I would rather pretend did not exist. I am Dorothy, caught in an emotional tornado, wishing to be home. Except I’m not exactly sure where home is.
I’m trying so hard to keep my mind open to exploring and understanding this different culture, but I feel my brain shutting down. I’m trying to wrap my head around how to understand Taiwanese culture without comparing it to what I know, but I can’t break through. Perhaps it’s mental exhaustion, or emotional wariness, or some combination.
This week has been tough. Throughout my life, there have been people who have hurt me in various ways — directly and indirectly. To get to a safe and stable place today, I have ceased contact with those individuals and people connected with them.
Friday, one of those individuals attempted to email me. Since they did not have any personal contact information for me (by design!), they instead emailed my boss. My boss then printed the email and called me into her office to sit down and discuss what is an immensely personal and private topic.
I am so frustrated and tired and confused. I feel violated. These people who it seems had no care in the past for my physical and emotional well-being now also seem to have no respect for my professional reputation. My mind knows this is an unfair statement — their intentions in the past were good, despite the consequences to me — but my heart feels so hurt and hardened toward them.
This is very difficult, and I have a choice to make. When we travel to Taiwan, do I wish to reach out to them? Or, do I keep that door closed? This individual may be able to answer some of the questions that I have, but at what cost? Which culture’s rules must I follow? An individual-oriented culture that tells me I owe no one anything, that I have a right to personal information and no obligation to provide anything in return? Or a socially-oriented culture that requires a tit for a tat, by whose rules I must earn the privilege to information? Do I really want to open Pandora’s box, anyway?
When we talk about culture and values, all I see are rules that were designed to control a society — to keep the masses in line, to uphold the power of the ruling class. China has one of the longest sustained cultures, and surely that is creditable to its socially-oriented, collectivist values.
The rules of adoption have been set primarily by adoptive parents and adoption agencies. Money always has, and always will, equal power. Even though I am now an adult, when it comes to my adoption, I am permanently treated as a powerless child. Rules prevent me from disturbing the adults who are responsible for my past. “Children should be seen, not heard,” my mother would say. Even today, no one wants to hear me. The rules are designed to prevent me from calling out the grown-ups who were supposed to protect, not harm me. They keep me silent because I am dependent on them for even basic information about the circumstances of my origin. U.S. laws restrict information under the guise of protecting someone else’s privacy. Taiwanese culture restricts my ability to claim by figurative force knowledge that should be mine. Pride prevents me from seeking information from people I would rather pretend did not exist. I am Dorothy, caught in an emotional tornado, wishing to be home. Except I’m not exactly sure where home is.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Happy birthday to me
May 1, 2012
"Greetings from Taiwan.
"We searched your birth mother’s information from the household system, the household system could only provide the address, and we sent few letter to that address, but there was no response at all.
"In this case, it could be that your birthmother doesn’t live in the address which she registers in the household system. Or she does live there, but she is not ready to contact with us.
"In Taiwan, if the birth parents decided to put their child in adoption, they will choose not to contact in the future. One of the reasons is that they feel guilty about their decision, and they think that they didn’t raise the child which makes them have no right to follow up the child.
"I’m not sure why there have no responses from your birth family, but I do like to know your thoughts about the next step. If you like to quit this reunion or you have any other ideas. Please tell me your view."
"Greetings from Taiwan.
"We searched your birth mother’s information from the household system, the household system could only provide the address, and we sent few letter to that address, but there was no response at all.
"In this case, it could be that your birthmother doesn’t live in the address which she registers in the household system. Or she does live there, but she is not ready to contact with us.
"In Taiwan, if the birth parents decided to put their child in adoption, they will choose not to contact in the future. One of the reasons is that they feel guilty about their decision, and they think that they didn’t raise the child which makes them have no right to follow up the child.
"I’m not sure why there have no responses from your birth family, but I do like to know your thoughts about the next step. If you like to quit this reunion or you have any other ideas. Please tell me your view."
Wanted
Jan. 24, 2012
While trolling the interwebs yesterday, I came across the blog of a woman who volunteered at the orphanage where I lived prior to my adoption. She actually used the term "unwanted children," which made my heart and mind churn.
