The Sound of Silence

Five days after I wrote my last post, the unthinkable happened. 

12 days after Gomez had to leave us. 

31 weeks after Porter left us.

9 months and 3 days since Howard died traumatically seizing. 


In such a short time, our house is like a tomb. You can hear a pin drop. 

No sound of flat faced noses breathing air thru tiny nostrils. No jingling tags. No food, no water, no potty, no medicine. No feeling eyes staring in your direction as you eat your meal. No wags at the door as you enter. No snuggles. No back scratches or bellyrubs.

The refrigerator running seems so loud. Was the icemaker that noisy before? 

I keep waiting to hear something. I keep looking for them. I look at their pictures. The videos. Just to see them. To remember. To cry. 

The pain must be felt. It needs to be until I can begin to let go of it. 

I have moments where I cry so hard, missing them. ALL of them. Even though it's been 9 months and 3 days, 31 weeks, 2 weeks and 5 days. 

I feel like nobody understands. You really can't, not being in my shoes. Nobody can feel this pain. It is for me to carry, until my heart can let is go.

The morning of August 18th was bright and fresh. Toby was not. He decided this was the day. His day to leave us. He wouldn't eat or drink. He had a hard time walking. Pain was visible on his face. I had never seen that look on his face before, in the over 13 years he lived with us. 

I couldn't believe it, so soon after Gomez. 12 days. 12 damn days. 

Not fair, not fair, my head kept screaming inside. More time, please more time! I can't do this!! Not already! Not so soon...

But our little old man would not be allowed to suffer, suffer for our selfishness. We had to do what was right. Because we loved him. 

When we got him he was less than a pound, all 9 weeks of him. His body was snow white, his ears black and brown, his eyes dark and round, his hair fluffy. I learned from a lady in rescue he had "the dreaded cottony coat" which meant his hair flew everywhere when he got a haircut and matted more easily. It also meant he was so soft to touch. So, so soft.

As he aged, his ears lighter and lighter til they had only streaks of grey and tan. 

He had a pekingese like face, flatter than the usual Shih Tzu, and the most adorable underbite. In his later years, after having so many dental cleanings for all those teeth crammed in that tiny mouth, he had one tooth remaining on the bottom front. It could be seen protruding most of the time and was the cutest thing.

He loved to beg. He'd get into your dish as soon as you turned your back. I blamed the hypothyroidism and Cushing's disease. He didn't care, he was hungry! 

He loved to run the Shih Tzu 500 (his version of the Indy 500) around the house. When he was younger he played fetch. He liked soft, latex, squeaky toys. He would hold the toy in his mouth and squeak and squeak. 

When he wanted out, or food or water he barked. And barked. Until you gave him what he wanted. If you ignored him, distracted, he'd bat the bowls around until you finally got the hint. 

He had an adorable little strut we called his prance. The day before he died he pranced for us. He didn't look ready to die. 

After he finished his dinner he proceeded down the hallway to clean his face on the carpet. This consisted of a couple minutes of rubbing both sides of his face on the rug. It was a habit he did religiously, though we never knew why. He cleaned his face the night before like everything was normal. 

On June 6th, our vet told me Toby had a tumor on his spleen. It looked like it had infiltrated his liver. There was no hope. Surgery might give him a little more time but it might also shorten his life. Take him home and enjoy him. Let him eat what he wants. If he doesn't want to take his medicine, that's okay. 

I told myself I wanted him to make it until his two legged siblings came, his brother in August, his sister in September. He made it halfway thru his brother's visit. He got to say goodbye.

We had two months with him. Two precious months. And for that only gratitude. As I grieve. As I mourn. 

It will never be the same. 

And then there was one.

Sometimes I feel I have an amazing sense of smell.

Along with that comes the down side: Smells can be overwhelming to me.

