RIP, Suzy. Her passing was fast, her pain over. The vet was kind, and confirmed it was the right choice. She left feeling her ears rubbed and hearing what a great dog she was.
Oh what a dog.
So much great love for her.
So sad.
Category: Uncategorized (Page 3 of 114)
Our dear dog Suzy is declining. She has had a sinus issues all summer, and there’s nothing that can be done to help her; now her throat has swollen and she’s struggling to eat. Her spirits are subdued, but she is still happy to be petted and go outside, happy to see you come in the room. That’s the rub, isn’t it? They’re always so happy to see you. And your heart screams and begs and bargains and your mind knows what inevitably will come and your heart, it just wrenches and sobs a little bit more. Such unconditional love, so beautiful and unwavering.
All I can do is cry.
Yes, indeed, there is a shortage right now. A quick Google search turned up several articles about the current situation. Apparently the big companies are reassuring people that they are shipping stock out & there should be pumpkin available mid-October or so – but for now, if you see a can? Grab it!
There are a lot of people I’d like to call a jackass. Immature jackasses. Short-sighted jackasses. Cut-the-cord jackasses. Grow-A-Spine jackasses. But I’d have to say it all with venom in my voice, and whenever I taste just a drop of that poison, I remind myself to rise above it. That they can stay stuck in their jack-assery world, lie to themselves about their behavior or their actions, and I get to choose a different path.
But nothing made me laugh harder last night than hearing President Obama call Kanye West a jackass. It was just so refreshing. There was none of the venom, it was part of conversational banter, and he just called it like he saw it. Like everyone else saw it. And that’s good enough for me. So if you’re being a jackass, just think about this: you’re keeping company with the crazy.
When I was 10, my parents were subscribing to Newsweek. And I vividly remember the issue that arrived after the …massacre is the only word that comes to mind…. that took place at “Jonestown”, the cult church that had relocated to Guyana with about 1,000 members. Jim Jones was their leader, and I still remember seeing the photos of all the children, and being pretty horrified by it all. I asked my father about it and he explained the whole cult thing to me, and that yes, even all the little kids were dead. I imagined if I had been there, and could I have run into the jungle to escape, or just pretended to drink the kool-aid and laid down to play dead. It made quite an impact, the article and photos.
Browsing a few months back, I put a documentary of Jonestown into the Netflix queue, and we watched it the other night. It was really fascinating, because there’s the whole layer of how it became so crazy, and then the roots of how it started, because on the surface, it was basically a good idea, very forward-thinking, it seemed. Jim Jones believed in equality, and he encouraged people of ALL races to participate equally in his church. He became a major political force in California, and it was only after some investigative journalism did some of the seamy underside of his organization start to come out. But the dude was nuttier than a Planters factory, and it just boggles the mind, how people who were drawn in by him didn’t (couldn’t) question him as the train started careening off the tracks. And yes, this is just yet another reason I probably DO question things so much, because I’m intensely paranoid that I will be lulled into a false sense of security and the next thing you know, there’s a Dixie cup of kool-aid in my hand and I’m dying on the hillside.
What hadn’t stuck with me was the craziness of the murder of the senator from California, who had flown down to investigate Jonestown after so many constituents complained their family members were missing. I had no idea that had happened, and can only imagine the sensationalist manner it would be covered today.
Turns out, my dear friend Cindy has been exposed to any documentary or show ever made on Jonestown, thanks to her husband’s own curiosity with it. We bantered about what the difference between a cult is – vs. say, the Westboro Baptist church, which I posit cannot arguably be a ‘real’ church, given the platform of hate and rancor they center on. It just makes me angry that the Phelps family can enjoy hiding behind the protections afforded churches in this country, versus the stigma and shame (and ATF raids) we collectively place on cults.
I’d enjoy a church tax break, so I’m starting my own religion, based on the Holy Trinity of Knitting, Tequila and Bacon. I think it could really, really take off. And there’ll be no proselytizing or healing hands, no foreign countries for escaping, no white pantsuits or bad sunglasses. Just good times and gravy when appropriate.
Must say, though, I was a little amused that when I looked up the definition of “cult” at m-w.com, I was served a Google ad for the Jehovah’s.
Almost there. “the old normal”, I suppose.
Just continuing with drops and hoping to never experience this again.
No corneal damage, no scarring. Huge relief.
If you ever, EVER! have something bothering your eyes, get thee to an ophthalmologist. Immediately!
I have my monitor ratcheting up the size of fonts to about…oh 48 point type, all the better to see you with, my dear… and I feel like I’m about 84 years old.
The latest & greatest: A Virus. Yep. It took over my face and my eyes, and so all the antibiotics in the world weren’t going to touch it. I finally had a semi-breakdown on Friday morning, because this sort of pain had reached ‘incomprehensible’ in my book. And I am fortunate enough, through my knitting world, to have connections to TWO eye doctors. My friend Jane reached out to me initially (and I was all, oh no biggie, I just got some drugs, we’re under control) and that was who I called first, trying to keep my voice out of ‘hysterics’ mode and to talk more than sob. She and her husband were traveling, so she put him on the phone, and he immediately determined that the drops I was on weren’t going to cut it. He instructed me to get new ones, and if things didn’t improve throughout the day, to get myself in to be seen.
Things didn’t improve. And so at 4:30, on a Friday, I’m calling (and again, trying to keep the hysteria low enough so I can actually communicate), and the husband of my other knitting friend agreed to stay late and see me.