I have spent enough of my life feeling unwanted. Do I need some self-righteous 20-something-year-old girl to confirm that?
While trolling the interwebs yesterday, I came across the blog of a woman who volunteered at the orphanage where I lived prior to my adoption. She actually used the term "unwanted children," which made my heart and mind churn.
I have spent enough of my life feeling unwanted. Do I need some self-righteous 20-something-year-old girl to confirm that?
Monday, March 7, 2011
306
That's how many ounces of frozen milk I threw away tonight. Miss M won't drink it, and after tasting it myself, I don't blame her. Apparently, my milk has high levels of lipase, which causes it to turn rancid quickly. Unfortunately, I didn't figure this out until my freezer was full. And even then, I held onto it thinking maybe, just maybe it could be saved. I tried mixing it with cereal tonight, and as soon as the spoon touched her lips, she wrinkled her face up like I was trying to feed her bananas again.
What a bummer.
What a bummer.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow
It's been an unusually white winter here. I actually welcome the snow -- it brightens the landscape.
Miss M is thriving. At her 4-month appointment, she weighed 14 lbs, 5 oz, and measured 25" long. The pediatrician said she's around the 75th percentile for both.
I wish I could say I'm thriving, too. But I'm filled with such a strange mix of feelings. When I look at my baby girl, I am overcome with love. People tell me I'm happier since I've had her -- and it might be true. I feel content.
But just as I am overwhelmed with joy, I can be quickly overwhelmed with anger and frustration. Unfortunately, my dear husband takes the brunt of my irritability. I know I blow some things out of proportion. But other times I feel my frustrations are justified.
I don't believe this is postpartum depression. It's not every day I am walking around like a ticking bomb. On good days, I feel "on." But on bad days, I am definitely off. I'm tired. I'm unsociable. I feel like I'm walking numbly through a snowstorm -- head down, in poor visibility, with Miss M insulating me from the white blur of life whipping around us.
Miss M is thriving. At her 4-month appointment, she weighed 14 lbs, 5 oz, and measured 25" long. The pediatrician said she's around the 75th percentile for both.
I wish I could say I'm thriving, too. But I'm filled with such a strange mix of feelings. When I look at my baby girl, I am overcome with love. People tell me I'm happier since I've had her -- and it might be true. I feel content.
But just as I am overwhelmed with joy, I can be quickly overwhelmed with anger and frustration. Unfortunately, my dear husband takes the brunt of my irritability. I know I blow some things out of proportion. But other times I feel my frustrations are justified.
I don't believe this is postpartum depression. It's not every day I am walking around like a ticking bomb. On good days, I feel "on." But on bad days, I am definitely off. I'm tired. I'm unsociable. I feel like I'm walking numbly through a snowstorm -- head down, in poor visibility, with Miss M insulating me from the white blur of life whipping around us.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Whine and cheese
In lieu of wine intake, I'm going to output some whine: It's HOTTTTTTT in herrrre! (And no, I can't take off all my clothes. Talk about creating an uncomfortable work environment.)
Seriously, are the triple-digit heat indices necessary? My fingers and feet feel like hot sausages. My wedding ring stopped fitting two days ago. The seam on my socks leaves an indentation on my toes for hours after I take the socks off. The dreaded nausea keeps creeping back in (possibly a side effect of the antibiotic I'm on for a UTI, which of course hit over the weekend).
On the plus side, I got into urgent care quickly for the UTI. And I passed my three-hour glucose tolerance test. (I strongly encourage folks to do everything they can to pass the one-hour. The three-hour sucks like no other.) And Baby D seems no worse for my wear and tear.
So while I look like a junkie on steroids (get it: track marks + swelling?), I guess I have a few things to be thankful for. I'm just having trouble focusing on that today.
Seriously, are the triple-digit heat indices necessary? My fingers and feet feel like hot sausages. My wedding ring stopped fitting two days ago. The seam on my socks leaves an indentation on my toes for hours after I take the socks off. The dreaded nausea keeps creeping back in (possibly a side effect of the antibiotic I'm on for a UTI, which of course hit over the weekend).