Years ago, I was diagnosed with chemical sensitivities. From what I've heard, people who have them can feel the effects of odors more acutely. I certainly notice that in myself. The smell of a cigarette chokes me and burns my nose and throat. I feel my airway tightening. I may wheeze and require a puff or two of albuterol. Perfumes also do this, as do air fresheners. That new car smell does it too. My eyes burn and I get a headache. My skin can itch and when my problem was severe, I got tiny hives on my skin and dermatographia. I got bronchitis and pneumonia. It wasn't until all the Partylite candles, Bath and Body works, heavily scented laundry detergents and toiletries left the house that I could start to heal.

One of my chemical sensitivities is to formaldehyde which is in many fragrances as well as in tobacco smoke. My son likes to tell a funny anecdote about how I smelled the cigarette smoke in someone else's car as we were driving. He still doesn't believe I did. He thinks I'm crazy.

So me and my hyperactive sense of smell were travelling down a back road a few days ago when all of a sudden, the smell hit me. There had been logging on the side of this road and there was a pile of wood debris. A man was on a small bulldozer, scraping the ground. Instantly, I was transported back to the age of 18. The smell of balsam pitch and cedar impregnated into the clothes of someone I knew who worked in the woods. How I love that smell. I wish I could bottle it.

I don't know how it is with other people but for me, smells can bring me back in time.

My Chicago grandparents had a certain odor to their kitchen, especially when you opened their cabinets. They've been gone many years, but a couple times since then I've smelled that smell in someone else's house. I wish I could explain the smell but I can't. It's not pleasant or unpleasant, but I know it when I smell it.

I drive past a farm and think of the livestock at the fair that happens every August. I go to that fair and think of my horses, gone so many years. The smells of fireworks on the 4th of July make me think of sparklers and those snakes you would light as a child. That sulfur smell is heaven to my nose. I loved the black marks they left on the sidewalk.

Dog paws smell like Fritos. Have you ever heard that? Don't believe me, take a sniff. That was one of my last thoughts a week ago today. To smell Gomez's paw one last time. I wish I had thought to do it sooner because, once he left his body only a very faint corn chip smell remained.

A week has gone by so quickly. I still miss him at the foot of my bed. Following me around the house. My little shadow. I've had a couple days that I haven't cried.

He was such a large part of my life and I miss him. It's that simple.

I think Toby does too.

Our vet is an hour away. I held Gomez in my arms and on my lap all the way home. When we got there, my husband carried him in and gently laid him on the floor. Toby smelled him all around his body. When he was done, he gave me a good smell up and down my legs as I sat on the floor. Once he was satisfied, he walked away.

He's always been so independent (unless we were camping - then he was all, "you're not leaving me behind here, not in this camper, no way!!"). At home he didn't give a shit. Lately he has only wanted to be left alone, getting agitated and upset when disturbed.

Until Gomez died, that is.

Ever since then our little grumpy old man has been so clingy. He gazes at me as I cook, sitting where Gomez sat on the rug. He follows me around the house. He sleeps at my feet or at my side. He's constantly seeking my eye contact.

It's almost like he knows what I need.

Maybe it's what he needs too.

Grief

As much as Thursday dawned a beautiful summer day, Friday's weather was dark, dreary, and rainy. Fitting weather for the way I was feeling. As the raindrops hit the windshield of my car, I thought about the tears that still dropped intermittently from my eyes.

They say time heals all wounds. I'm not so sure of this. I've grieved before, people and pets. The beginning intense, then little by little, fading until it is tolerable. Eventually your life returns though different. You get used to your new normal whether you want to or not.

This fall, it will be four years since my dad died. He was sick a long time, his death not unexpected. It was hard to see the once vibrant person, unable to walk or even move unassisted. Unable to breathe. His death brought a sense of relief to me because he had suffered so. I felt guilty I didn't grieve more.

I felt the same way after my grandparents died after suffering long illnesses. I've since learned there is a name for this: Anticipatory Grief. It's normal and expected. It makes sense, this letting go. In a way, it is a gift because it has the ability to make death more gentle on loved ones. Hence the sense of relief I felt as I was grieving my dad's death.

