Counterclockwise Circles Around Me

I don't know why Cat is so weighing so heavily on my mind as of late.  I thought by this point in time that things would start to become easier, but I still feel as if it were just yesterday that she left.  Part of me wonders if it is because I am finally starting to feel better, and my focus is starting to shift again, so her absence is becoming more noticeable.

I have been reading a lot about the concept of a "heart dog," which is basically your canine soulmate.  Even though Cat was my first, I have a hard time believing that there is a dog out there with which I could have any stronger bond.

About 2 years after I got her, I had a restless night of sleep.  Cat normally slept at my feet.  Every time I woke up that night, she was up at my head watching me.  I thought nothing of it.

In the morning, instead of just sitting on the chair and watching like she normally did, she followed me all around the house, whining and fussing.  Once again, I thought nothing of it.

About 3 miles into my drive, I had some sort of seizure type event.  I barely managed to get the car pulled off.  I ended up spending several days in the hospital.  What really gave me chills, however, was when I came home.  Cat had apparently known something was wrong.  She spent days in my laundry and that day (never before and never again) she tried to scratch her way through the door and dig up the floor to get to me.

I used to love our routine of walking through doors.  We could never just walk straight through.  Cat always had to make a counterclockwise circle around me before I could go in - every single time.  She would be so anxious if she didn't get to complete that ritual.  Every time she circled me, I loved her a little more.

Cat had the best eyes.  I would give anything to feel them on me one more time.  She could appear sound asleep, but if I moved, she always shifted her position so that she could watch me.

I received "Angel Cat" as a gift.

 My heart dog, my canine soulmate, is gone.  

Grief

It has been six months since Cat's death, and I have been doing a lot of reflecting.

Losing Cat has not been at all what I expected.  She was my first bonded relationship with an animal.  We had had family pets that had died, but I wasn't particularly attached to any of them.  Also, I have been blessed to have not lost many people in my family, not even attending a funeral until I was a junior in college.

Obviously, when she passed away, my heart was broken.  I spent the first few weeks filled with sadness and disbelief that she was gone and was not coming back.  I felt guilty that I hadn't taken better care of her, that I hadn't taken her to the vet more often, that I had fallen asleep that afternoon....a million "what ifs" were running through my head of ways that I could have been able to save her.

I felt irrational anger due to when she died.  When Cat was diagnosed with diabetes, I had prayed that she at least make it to her "Gotcha Day."  That would have given us 10 years together.  She died one month short of that day, and I felt very cheated that I didn't get that extra month.  Would it have been any easier then?  Absolutely not, but I wanted her to still be there.

Then my grief received an abrupt interruption with my sickness.  And to be honest, when I became aware of what was going on, there was a part of me that was a little relieved that she wasn't there.  With being in the hospital for 3 months, I would have been constantly worried about her.  It would have been difficult to find someone to manage her care, especially with her being on injections twice a day.  That topped off with the "diva" qualities and need for Arby's would have been a lot to expect someone to take care of.

Now that I am home, I find that things have switched again.  I hear her in the house.  I feel her eyes on me.  I sense her presence - and then I remember she is gone.  And I get angry.  I am so mad at her for leaving.  She left me alone when I need her the most.

The last 18 months of her life I was little more than a nurse because she had so many needs.  My life revolved around her extra care.  And I was happy to do it because I loved her.  Now, when I am recovering and could really use her just to be here, she is gone.  

I would give anything to see those little eyes watching me.  To see that little tail curl and start to wag when I look at her.  To see her creep across the floor when I am eating something, knowing that she will convince me to share a bite.

But she is gone.  I am left with memories, her ashes, and a pug shaped hole in my heart.

An earlier medical issue

I apologize for jumping all around, but I wanted to share this because I don't know if it has anything to do with the scarring that I am currently experiencing in my airway. 

 I started my career as an elementary music teacher. One day while teaching a kindergarten music class, I put my fingers on my throat to show the students where to feel their pulse, explaining how music has a heart beat just like a person does. I was a little rattled when I felt a lump under my fingers. 

 At lunch I called my doctor and made an appointment for the next day. I went to the appointment, the doctor examined me, and she proclaimed it to be a swollen gland. I had no reason not to believe her, so I left and waited for the swelling to leave. It didn't. I made an appointment about a month later and had it checked again, and was told them same thing. Long story short, I had appointments in October, November, December and January; each one resulting in the same diagnosis. In February it was determined that instead of a swollen gland I needed to have my tonsils out, and I was referred to an ENT. 

