The above words were what greeted me when I opened my blog this morning because that was the way I started it last week. At that time I still wasn't feeling very well, hadn't purchased any groceries for a week, and didn't want to rack my brain figuring out anything, including what to eat.
Almost a week has passed since I wrote that.
The soup, by the way, was delicious. I added some potatoes to it the next day. Then yesterday, I poured left-over sausage gravy into what was left. That made it even more delicious. Now there are a couple 16 oz containers of broccoli-potato-sausage soup in the freezer for later this month.
I know milk products don't freeze well, but I am not picky.
Also in the freezer are several containers of lasagna left over from the Super Bowl Party Sunday (Yeah Seattle Seahawks), several 32 oz containers of turkey-vegetable soup from Christmas, and a couple 16 oz containers of navy bean and ham soup from a ham hock that was given to me the first week in January. Today, I am taking a large package of hamburger and making meat balls, meat loaf, and spaghetti sauce. With all that in the freezer, I'm set for the month, and need only buy fresh fruit and vegetables. NICE!
So, now that I am feeling much better, football season is over, and there is food in the freezer, I can concentrate on writing, but what? There are two ideas chasing themselves around my skull, bouncing between my ears, and making my eyes cross. They are...I am not telling you what they both are--just one. Drum roll, please.
Saying Goodbye
Goodbyes are never easy, especially when it is a wonderful, loving, devoted friend you are saying goodbye to. Yesterday's goodbye was harder than ever because it was a final one. Since I compartmentalize so well, I can handle tough times without showing any emotions. Observant folks think I have ice water running through my veins. That is not true. It just looks that way. Behind the calm, unemotional voice, dry eyes, and encouraging attitude beats a breaking heart.
That was my yesterday.
I pulled into my son's driveway at 7:30 am, spread a blanket over the back seat of the car, and let Big Dog jump in. She loves going in the car. As we made an hour long trip, I listened to radio recaps of Sunday's Super Bowl, marveled at the beautiful scenery along the coast, talked to Big Dog, and told her what a fantastic girl she was. She slept most of the way, but did sit up and look around with an "Are we there yet?" look on her face whenever we slowed down.
It looked like a normal, everyday, beautiful day in the neighbor hood. It wasn't.
At 8:30 am, we reached our destination. Big Dog was sitting up, wagging her tail, and eager to make her escape from the back seat. After I attached her leash and said Let's go, she seemed to know exactly what to do. She trotted around the car, sniffed the nearby landscaping, and then headed directly for the steps, bypassing the ramp, turned right toward the front door, and paused for me to "Pull" just as the sign said. The other sign said "Veterinary Hospital."
She had been there just two days earlier.
While I signed paperwork for the upcoming exploratory surgery, Big Dog checked out the magazines, the pet food, and another dog. As Big Dog's leash was exchanged for the vet's leash, I gave her a big hug, told her I loved her, and let her go. She hesitantly wagged her tail, turned away, and followed the lady in the pink top into the bowels of the clinic.
I turned away too, took a deep breath, and said silently, "Is this goodbye, Big Dog?" At 8:45 a.m. I headed back home. This time my only company was the radio and another unspoken question, "Would Big Dog ever nap on my messed-up, dog-haired blanket again?" A long wait faced not only me, but also Big Dog's family. It would take five long hours before we knew whether Big Dog would ever come home.
Fifteen minutes after the 2:00 p.m. surgery began, the Dr. called saying he had found the expected tumor. It was the size of two fists, and surrounded the junction of the major blood vessels to the intestines. There was also a large pus-filled cyst that was leaking into the abdominal cavity (the reason for Big Dog's high white count). He could drain the cyst and continue with high-powered antibiotic, but removal of the tumor wasn't really possible because it would result in the loss of too much intestine, as well as blood. And if the tumor weren't removed, it would continue consuming protein (which translates to muscle mass) at a high rate. (She had already lost so much muscle). It was a lose-lose situation for Big Dog.
She wouldn't be coming home.
As I said at the beginning, I compartmentalize well. My trip to the vet was little different than a trip to a basketball game, or the grocery store--same-old, same-old. I treated the vet visit as if I were merely picking up some pills, and brought the dog along for the ride. I refused to let myself think about what was to come. We all knew deep down that Big Dog was terminal, but wanted it not to be true--wishful thinking at its finest.
Wishful thinking can only go so far. The breaking heart can't be ignored forever. Once I let the reality sink in I realized that, No, she won't be coming home, but that isn't all.
She won't be running down the driveway to greet my car when I visited.
She won't be jumping into the back seat for the rides she loved.
She won't be retrieving the tennis balls I throw. She didn't care that I couldn't throw them very far.
She won't be running with her funny little skip every few steps. They made me smile every time.
She won't be putting her head on my knee for a pet-down, then pawing at my hand when I stop.
She won't be swimming the river to my house to escape the sound of fireworks or thunder.
She won't be sleeping on my sofa, head on my lap, when her family is out of town.
She won't be...
No, she won't be all those things and more, but she was a wonderful, beautiful, loving, devoted friend while she was here. The Lord blessed us all when Big Dog entered our lives.
Thank you, Lord.
Thank you, Big Dog, you big ol', lovable, ball of fur. Love ya.
Saying goodbye to a heart thief is so hard.
Jan
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