Soapbox

And it’s morning
And another sunrise bleeds across the sky.
And it’s beautiul, and terrible
Like the farewell in your eyes.

Now I’m supposed to just let you go,
Though how I’ll do it, I don’t know
But change is just the turning of life’s tide.

I don’t know why the tide goes out.
They tell me that it’s gravity and the moon.
I don’t know why you have to go-
I only know
You’re leaving me much too soon.

As often is the case lately, Tucker woke me this morning with a nose under the blankets a 4:45 AM, hoping for breakfast.
I reached out blearily (hadn’t slept a lot since he got up to pee around 2) and rubbed his head. I opened my mouth to say “Not yet buddy- it’s too early or breakfast” but stopped myself.
Why not?  I said and got up to feed him.
Why not let him eat now, when he’s hungry now? It’s not going to make a difference.

I dropped his pain pill on top of the canned food we’ve been adding to his bowl: half a tablet, twice a day. More might start to hurt his kidneys.
Why not? I asked myself, and put in another piece. Why not give him a little less pain for the day he has left?
Tomorrow I’m going to cook him some bacon for breakfast. I’ve always been careful not to give him too much people food, because it’s not good for his digestion and I don’t want him to put on weight. But why the hell not?

His old buddy Patch came over after lunch. The dogs were clearly happy to see each other. Patch isn’t getting around so well either, and at over 100 lbs, his owner Traci can’t lift and carry him the way we have been helping Tucker. My boy seemed more energetic with his old wrestling partner around and even tried to play a little bit. The heart was willing but the body wasn’t up to it.

Traci hugged him for a long time before they left. “Thanks for being Patch’s friend.” she whispered. “I love you. We’re both going to miss you so much!” She was in tears when she left.
He has slept a lot since then.

The worst is the normal stuff: the way he lifts his head when I walk into the room. When he’s out sniffing dog smells at the corner, when he makes another casual sweep past the food bowl just to make sure nothing tasty got missed the last time he checked. That’s when I second-guess: am I doing this go get out of the inconvenience of having a dog who needs someone with him all the time?

Because let’s face it: we have all made big adjustments, and some sacrifices. Like all the times he was sleeping and I slipped offf to watch TV only to hear his toenails scraping on the kitchen floor and then a thud… and I never got to see the end of that show because, with a big sigh, I had to go pick him up again and sit with him til he fell asleep again.
And all the times when he wanted to go out at 2 AM in the snow, or the rain, and then just stood there, blinking, and there we were in our PJs with a coat thrown on top, hopping up and down and muttering “Come on dog- just pee!”
The places we couldn’t go because someone had to stay home with the dog. It used to be really frustrating. The last few weeks though, as I could see the end getting nearer, I found my patience expanding. One day Ted had to leave or an appointment before I got home from work. I got back as quickly as I could but as soon as I opened the garage door I could hear Tucker crying. He had fallen and couldn’t get up, and waited and waited, and finally started calling for me.
It broke my heart. He doesn’t want to be helpless and a burden.

Sometimes Ted and I would sit together in the dark, just being there, until we could tell he was deeply asleep. Then we’d tiptoe upstairs and I would sleep in my own bed for a few hours… until I heard him walking around in the kitchen- or was tired of waking up to listen, so I just went to the sofa to be there when he finally did.
(I wonder how long it will be before I stop waking up and listening for the sound of clicking toenails, and then remember I’ll never hear them again, and come downstairs anyway to cry without waking Ted.)

But when I think maybe it’s just too soon, then he stutter-steps on his painful front foot and his back legs cross and he falls down hard, again. And he looks at me. And I know it has to end. Tomorrow seems arbitrary, but it’s really not. If not tomorrow, then next weekend- but soon. He has to be in pain. He just never complains.