On the plus side, I got into urgent care quickly for the UTI. And I passed my three-hour glucose tolerance test. (I strongly encourage folks to do everything they can to pass the one-hour. The three-hour sucks like no other.) And Baby D seems no worse for my wear and tear.
So while I look like a junkie on steroids (get it: track marks + swelling?), I guess I have a few things to be thankful for. I'm just having trouble focusing on that today.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
What not to expect ...
Back when I was super superstitious about this whole pregnancy thing and refused to purchase anything pregnancy- or baby-related, I did allow myself to download the What to Expect when You're Expecting iPhone app. Mostly it's been helpful to get the weekly updates and daily tips.
But lately, I swear, 4 out of every 5 tips is about weight and/or exercise, and I'm about tired of it. Yes, I know I'm gaining weight. Yes, I'm eating healthy. And no, I do not need this "helpful" app making me feel more self-conscious about all of this.
WTF, WTE?
(Man, I'm in a bad mood today.)
But lately, I swear, 4 out of every 5 tips is about weight and/or exercise, and I'm about tired of it. Yes, I know I'm gaining weight. Yes, I'm eating healthy. And no, I do not need this "helpful" app making me feel more self-conscious about all of this.
WTF, WTE?
(Man, I'm in a bad mood today.)
Monday, May 10, 2010
Happy birthday to me
My fourth decade started out rough. Thankfully, most of the gory details are beginning to blur, but from what I remember, there was vomit and some whining along the lines of, "I'm tired and sick and 30 and pregnant."
My poor husband didn't know what to do. He tried a congratulatory "Happy birthday," but that only ramped up the tears of self pity. A long hug helped a bit. So did the flowers he personally delivered to my office later that day.
The past two weeks of work have been exhausting. So much to do, so little time, so many other people's emergencies to deal with. Add the fact that my body has been hijacked by a karate-kicking tuna fish and, well, it's no wonder last week found me at the end of my emotional road.
I'm starting this week off with a much-needed sick day and hoping this decade begins to turn for the better soon.
My poor husband didn't know what to do. He tried a congratulatory "Happy birthday," but that only ramped up the tears of self pity. A long hug helped a bit. So did the flowers he personally delivered to my office later that day.
The past two weeks of work have been exhausting. So much to do, so little time, so many other people's emergencies to deal with. Add the fact that my body has been hijacked by a karate-kicking tuna fish and, well, it's no wonder last week found me at the end of my emotional road.
I'm starting this week off with a much-needed sick day and hoping this decade begins to turn for the better soon.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The good, the bad and the ugly
It doesn't much uglier than layers of dinner in the toilet.
The bad news: I throw up every night.
Some good news (for the husband, at least): I just discovered mouthwash that's not (yet) vomit-inducing.
Nine weeks down. Will this ever end?
The bad news: I throw up every night.
Some good news (for the husband, at least): I just discovered mouthwash that's not (yet) vomit-inducing.
Nine weeks down. Will this ever end?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
As I lay dying
If hell exists, there must be a special place reserved for whomever termed this "morning" sickness.
A new combo -- half a Unisom before bed, a B complex vitamin in the AM -- takes the edge off. But I am far from feeling well.
The past two days have been hell. Yesterday, I didn't even leave my bed. This is like the world's worst hangover with no relief in sight.
How do other women deal?
A new combo -- half a Unisom before bed, a B complex vitamin in the AM -- takes the edge off. But I am far from feeling well.
The past two days have been hell. Yesterday, I didn't even leave my bed. This is like the world's worst hangover with no relief in sight.
How do other women deal?
Monday, January 11, 2010
Life is tenuous
Only hours after my first positive pregnancy test, fear set in. What if I can't sustain this pregnancy?
This weekend, that fear came to life.
Saturday afternoon, right after I got off the phone with a friend who was trying to find out if I was pregnant (don't make me regret making you one of the few I've confided in) I went to the bathroom and saw blood.
Bright red spots. In my underwear, and on the toilet paper. And there were more dots when I went to the bathroom a second time. (Now I know why they call it "spotting.")