My dad and I talked a lot about politics. We thought alike in most areas in that respect. That was one of the hardest things to adjust to in his absence: wanting to call him and discuss this or that, exclaiming our frustrations to one another. We are so programmed as humans to just expect things to stay the same. To not realize the change that is coming down the road. To have shock and disbelief when it does. At almost four years I think of the conversations we could be having right now and it makes me smile.

Another thing that was tough: wanting to talk about him. All the time. Unfortunately, others don't see it that way. Once it passes, it's like the person is just gone.  Occasionally someone might ask generally how I was doing. But I wanted to talk about HIM. That would have given me comfort.
Something I'm trying to remember myself when someone loses a loved one. Encourage that person to share memories of them, and not just right after it happens.

My cousin and his wife (who live in another state), suffered the tragic loss of their 5 year old daughter in a traumatic auto crash this February. I only spent time with Gabrielle once for a couple days, but I grieved her like she was my own. It's been almost six months and I still cry when I think of her. Her picture on the front of our refrigerator, not to be forgotten. She was bright and beautiful. She had the world ahead of her. It ripped my heart out.

I don't know how they could do it, so many hours in the church, greeting a lengthy line of people coming to mourn. My cousin in a wheelchair because of his own injuries and resulting surgeries, his wife at his side. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Their strength. Their pain. As tears continued down my face in a near, never ending stream for the hours I watched them, their eyes were mostly dry. All cried out.

Where I live is a large population of Finns. You will see the blue and white Finnish flag license plates emblazoned on the front of cars. You will see bumper stickers that say SISU. Finland has a meaningful word for what in reality is in all of us, Finnish or not. We all have the power to move ahead thru adversity. Perseverance. It isn't easy, but we do it. Because there is no choice.

Yes, Gomez and Porter and Howard were dogs. They weren't my grandparents or my father. They certainly weren't Gabrielle Grace. That doesn't mean I don't feel acute pain at their absence too. I still need to grieve, and grieve I will. I will endure just as my Finnish neighbors do. I will get thru it.

My life will be different, but this is the essence of life. Alive and ever changing, flowing like a river.

Our Gomez

The day dawned clear and bright, the color of a sky blue crayon. A few wispy clouds loftily sat motionless in the distance. The window was open and birds could be heard happily twittering in the trees. But things weren’t as they seemed. This was not to be a happy day. In my head I could hear Paul Simon singing, “on this strange and mournful day.” Such a contradiction was going on in my heart. The beauty of the summer day should be obvious, but the sadness was overwhelming.

After six weeks of back and forth and hoping, the reality was clear. This little dog that had graced our lives since 2008 would be leaving this world today. I watched him sleep last night in the realization that it was the final one he’d spend on the foot of my bed. I’d be able to stretch out my legs tonight, thru my tears, most likely.


I will not again see him teetering on the back of our couch, staring at me in the driveway. Anticipating my entrance, entire body waving back and forth like a flag on a windy day, thanks to his gyrating tail, trying to balance. No longer to meet me excitedly at the door, toy in his mouth, a trick I taught him to prevent my legs being clawed by his jumping body. Anxiety quelled because I was finally home. At times so prepared, already holding the toy as he perched on the couch trying not to fall. No more waiting at the door, tail frantically wagging, for daddy to come thru it. No more sitting pretty, high fiving, rolling over. No more running to the patio door in anticipation, because daddy’s truck was coming down the road, about to go to the back yard to park the trailer after being gone the weekend. No more running up and down the hallway in pursuit of the toy we’d thrown, trying to play keep away after, even though we knew he really just wanted to fetch. No more crazy running laps thru the living room then around the dining table, running between the legs of each chair as he went round.

No more running, period.

When he came to us from New Beginnings Rescue his name was Buddy. My daughter changed it to Gomez, but it really should have been Shadow because he followed me everywhere. My velcro dog. He was supposed to be hers but ended up fiercely attached to me. Pathologically so. He thought I was his woman. That I was his to own. He bit everyone in our home in his possession of me. He sat at my feet as if to guard me. It got so bad, an animal behaviorist had to teach us how to control him. Mostly me though. I cried when I heard part of the retraining was ignoring him for a time, which hurt me as much as it hurt him. Maybe more. In the end it was the right thing to do because it made him a better dog. It let him stay here.