So I lean over and grab his back end and gently lift, saying, with false cheefulness “It’s ok buddy. I’ll help you. I will pick you up every time you fall from now to the end”

I spent a lot of the day continuing my sweep of dog items to remove from the house: the box by the front door where we keep poop bags, nail trimmer, shedding brush and leash. The bell he rings to go out and whistle we blew to get him to come in. The dog shampoo under the sink. It’s all in a bag in the garage, waiting for Ted to look over them and see if there’s anything he wants to keep.
They only thing I want is his collar, to go in the box with Rocket’s and Boomer’s.
Taking it off before we go to the vet will symbolize releasing him.

I’m trying really hard not to cry around him. Don’t want him to pick up my distress and get anxious. But I keep looking at the clock: 18 hours left. 13 hours more.
It’s absolute agony, this waiting. This final evening.
Tomorrow will be hideous. But then it will be done.

When he woke from his afternoon nap he looked around and didn’t see me at first and struggled to rise. I stood up and said I’m right here. I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone, and I keep my promises. I’m not sure Ted quite understands why I spent most of most nights for the last months- well, since he became unable to climb the stairs to sleep in our room- sleeping on the sofa. Part is convenience: it’s a lot easier to get up from the sofa, pick him up and lay right back down. And it’s easier to hear him when he falls down and needs help.

But mostly it’s because, when Rocket got too frail and confused to come upstairs with us- I LEFT HIM DOWNSTAIRS BY HIMSELF AT NIGHT. Sometimes I would see him standing, looking up the stairs, and I’d come down and sit quietly and stroke his silken head for a while. But when he wandered away, I went back to my own bed and left him to face the dark, and his growing confusion and the end of his life alone.
I loved him. I took care of him and cooked food for him and found tricks to keep his fluid intake up, but I feel like, in his last few weeks, I failed him in that way, and I still carry that with me.

I refused to repeat that mistake. I knew I couldn’t keep Tucker from declining. All I could do was keep him company on the way. Dogs, after all, weren’t made to be alone.

My crazy Rodeo clown. You were such a goof ball. Such a pain in the ass. Thank you for loving me.

Katie came by the morning or her final visit with Tucker. He goes to the vet on Monday morning for the last time.

I brought him in from a “walk” yesterday morning, and when Ted looked up from the sofa, I shook my head.
“Life is just too hard for him, I think”.
And Ted picked up his phone and made the call, right then, before we could second-guess ourselves.

Of course we still did. I spoke to my manager at work (a real dog lover) and said that it’s so hard when there isn’t something obvious, like heart failure or a tumor.
“What if it isn’t really necessary? What if we’re just taking him to be killed?”
He looked at me and said,
“If you even think it might be time… then it’s time. You know it inside, you just don’t want to admit it.”
Boy I sure don’t.

I’ve spent the last few months sleeping at least part of thenight on the couch (the 3/4 sized couch) because when Tucker lost the ability to climb the stairs, even with help, I promised him that I wouldn’t make him be isolated at the end of his days.
We carry him down the steps (working grocery for a year and a half has given me the muscles to lift him at 4 AM when he needs to go out to pee) and lately, coming back up. Twice this week we carried him back from his “Walk” (just one or two houses down now, when once we used to do miles together) because he just didn’t have the will to go.
We have a series of small rugs in the hallway and kitchen because his stiff back legs just slide out from under him on the tile floor. When he’s down in the living room he can still usually get himself up, but not in the kitchen, so we have to pick him up. When he falls down while eating, or getting a drink, or just on one of his many restless circuits around and around from living room to dining room to kitchen to living room.
When he slips, he waits patiently, trustingly for us to put down what we’re doing and come get him. But this is his world now.

For a while I told myself that since he still had a good appetite, enjoyed barking at cats, sniffing at things outside and being petted, that was a reasonable quality of life for him. But now I believe it’s just too hard.
Still, looking at him sleeping by the sofa and thinking “He has 2 more days to live” is really, really, really tough.

I’ve been struggling to write something about this whole shitty experience that pet owners have to go through.  What I’ve got so far is trite and shitty,- can’t decide to make it rhyme or not to- but it’s also true.