 The ENT entered the room and was at least 10 feet away from me when he said, "I couldn't care less about your tonsils. What are you doing about that nodule on your thyroid?" I looked at him like he was crazy and told him it was a swollen gland. He informed me there was no chance of it being a swollen gland. Unfortunately, he was correct. 

 After undergoing a battery of tests, it was determined that I had multiple nodules on both sides of my thyroid, but there was one in particular they were concerned about. It was quite large and when biopsied, it had something called a follicular lesion. The doctor said that this wasn't a definitive diagnosis of cancer. He recommended a partial thyroidectomy. The surgical team would remove the half of the thyroid with the large nodule, and if they found cancer, the other half would be removed as well. 

 The surgery date was scheduled quickly. I was scared to death. Here I was, not even 30 years old, facing the possibility of cancer. I had the surgery and the doctor came in to see me after and told me they didn't find any cancer so I still had the other half of my thyroid. I had to stay in the hospital overnight, and a follow up appointment with the doctor was made for the next week. 

 Being young I recovered quickly, and felt much better by the time the follow up appointment came. I was sitting in the exam room waiting for the doctor, and the door had been left open just a crack. I saw the doctor stop outside the door, pick up my file, and take a deep breath. My blood ran cold, because I knew with that gesture he was gearing up to give me bad news. I was right. 

 Three weeks later I was back in surgery to have the other half of my thyroid removed. This time was far more painful since they were reopening the same incisions. My cancer was papillary with a follicular variant and it was stage 1. Plainly spoken, it is one of the least aggressive forms of thyroid cancer. 

 I didn't have to have chemo, but I did have to have something called radioactive iodine. Thyroid cells are the only cells in the body that absorb iodine. In order to kill any that remain, they have thyroid cancer patients go on low iodine diets. My doctor wasn't terribly strict, just basically no fish, but I know of some people who could eat very little on their plan. After so long on the low iodine diet, any cells left in your body are craving iodine, so they will devour the radiation when it is introduced into your system. 

 My radioactive iodine was delivered in a stainless steel container, and when it was opened there was steam coming out of the top. The technician put the pill in a cup and told me to swallow it, but "don't touch it." I was told that I was to ask to have the Hazmat deployed if I were in an automobile accident. I was escorted from the hospital and not allowed to touch any doors. And then when I got home, I was told to quarantine myself for a week. Precautions then included disposable kitchenware, triple bagging trash, and triple flushing the toilet. 

 Anyway, I have obviously had a lot of trauma in that area of my body already, so I don't know if some of the scarring is related to some of the earlier surgeries, or if it is all just to this last experience.

Set Back

As I stated in my first post, when my medical problems started, I had stopped breathing.  This made it necessary for me to be intubated and placed on a ventilator.  Obviously it was necessary to do this in a hurry, and there was some internal damage as a result.

The first issue was that both of my vocal cords have become partially paralyzed.  They aren't bad enough to keep me from using them.  I just sound like I have laryngitis all the time.  I have been meeting with a speech therapist and things have improved to a degree.

Another precaution that is necessary because of the vocal cords is to watch things in my diet.  For example, my liquids are all supposed to be what they call "nectar thick." You can also get "honey thick" liquids.  These liquids are mixed with a corn starch type substance to make them thicker so they flow down your throat more slowly, reducing the chances of them going down your wind pipe and causing aspiration pneumonia.  

Foods are supposed to be on the softer side.  It is recommended to not eat anything sticky like peanut butter.  If you have soup the broth is to be drained off.  It is a lot of trial and error to see what works for you and what is comfortable.

This brings me to my second issue, which is unfortunately much worse.  I met with a surgeon last week.  He put a camera through my nose and down my throat, as well as through my trach site.  (I have pictures, but they are pretty gross so I will spare you the images.)  In doing the the scope, he found that I have a significant amount of scar tissue that is blocking the flow of air between my lungs and my vocal cords.

I now have two options.  I can let the surgeon go in and try to remove the scar tissue.  He would also inject the area with steroids and other medication to keep it from scarring over.  While he was in there, he would also make any needed repairs to my vocal cords.  My trach would be kept in, but I would be monitored to see how my airflow was developing, and if things improved the trach would be removed.

If I decide not to go with the surgery, my trach will be with me for the rest of my life.  I will have to go every 3 months and have it changed, but it will be a permanent fixture.