It didn’t change who he was though, a 100 pound dog in the body of an 18 pound Lhasa Apso mix. He would run up to big dogs, fearless, wanting to pick a fight. When someone came over he would bounce up and down at the door window over and over and over, to intimidate the “intruder” on the other side. He barked at anything that moved, much to our aggravation. He could practically hear a pin drop which also set off frantic barking. If we’d have let him, he would have chased bicycles and cars because to him, how dare they move past his territory!

Lhasas were bred to guard temples and at that, he was an expert.

He was constantly licking and chewing his feet, a nervous habit. The sound of it making me nuts. After hearing me say so many times, Gomez NO! Gomez STOP!  my little granddaughter would recite it saying, that’s what Grammy says.

He stopped licking his feet a few weeks ago, one of the signs that forced me to realize something was really wrong.

He got finicky with his food a few months ago. I thought he was just tired of the brand he had been eating the last four years. Changing his food did not make it better.

It was actually a sign. A sign that I missed.

Still not comprehending he was sick, I thought it was his teeth. I could see one coated with plaque and tartar and wiggling around. I scheduled an appointment for a dental cleaning. In the middle of Target shopping, I had a call from our wonderful veterinarian saying Gomez had some abnormalities in his pre-surgery blood test. I learned he was anemic and had low platelets. She thought some steroids would help. They didn’t and things kept getting worse. A trip to the vet school at Madison and more testing indicated he may be bleeding somewhere. Medications were added. I cooked him liver and hamburger. Nothing helped.

The reality is they believe he has cancer. Lymphoma is the best guess. It is eating away at his body, his being. He has, at best a week or two to live. There is no changing that.

His beautiful multi-shaded silvery butterscotch fur is now dull and lifeless. His once lean and toned body is skeletal, spiky bones poking out everywhere, muscle gone. His shagginess hides what is so obvious when you pet him. 

There will be no more bouncing for him. He walks as if in slow motion, flopping to the ground as soon as he stops walking, even on our driveway. No more gleeful jumping to the back of the couch because I am home. No more playing with toys. His breathing is rapid and I can see his heart pounding behind his ribs, working hard to circulate oxygen in what few red blood cells remain. He lies on his side most of day, eyes wide open and staring. He is telling us what we need to do.

Nine months ago we had four dogs. Four beloved, cuddly little fur creatures we lovingly cared for. Four year old Howard gone last October after uncontrollable seizures following a two month episode of what we believe was Pug Dog Encephalitis. Our 13 year old Shih Tzu, Porter left us in January after a two week bout with heart failure. Now Gomez. Four furry, small critters barking and demanding that drove me crazy at times. What wouldn’t I give to have them all together again with healthy bodies, even for one day?

After today, there will be but one. Toby is 14 years old with a spleen tumor and also anemia, most likely cancer causing him to slowly fade before our eyes. He was the first of our second family of dogs and now will be the last to leave, having been with us the longest of any of them. We haven’t been without fur kids for 25 years. After our two legged kids left the nest, the dogs were what kept me going. Our house will be immensely quiet.

Please, please, please do not disregard subtle signs in your pets. As a nurse, I should have known better. Don’t ignore changes that can be important clues something is wrong. Your children with fur can’t tell you they are feeling sick. They rely on us to be alert and act, when an alteration occurs. I will live with that guilt. I will get over it. I will never make that mistake again.

The sky is still bright blue, a gentle breeze now moving the trees. More clouds have moved in but the sun is as bright. I can hear our neighborhood murder of crows cawing from our backyard, a sound I normally enjoy. The green smell of summer coming thru the windows. My favorite time of year.

I know this day will bring heartache, but I must be prepared. Not wanting to, but willing myself to say goodbye.

Some people may think, It's only a dog. To me he is our Gomez with all his little pet names, as all our dogs have had. 

My buddy, my little shadow. I will mourn him. I will forever miss him.