When you took me in, I promised
that I would love you with every breath,
greet you at every dawn,
leave you only in death.
I kept my word- I only ask
that you hold me as I say goodbye,
I wont be so frightened
as long as you’re nearby

Walk with me to where the shadow begins
This is our last journey.
I’ve always followed wherever you lead
Today I need you to walk with me.

My love is strong but my body is weak:
for this last part, could you carry me?
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you
This is all I ask for me.

And when we reach this long road’s end-
it’s just a few steps more,
I’ll go into the shadows alone
but won’t you lead me to the door?

Walk with me to where the shadow begins
This is our last journey
I’ve always followed wherever you lead
Today I need you to walk with me.

It’s been a long journey from spazzy little pup to “rodeo clown” to fine dog. And now the journey is almost over. A friend at work said “Soon the spark that lives inside him will be set free to wander”. given how crippled he is now, I like the thought that he will  be set free to run again– Lord, how he loved to run. Maybe his spark will find Boomer’s, and they’ll be together.

Good bye, my dear buddy.
My sweet boy.

I stopped by my elderly neighbor’s house today to water the plants and bring in the front porch flyers. She is in a bed 50 miles away, failing in both body and mind.

I run a quick cloth over the tables and the TV screen, removing dust she no longer cares about, because it feels wrong to let it build up. Then, slowly, for the first time in all the years I have known her, I sit down in her chair.
Children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren smile at me from the shelves. I look across the street to my own front door, remembering the days and weeks and months and years that she sat here, watching and waving to me as I walked the dog and went to work.
And it really hits me how alone she was.

“Call me if you need anything” I would say when I phoned to ask if she wanted anything from the grocery store. And she would always say she was fine, when what she really needed but would never ask for was for me to put down the rake or the dog leash or car keys and just walk across the street and knock, say “Hey, got a few minutes to chat?”
And I did that…. sometimes. But not often enough.
Still, she called me a good friend.

I didn’t really notice when she gradually became unable to get out on her own to see friends at church or go out to eat. Her daughter drove to town once a week to get her groceries and stay overnight. I would look for the car so I knew she had someone with her for that little while. I always paused and waved when I walked by with the dog, whether I saw her in her chair or not. On her birthday early in the Covid lockdown I got several neighbors together and we stood in her front yard and waved and sang “Happy Birthday”.
And I had stuff of my own I was doing, and I guess I told myself that it was enough.
But sitting there in her chair, listening to the incredible stillness of a house too-long empty, I know it was not enough.

Shortly before she went to the hospital we had a power outage. I stopped over twice to see how she was doing, offered to bring her some ice, and the second time she asked me to come in, and then asked if I wanted to play Scrabble.
Really? I thought about the preparations I was making for a hot night without power, and dusk was approaching… and then I thought about her. No TV, no radio, no one to talk to. Just the window, looking out on the rest of the world.
And I said “Sure” and we pulled the board over to the window to get the waning light and she beat me HARD because she is a good scrabble player, which I hadn’t known about her.
I called her daughter for her because her phone had no power, “Hey this is Tracy, you never told me that your mom is a Scrabble hustler, good thing I didn’t bet anything!” and gave her my phone so they could talk for a little while.
“I’m fine” she said. “I have the best neighbors!”
We talked about this and that as I got my hat handed to me until it grew too dark, and she turned on her flashlight and said she’d go to bed. I went upstairs and got sheets and pillows so she could sleep on the sofa by the screen door to catch the breeze and avoid that long flight of stairs in the dark.

And then she had a sudden back problem and her daughter came and took her to the hospital, and they wanted her to go to a rehab center instead of home. I was in my yard when they stopped by to get her some clothes and other belongings to take with her “for a short stay” “Maybe 30 days”. I helped with the bags and leaned in the car to hug her and say goodbye.
“Oh, I have such a good neighbor, such a good friend” she said.
But I really only was sometimes. When I thought of her instead of me. Which wasn’t often enough.

She never came back, and it’s clear that she never will.
I look back into the dining room and see the Scrabble box still sitting on the table, and am grateful that I stayed that evening, listened to her tell me those same stories of her childhood that she always tells. At least I did that.