I am not sure yet as to what I am going to do.  There are a lot of "ifs" with the surgery, so I have some serious thinking to do.

Comatose

I have had multiple people ask me about being in a coma, so I thought I would share what I would remember from my experience.

As I stated earlier, I was admitted to the hospital on March 14 and at some point in time that night I stopped breathing.  The doctors intubated me, and made the choice to put me in a medically induced coma.  I remained that way for about 3.5 weeks.

While this was happening, I was having very vivid and violent dreams.  One dream I remember involved attending a wedding, after which the couple was murdered.  I somehow became involved in the search for the killer (I am a teacher - no connection with law enforcement) and was kidnapped and detained in the basement of a building.  The person who kidnapped me had tied me to a bed and I was fighting to get free.  I found out after waking that I had spent a portion of time restrained because I was trying to pull the tubes out, and because they were having issues with my blood pressure falling and it seemed to stabilize if they could keep my arms still.

A second dream I had involved me being asked to babysit, but I wasn't to let anyone know I had the baby.  I took the baby to a public restroom and tried to hide it in a hole in a carpet, and became absolutely frantic when anyone came near that spot.  I then decide to take the child to my mother's house, only to trip and have it fall from my hands and shatter as if it were made of glass..

In the midst of all of this, the action would stop and it would be like elevator doors would open.  I would see someone I knew.  Sometimes I could hear what they were saying, sometimes I could just see them, but I recognize people from my life for brief moments every once and awhile....and then the elevator doors would close again, and I would be plunged back into another one of these dreams.

I had my trach put in and transferred hospitals during this time and don't remember it.  Shortly after Easter I woke in the new hospital and saw my parents staring at me, and they told me how long I had been asleep and I thought they were lying to me.

It was a challenge to function when I first woke up.  I didn't have a speaking valve on my trach, so I had to write everything down.  My writing was a hot mess and looked like that of a kindergartener.  Someone had sent me a tiny stuffed dog, and my mom put it in my hand.  I became so fixated on it that it was all they could do to get it back away from me.  And to top everything off, I decided to get up and walk around with no one to help me, and fell flat on the floor in the middle of the night.

I used to joke that I wanted to go home and sleep for a month - I will never do that again.

Let's Talk about the Dog, Part 2

The very first picture I ever took of Cat in 2008.

    As much as Cat seemed to want to go home with me, she seemed to hate me the minute we walked into my apartment door.  She parked herself in the corner of a room and wouldn't look at me.  She wouldn't eat, wouldn't pee, and her little tail was as straight as a stick.  I was so upset, thinking I had made a huge mistake and I had no idea what to do.

     This went on all weekend.  I was never so glad to see Monday come in all my life!  I carefully caged her and went to work.  When I came home, she had messed all over the crate and pushed it out through the bars.  I took her out so many times, but no matter what I did, she wouldn't pee until I stuck her back in the crate when I went to work.

     Finally, a friend of mine suggested that I baby gate her in the kitchen, and see if she would cooperate better that way.  We went to Walmart and picked up a gate and she helped me set it up the next morning before work.  We put Cat in the kitchen, bid her farewell, and started down the stairs, only to hear a loud thump.  We went back to the apartment to find Cat waiting by the door, having jumped the baby gate.

    We eventually got a 4 foot tall piece of particle board and hooked it into the kitchen doorway to keep her enclosed.  Even then, she tried her hardest to dig through the board or floor with her nails, but eventually figured out that she was not going to be successful.

       Every evening when I got home, she would resume her position in the corner.  We weren't bonding at all.  It seemed like it was just going to be a matter of who was going to break first, because we were a bad combination.

     At the same time, I was making a huge mistake without knowing it.  The friend that had helped me with the baby gate had only ever had large dogs.  When I got Cat, she bought me this cute little collar that just happened to be a choke collar.  Neither one of us realized how sensitive the eyes of a pug are, making a choke collar a huge mistake.  I was walking Cat daily on this collar and she was pulling on it, sometime quite hard.

     One day I came home from work and went to let her out of the kitchen.  She lunged at me and tried to bite me.  I wasn't hurt, but was shaken because I hadn't seen this side of her before.  By the end of the evening I noticed a red spot in her eye, and the next morning both eyes were completely red.  I called the vet and made an appointment for after work.

     This woman looked at her and diagnosed her with separation anxiety and told me I obviously wasn't fit to have a dog.  She then advised me to return Cat before I "killed her."  I left the office crying and feeling like a total failure.  I attempted to contact the place where I had gotten Cat.  I got no answer, so I just drove there.