Since the doctor's office was closed, I turned to the Internet, where I learned bright red = bad. Dark brown or pink = not necessarily bad.
At that point, my only option for medical care was the ER. Since I wasn't having heavy bleeding or bad cramping, and since I knew it was too early for doctors to do or see anything anyway, I stayed home to wait it out.
The term "chemical pregnancy" is a terrible one. It implies there's nothing lost. Just a "whoops" on the pregnancy test, a little blip in hormones that didn't mean anything. These implications are false, of course. Because even if the physical damage is minimal, the emotional impact is devastating.
I was overcome with a horrible, helpless feeling. There was nothing anyone could know for sure, and nothing I could do about it either way.
I finally called Chris — who was working — and broke down in tears. Sobbing out of control. He tried to reassure me that we would be OK. We knew how to "make" a baby now, and we could do it again. He put my emotional pain above his own fear, anger, helplessness. He was amazing. I do love that boy.
I took a nap. And when I woke up, the spotting had stopped. But the fear did not.
Today, I finally talked to the nurse. It turns out sex can cause the type of spotting I had. She says intercourse won't cause miscarriage. But it turns out pregnant sex can have a nasty side effect.
So no more pregnant sex for me. Not until I can feel more confident about staying pregnant.
When can I allow myself to feel excited about this?
This weekend, that fear came to life.
Saturday afternoon, right after I got off the phone with a friend who was trying to find out if I was pregnant (don't make me regret making you one of the few I've confided in) I went to the bathroom and saw blood.
Bright red spots. In my underwear, and on the toilet paper. And there were more dots when I went to the bathroom a second time. (Now I know why they call it "spotting.")
Since the doctor's office was closed, I turned to the Internet, where I learned bright red = bad. Dark brown or pink = not necessarily bad.
At that point, my only option for medical care was the ER. Since I wasn't having heavy bleeding or bad cramping, and since I knew it was too early for doctors to do or see anything anyway, I stayed home to wait it out.
The term "chemical pregnancy" is a terrible one. It implies there's nothing lost. Just a "whoops" on the pregnancy test, a little blip in hormones that didn't mean anything. These implications are false, of course. Because even if the physical damage is minimal, the emotional impact is devastating.
I was overcome with a horrible, helpless feeling. There was nothing anyone could know for sure, and nothing I could do about it either way.
I finally called Chris — who was working — and broke down in tears. Sobbing out of control. He tried to reassure me that we would be OK. We knew how to "make" a baby now, and we could do it again. He put my emotional pain above his own fear, anger, helplessness. He was amazing. I do love that boy.
I took a nap. And when I woke up, the spotting had stopped. But the fear did not.
Today, I finally talked to the nurse. It turns out sex can cause the type of spotting I had. She says intercourse won't cause miscarriage. But it turns out pregnant sex can have a nasty side effect.
So no more pregnant sex for me. Not until I can feel more confident about staying pregnant.
When can I allow myself to feel excited about this?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
All I want for New Years is ...
... a drink. Believe it. I'm normally only a 1-2 drink girl. Love to throw down a couple with friends, but on a day-to-day basis, I could take it or leave it. I'm all talk, no tolerance. And now since I'm not drinking (just in case, you know), of course I'm craving alcohol.
To top it off: We're headed to the in-laws for a week's vacation starting New Year's Eve.
No, it's not what you think. I love my in-laws. But I once found my mother-in-law at 9 in the morning with a large coffee cup ... and a gallon of vodka. And my father-in-law retired from a national brewery after 30-plus years. These two like to booze, and they like their company to booze with them.
So how to handle the inevitable drink offer without raising suspicion?
At Christmas with my family, I accepted a glass of wine with everyone else. Took a couple of sips, and midway through dinner whispered to my husband that he needed to help me. I meant discreetly. He heard, "Chug down your glass, and grab mine."
So we've talked about how, what I really intended, was for him to discreetly drink his down a little more than mine so I could discreetly trade glasses with him.
Man, I could use a drink. Wish me luck.
To top it off: We're headed to the in-laws for a week's vacation starting New Year's Eve.