I rock a bit in her chair. The house is SO quiet, they way they are while waiting on an ending, and a new beginning. The only sound is the relentless ticking of the old wall clock, counting down the days until someone reaches in and gently stops the hands.

It’s the word we allknow and hate:
Covid 19.
The pandemic virus.
(or the government hoax to take away our freedoms,depending on how fucking stupid you are.)

It’s why we have a whole box of test kits in the closet. And Sunday morning, this happened.

It didn’t just read positive- it almost yelled it. You’re supposed to wait 15 minutes after you insert that swab to read it but within 15 seconds that was saying “Oh HELL yes”.
And the world got a lot more complicated.

I got sick overnight on Thursday so first thing Friday I tested, and it was negative.
Whew
So I had a fever and coughing and head congestion and felt crappy- but it wasn’t covid. So it’s all ok.
Called in to take some time off work, assembled the usual equipment: tissue box, tylenol, ice water. I went through the McDonalds drive through (I don’t have covid, remember?) and got some french fries, because I thought the hot saltiness would taste good. It usually does when I have a cold.

It didn’t.
My fever spiked so I hit it with round-the-clock tylenol and woke at dawn drenched in sweat. Good! Getting better!
Nope.

Saturday was miserable. Ted was out of town. Steve was out of town. (Turned out to be a good thing but I had no one to take care of me). Katie dropped by (I stayed away from her) with some emergency supplies: Coke, popsicles, Lipton noodle soup and a bag of M&M’s. Perfect! Thanks!

And then I couldn’t eat them.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach, and when I stood up and walked around I got vaguely nauseous. My fever was trying to go up so I needed to take tylenol, but didn’t want to put it alone in a stomach that unhappy. At 10 AM I nibbled one cracker and took tylenol, then lay back in frontof the TV in a miserable haze. At 2 it was time for more, so I had part of a raspberry popsicle and tylenol.

By 4 PM I was feverish and lying on the boathroom floor (because for some reason that eased my gastric discomfort a lot) with a cup of ice chips in front of me. Poor Tucker really wanted to go for a walk but I knew I couldn’t even manage one of his geriatric dog walks. It was a nice day so I put him outside and went back to my floor, where I dozed for an hour.

It was a miserable night. I found a position that was reasonably comfortable for my stomach and fell asleep, only to wake because it was not comfortable for my hip or back. I gave up on tylenol and let my fever do its thing because ice chips was all I could take.

Sunday morning I figured I should re-test, because this thing was a bear, whatever it was.
And then things got more complicated.

I texted Katie, because Ted and I had dinner with her and Amber on Wednesday. I texted Ted and Steve.

I called my mom, who had to go to the front desk and tell them she may have been exposed when I took her to the chiropractor on Wednesday. They gave her a test and an N-95 mask and told her she’s got to stay in her apartment for 10 days.
“Can you take another test?” she begged me. “Maybe that result was wrong. I’m gonna go crazy stuck in my apartment for 10 days!”

“False negatives are a lot more common than false positives” I told her. “And anyway, it’s 10 days from exposure, and you’re already 4 days in. Just 6 more days.”
Then I contacted siblings and asked them to please call mom frequently over the next 6 days to relieve her boredom.
I called work and told them not to expect me soon and said “Aren’t you glad I still wear a mask at work?” I couldn’t resist.

By Sunday my respiratory symptoms were getting a little better. I could tell I was a little feverish but it wasn’t the 102+ I had been fighting before. Much less coughing, more drippy nose. But my stomach was still upset. After my phone calls I set to work: stripped the linens off the bed and blankets off the futon in the front room, collected any towels I had used and put them all in the laundry. Wearing a mask and gloves I set about sanitizing every door knob, faucet and handle. I sprayed soft surfaces like the futon couch and throw pillow with a long shot of lysol.

All along nausea had been lurking in the background. I felt that if I was up and moving around too much I might throw up. After about 15 minutes of work I was proved right- though I had injested so little in the previous 8 hours that at least there wasn’t much to throw up.