Good thing.
It’s a virus, and I had scads of microscopic lesions all over my eyes, so many that they took pictures, and I’ll probably have my baby blues in a textbook or an article someday, illustrating Most Severe Case Evah. He prescribed anti-viral tablets, and off we went. Unfortunately, things had reached such a state that I was pretty well incapacitated. Light of any kind was crippling. Can’t watch TV, too much light. Computer- gah. Painful. So I slept. And returned to the doctor yesterday, who prescribed some anti-viral drops on top of the tablets, so now we’re really going after it. Today is the first decent day – my vision is still very blurry, but I’m not cringing in pain just because my eyes are open. I keep hoping every time I wake up that when I open my eyes, I’ll be able to see again, like ‘normal’.
I think I’ve learned quite a few lessons – one, is that pain needs to be paid attention to. I was in pain all of last week, but kept working, kept minimizing, kept slapping band-aids on my face and thinking it would go away. Pain in my family, growing up, was something you endured and you didn’t talk/whine/cry about it. In fact, the more you gritted your teeth and just got through it, the more admirable you were. (Perspective: my father pushed a VW Bus to the top of a steep, 40′ hill to get it jump started on the decline, so he could drive himself to the hospital for his appendicitis attack. Granted, it was that or die, but that’s legendary stuff where I’m from.) At my house, if you cried, you were being a baby. I hate how ingrained it is in me. But what this has shown me is that pain is a really good indicator -a warning light- that should be paid attention to, and it’s better to shuttle around to multiple doctors to figure it out early, than to wait and have something more serious on your hands. Two, never take your sight for granted. This semi-blindness has been equally sobering and terrifying. All the things I love to do – spend time online, watch tv, knit, feel sunshine on my face – to even attempt them has been frustrating and painful. Last, but not least, my husband and my friends rock. Hubs has done everything around here, and taken care of me as much as he can. Beth fetched my prescription, Carmen took me to the doctor – I’m grateful they’ve been there, and I know even more friends would pitch in if I called upon them. It certainly is a good reminder to me to be grateful, in all of this.
Oh, and we’re going to wait on enrolling Tripper or Polly into Guide Dog training. I think there’s been enough progress with my eyesight, and I can only imagine trying to walk in the park with one or both of them as my leader….. they’d be dragging me up a tree after a squirrel in 3o seconds flat…
My brain, it whirs. It whirs and whirs and puzzles and questions and wonders. I see really crazy people and I wonder what their living rooms look like. I enjoy deciphering vanity plates, and am often amused by the assortment of bumperstickers people will affix to their car.
So when I found myself behind this truck the other evening, my brain kicked it into high gear.
Ah, lassie, thar’s a Shamrock. Hmmmm. Irish? But it’s on a black truck. Hmmm. Black Irish. In flames? That’s kinda strange, plant life on fire, but the flames are green, so maybe it’s symbolic, and back to that shamrock, hmmmmm…..
And then the truck pulled into my lane, and as the light shifted, I realized there were SKULLS ON EITHER SIDE OF THE SHAMROCK and that’s when I had to put my phone on camera mode, because boy, howdy, you might see a shamrock, and you might see green flames, and you might even see a shamrock with green flames, but skulls haunting out of the flames on top of it all? Dude, that is what makes the difference between bloggability and the brain just whirring.
Remember when your parents finally (FINALLY!) let you stay home alone, without them, knowing they wouldn’t return until long after your bedtime, and you relished every moment of that freedom? What you don’t realize is that freedom also requires responsibility, and so I have to tell you, I’m disappointed in you.
I go off for a long weekend of frolicking, and you not only let Bea Arthur die, but you also allow a swine flu pandemic to explode.
You’re totally grounded.
(more on my fun weekend once I get pics uploaded!)
I just posted this comment on a trade article online; yet another piece on how not only is 2009 going to suck, but 2010? Is going to suck even more. Frankly, I have had it with the fear and panic and crystal-ball bullshit. It’s exhausting.
~~~~~~my comment:
Anyone else getting really tired of self-fulfilling doom & gloom prophecies? The more we feed the fear and terror – the more those fears become reality. The monthly, weekly, daily clutching at one’s heart, on an individual and corporate level, is exhausting. On a larger scale, this economic panic parallels the inflated gas prices of last summer. The market artificially inflated pricing which sustained itself for a decent amount of time, despite having no real basis in reality. (shortage, etc.) How long are we as a nation going to allow this panic to immobilize us, and how much damage to we have to endure in the process?
~end comment~~~~~~
Personally, I’m having a terrible week. Unable to talk or write about it. I tried yesterday, found myself caught in a silent space. I want to give voice to the feelings…..yet I see my own powerlessness and all my thoughts feel futile, despite the well-intentioned wishes, they become simpleton attempts to put attention on myself, look at my pain, my anxiety. Everyone has their own story and many have harder roads than I, so I set my jaw, carry my load, and try not to feel it all at once. I can say that the weariness of being an adult, being responsible, yet being unable to change things to what I want them to be, really really sucks. I’m reminded of how, just three years ago this week, I got the call from my father, telling me he had cancer. I wore down the earth, running at a brick wall. I’m doing it again and guess what? It still fucking hurts. And I can’t change a thing.
So I leave you with the wish I wrote yesterday.
I wish….
that the world would stop
take a deep breath
take back our power
believe things can be better
and begin to climb upwards
curling hands together
finding strength.