No, it's not what you think. I love my in-laws. But I once found my mother-in-law at 9 in the morning with a large coffee cup ... and a gallon of vodka. And my father-in-law retired from a national brewery after 30-plus years. These two like to booze, and they like their company to booze with them.
So how to handle the inevitable drink offer without raising suspicion?
At Christmas with my family, I accepted a glass of wine with everyone else. Took a couple of sips, and midway through dinner whispered to my husband that he needed to help me. I meant discreetly. He heard, "Chug down your glass, and grab mine."
So we've talked about how, what I really intended, was for him to discreetly drink his down a little more than mine so I could discreetly trade glasses with him.
Man, I could use a drink. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
At last, sweet Sadie sleeps
Our first dog, Sadie, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of mammary cancer in July. The vet gave her two weeks to three months.
Two months past her expected expiration date, Sadie continued to have good days and bad days. Saturday was a bad day.
This I learned upon waking up, when my husband informed me she had trouble going to the bathroom and didn't eat. I knew when I saw her she was in pain. Laying there, she didn't even wag her tail when I approached. Her eyes were red with pain, and from lack of sleep. We'd talked about The Decision for several weeks. We knew we'd have to decide before leaving for vacation New Year's Eve. I thought we'd have Christmas together.
But Sadie was having a mother of a bad day. And neither of us was ready to face it.
A few hours, half a Moons Over My Hammy and some coffee, we stopped by the vet. Paid for the home visit and cremation. And scheduled the end as late as possible: 5 pm.
Sadie's last hours included hugs and kisses and lots of pets. A warm shower to wash away the crusty scabs and serum that pulled her skin and caused her pain. And, for the first time, a homecooked meal of hamburger and rice.
We were trimming the tree (which had sat naked in our living room for four weeks) when the vet arrived ... early.
Everything happened so fast, but this I remember: Sadie was a fighter til the end.
The vet warned us some animals cry out in fear during a brief period where they can hear, but not see. Not our Sadie. After lying prone for several hours, she stood up when the catheter was placed. And crumpled on her pillow seconds later, midway through the injection. She never closed her eyes.
Her last vision was of my husband. Her last smell was of his hands on her head. Her last touch was my hands stroking her back. The last words she heard were ours: "You're a good girl, Sadie."
A few moments passed before I noticed the absence of the quick, shallow breaths that plagued her last few months — either from pain, or spread of tumors to her lungs.
The vet pressed her stethoscope to Sadie's chest and said, "Her heart has stopped."
And so did mine.
Two months past her expected expiration date, Sadie continued to have good days and bad days. Saturday was a bad day.
This I learned upon waking up, when my husband informed me she had trouble going to the bathroom and didn't eat. I knew when I saw her she was in pain. Laying there, she didn't even wag her tail when I approached. Her eyes were red with pain, and from lack of sleep. We'd talked about The Decision for several weeks. We knew we'd have to decide before leaving for vacation New Year's Eve. I thought we'd have Christmas together.
But Sadie was having a mother of a bad day. And neither of us was ready to face it.
A few hours, half a Moons Over My Hammy and some coffee, we stopped by the vet. Paid for the home visit and cremation. And scheduled the end as late as possible: 5 pm.
Sadie's last hours included hugs and kisses and lots of pets. A warm shower to wash away the crusty scabs and serum that pulled her skin and caused her pain. And, for the first time, a homecooked meal of hamburger and rice.
We were trimming the tree (which had sat naked in our living room for four weeks) when the vet arrived ... early.
Everything happened so fast, but this I remember: Sadie was a fighter til the end.
The vet warned us some animals cry out in fear during a brief period where they can hear, but not see. Not our Sadie. After lying prone for several hours, she stood up when the catheter was placed. And crumpled on her pillow seconds later, midway through the injection. She never closed her eyes.
Her last vision was of my husband. Her last smell was of his hands on her head. Her last touch was my hands stroking her back. The last words she heard were ours: "You're a good girl, Sadie."
A few moments passed before I noticed the absence of the quick, shallow breaths that plagued her last few months — either from pain, or spread of tumors to her lungs.
The vet pressed her stethoscope to Sadie's chest and said, "Her heart has stopped."
And so did mine.
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