Long before Ted got home I was ensconced in the basement family room with a box of tissues and a glass of ice chips. He and went to the store and got me some Kevita, which is a brand of kombucha which I thought it might settle things down. He also got cherry jello.

The Kevita really did the trick. I took one tiny sip… then another. Soon I had half the bottle down. It was amazing what just getting rid of that stomach ache did. I mean I was still sick: low-grade fever, nose dripping like a faucet and sneezing up a storm. But I had some jello before I turned out the light and it tasted and felt good going down.
Progress!

So now it’s Monday morning. I would go to the doctor today to see about getting some antivirals– but. It’s Memorial Day. The timing is just not working out.

On Friday and Saturday, when I felt like death warmed over, I thought I was covid negative. No use in the drugs. Sunday, when I found out I was positive, everyone was out of town and I was too exhausted and sick to call around myself and look into where and how to get it.
So I have to either wait til Tuesday (and you’re supposed to start them within 5 days of onset of symptoms) or go to the ER. Which will be filled with other people who would go to their doctor, but it’s Memorial Day and their doctor is playing golf. No thinks: not unless it’s an actual emergency.

I feel… better. Still sick. I went upstairs to let the dog out at 5 AM and got light-headed at the top of the stairs. I had a cup of tea and a piece of jelly toast and it is sitting fine but I have no wish to eat more. I have an ear ache. I really want a shower. But so far today is better than yesterday, which overall was better than the day before. I’ll take it.

Time to call my mom .

Tuesday check-in.

Tucker and I walked all the way to his pal Patch’s house this morning at about 5 AM. We were both glad to get out, as no one has walked him since I was last able to. I’ve still got what feels like a nasty head cold but no fever and almost no cough. I do feel winded when I walk up the steps fast. Hopefully that will change or I’ll never make it through a shift unloading 40 lb cartons of flour and beans.

You might think that a week with Covid in isolation and nothing to do would be a great time to catch up on the library books you have laying around. You’d be wrong. Today I actually read for about 15 minutes. That was all I could muster- and it’s a good book. It’s so much less effort to veg out in front of the TV and re-runs of Murder She Wrote.
I’ve decided not to go in for the anti-viral treatment. Seems superfluous, and anyway, I don’t know how much they cost. Ted keeps saying “We have insurance!” but I have ZERO faith that this shit we bought after he lost his employee coverage will cover anything until it actually does.

Based on my nice walk this morning and a hearty lunch, I’m thinking I may take another test tomorrow. I have no idea how “Better” I need to feel to test negative but I’m ready to find out.

Wednesday.
First coffee in a week. Turned out my mouth wanted it more than my stomach did, but no real problems. I briefly started coughing a lot last night but it didn’t last. Definitely less head congestion. Progress continues but is less dramatic.

I’ve been thinking about work and I know that even if I am negative now I am not yet up for a shift. I could probably work a few hours as a cashier, but the constant up-and-down of stocking groceries would have my head spinning and me grabbing shelves to keep from falling over. I feel bad about the crew putting out all that stock without me day after day, but I would be no help to them yet.

It’s also disorienting to be down here in the basement with nothing to do for so long. I keep checking the clock to see if it’s time to get ready for work, or time to think about starting supper, or time to get some weeding done before it gets too hot… but I do not need to or may not do those things yet. So I watch more TV or scratch at a crossword puzzle or read my computer for a while more.
Is this what being elderly will be like? Yikes!

Wednesday evening:
Covid test was positive today. Not susper surprised but I was kind of hoping.
More time to regain strength. Also more time stuck in the basement. I know Tucker frets without me, but we’re lucky to have a place this easy to isolate and still be functional.

Friday evening:
Another positive test this morning. Conflicting reports from MIT med and the CDC but bother say that if you are vaccinated, you don’t have to wait for a negative test. One says 5 days post onset + no fever for 24 hours, the other recommends 10 days. How are we to know?
Given that I still have a bit of a lingering cough and some swollen glands, I’m opting for the 10 days.

I read an entire library book today.