     I sat in the car outside for awhile and just cried, believing the vet was right and dreading giving Cat up.  I called my friend and let her a message telling her that Cat was leaving and headed inside.   As I went to put Cat in her pen, her little paws dug into my shoulders and she clearly didn't want me to put her down.  I took that as a sign that I needed to give this another try, and took her back home.

     That was the turning point in our relationship.  We bonded that night, and didn't look back.  It turned out that her eye issues were from the choke collar, and we both finally trusted each other.  Also, I never let that horrible vet lay a hand on her again.

Let's Talk About the Dog Part 1

 I spent a large part of my life telling people that I was afraid of dogs.  If I was being truthful, I was more afraid of what would happen if I loved a dog.  This was due to something that happened when I was in elementary school.

Our collie had an unplanned litter of puppies, and one puppy was extremely shy and wouldn't allow anyone to approach her but me.  I LOVED that little dog and spent hours with her.  I felt so special because she only wanted to be with me.  The puppies grew quickly and my parents started giving them away.  I came home from school one day to find that it was my puppy's day, and she was gone.  I remember sitting on the front steps and crying my eyes out, and I decided then that there would be no more dogs.

Fast forward about 25 years, and I was driving with a colleague to get our taxes done. As we neared the home, my friend looked at me and told me that the tax person had an "ugly little dog" but if I just ignored it, it wouldn't hurt me.  I was immediately on edge and dreaded what I was going to find.

We arrived at the house and rang the doorbell, and I heard the beast come rushing down the stairs.  The door opened, and I was face to face with a pug.  I worked so hard to ignore that dog, but it was having nothing of it.  It circled me like a shark in the water, bringing me toys and begging me to play.  The pug (named Snookie, by the way) twirled on her rear legs and begged for pieces of watermelon licorice.  By the end of the evening I couldn't take it anymore, and I sat down on the floor.  In just a few seconds Snookie crawled onto my lap, and looked at me with those big brown eyes, and I was in love.

So I quickly sat about on a search for my own pug.  After a couple of dead ends, I ended up at a place that had two.  Having seen pictures of both pugs, I went in expecting to come home with one in particular.  She, however, was a wild child and we just didn't seem to bond.  The other pug strolled into the room, curled up onto a pillow beside me, and seemed to be waiting for me to take her home.  And that is what I did.

This pug's name was Catriona (Cat-tree-own-ah), but she answered to the name, "Cat."  She turned out to be stubborn, a drama queen, and extremely set in her ways - but I couldn't have loved her any more.  

                                           Catriona, aka "Cat," taken shortly before her death.

A little back story

If I am being honest with myself, this problem probably started last summer.  I felt run down and sick all summer long.  I was dealing with a variety of issues that required several minor surgical procedures, all of which should have been a day's recovery, but weeks later I was still feeling shattered.

I chose to ignore how I was feeling, however, because around this time my dog became ill.  She had already been diagnosed with dementia and had a bad habit of sun downing, so I was lucky to get 4 consecutive hours of sleep because she was so hard to keep calm.  In October she started to have issues and I found out that she was diabetic.  With most dogs this wouldn't be a huge deal, but I had a little drama queen - I had to sit and beg her to eat so that I could give her an insulin injection.  Her care quickly came to consume all of my non-working hours.  Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind it because I loved her to death, but it really took a lot of time.  

And in the meantime, I was ignoring my own symptoms.  I started to get unbearable muscle spasms throughout my legs,  I was always tired, and my weight was ballooning even though I was barely eating.

Then the bottom fell out of my world.  February 6 I came home from work feeling awful.  My dog picked that day to be especially difficult.  She had refused breakfast so she didn't get her morning insulin shot, and when I came home she wouldn't eat again.  I spoke with my vet, and she offered to see her, but I was so tired I couldn't bring myself to take her.  I promised to update her in the morning and bring her if necessary.  And of course, once the clinic closed, my dog started to vomit.

Morning brought several things:  an ice storm, my work being closed, and more trouble with the dog.  She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't pee, and all she would do was pace.  It was so slick outside that I was afraid to even walk out there, never mind actually getting in the car and driving.  I spoke to the vet again, and she gave me some things to try and told me to keep her updated.

It all went downhill from there.  The dog continued to pace and pant, I couldn't do anything to comfort her.  I was so sick that I fell asleep around lunch time, and when I woke about 2 hours later, the house was silent.  I was filled with a sick feeling of dread for what I was going to find.

I called out for her, no response.  I checked all the places she liked to lay, she wasn't there.  I finally found her in my bedroom, pressed up tight against a stuffed pug that I had, almost like she was looking to it for comfort.  

I took a quick video of her and sent it to my vet, and she sprung into action.  She was over an hour away, but she had set about making arrangements to have some of the clinic staff come to my house and get her and take her in.

Those last few minutes were so hard, because I knew in my heart that she wasn't coming home.  I held her close and stroked her gently, telling her that as much as I felt like I couldn't live without her, she couldn't stay for me.  I told her I knew she was hurting and it was time to let go, and that I would love her and miss her until the day that I died.

When the vet techs arrived and pulled her from me, I could see in her eyes that she was no longer there.  My vet gave orders over the phone to the people in the clinic, while texting me to let me know what was happening.  I told her not to force anything that was going to make her suffer, if it was her time to let her go.  It wasn't long before I heard back that she thought that was what needed to be done,  About 7 pm, the best thing that ever happened to me left this world.

As I lay trying to sleep that night, listening to my own almost primal wails, I wondered how I was ever going to make it without her.  I know there will be other dogs, but she was special - and I really don't think I can ever connect to another dog like I did to her.

Needless to say, my physical condition continued to deteriorate over the next month or so.  It hit rock bottom on March 14, which is when my first post starts.  Coincidentally, March 14 would have also been 10 years to the day that I brought my dog home.

My current situation

I am one of those people that seems to have been born with a storm cloud over my head.  If there is a problem, it is sure to find me.  2018, at least so far, has been one of my most difficult years yet.

It all started in late fall.  My dog, who was the center of my universe, was diagnosed with diabetes.  And while I didn't mind any of the time, she became a larger and larger drain on my time, trying to care for her and keep her healthy.  I became so wrapped up in caring for her that i didn't eat the way I should, didn't sleep the way I should - it was all about her.

So, we fast forward to Christmas.  By this point in time we were both feeling pretty rough.  I continued to haul her to the vet and monitor every little symptom, and ignore what was happening with me.  This continued through January and early February.

On February 6 I came home feeling especially rough.  I was hopeful I would be able to stay home the next day due to a incoming ice storm.  I got my wish - but it quickly became one of the worst days of my life.  My dog experienced a rapid deterioration and died.

The shock and grief overwhelmed me, and I moved through the next several weeks in a fog.  I didn't want to eat, sleep, do anything...I just wanted my girl back.  Finally, a friend that I worked with insisted that I go to the doctor and let him know how I was feeling and talk to him about possibly getting an antidepressant.  

I went to the appointment on March 14 after work.  We didn't talk about any medication because he commented that I seemed to be retaining a lot of fluid and he wanted me to go to the hospital right away to get it taken care of.  I told him I would go the next day, I just wanted to go home and sleep first.  My friend insisted that I listen to the doctor and go right away.

The next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance going to the hospital.  We arrived and they took me to a room, found me a gown and a bed, and gave me a few minutes to change.  I remember going to the bathroom and returning to bed - and then nothing.  I woke up to find myself in a different room, in a different hospital, with my family staring at me - and was shocked to hear that I had been unconscious for nearly three weeks.

Apparently at some point in time during that night I became unresponsive and was rushed to intensive care.  After testing, it was discovered that my Carbon dioxide level was 132.  (Normal is 25 to 35.)  I went into respiratory failure, heart failure and my kidneys started to shut down.  Long story short, if I had gone home that night like I wanted to, I would most likely have died.  Oh - and as a parting favor, I discovered that I had been given a tracheotomy.  

I spent five weeks in that hospital before being sent to rehab.  I lasted 5 days at rehab before I had another CO2 spike that made it necessary for me to readmitted to the hospital for another week.  I went back to rehab for another 3 weeks and they discharged me, and I was so happy that this experience was finally over.  It had been 80 days since I first entered the hospital, and I was going home!

WRONG!  I made it out for 4 days, and started to experience the tell-tale signs of a CO2 spike again.  I was admitted once again for another week until my levels were under control.  Even then, the only way they would agree to release me was if I promised to never be alone.

So, 88 out of 93 days in the hospital has been followed by a stay at my parents' home.  I have nurses coming in several times a week; along with occupation, speech and physical therapists.  I still haven't made it home.