A Hole in My Heart

As you know from my last post, we lost our boy Buster on November 11.

We were on vacation in Jamaica when it happened. The sitter noticed he was having some trouble breathing so she texted me. I told her to take him to the Emergency Vet, and he died a few hours later.

When we left on Nov 6, he seemed okay. He had been slowing down a lot, but I thought it was because of his joints. The photo I took of him by the red tree was taken on Nov 3, so he was still getting around okay. Slow but okay and he wouldn't let us (me and the two girl dogs) go to the park without him.

Although the cell connection was not very good, I was able to talk to the ER vet. When B first got to the hospital, she called us and said he was walking around, seemed a bit anxious and panting a bit, but nothing too severe. She said he seemed to have some pain in his belly. So the plan was to take some blood, and observe him.

She called again about an hour later and said while they were trying to get blood, he went into shock.  Of course, I'm a wreck and crying, so she spoke to my husband. The vet said that his lungs were filling with fluid all of a sudden, so they were going to sedate him and do a lung tap to see if it was blood or fluid. My husband said this sounded like a good idea. So she hung up.

Literally 20 minutes later she called and said he had died. They had just done the lung tap and the fluid was clear, so she thinks he had a tumor in his chest which suddenly gave way. The vet said he wasn't in any pain when he died, as he was sedated.

But I still feel so guilty. I can't help but think back on some symptoms he had that I should have paid more attention to. He walked very slowly, but I thought his joints were hurting so I was giving him some turmeric dog treats, and they seemed to help.  Then sometimes he would cough or choke...but it wasn't severe or constant, so I didn't focus on it.  He still ate his dinner and his treats, although his appetite had been a bit off for the last week or so. But the night before we left, he sat at my feet while I ate some ice cream. He was waiting for his chance to lick the bowl...because he always got to lick the bowl!

As we were getting ready to leave, I held him in my arms like I did when he was a puppy. I kissed his head (*kiss kiss kiss*) and told him how much I loved him, to be a good boy, and that we would be back in a few weeks.

I'm not sure whether it was good or bad that we weren't at home. My husband says to not feel guilty as even if we were home, we couldn't have done anything for him. But I can't forget his little face looking up from the bottom of the stairs as we went out the door to the airport, as if to say "Are you really leaving me???" I can't help but wonder if he died of a broken heart.

My poor B! My best friend! 13 years together, and in his hour of need, I wasn't there for him. At least to hold him and kiss him goodbye! Anyway, it's over now and I'm just heartbroken. I still cry a few times a day when I think of him. We still have my mother's dogs, but really, they are not "MY" dogs and I'm not bonded to them the way I was to B. I feel like I have a hole in my heart.

Mr. B...you are in my thoughts all the time. I even dream about you at night...and I'm always searching for you. You are still so loved and so missed.

There will never be another B, the sweetest dog in the world.

B at the beach, his happy place

Goodbye, precious boy

Buster 

November 10, 2004-November 11, 2017

"Now cracks a noble heart.
Good night sweet prince:
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

~William Shakespeare

 

Sweet B, you will be missed but never forgotten. 

What I Weigh on the Sun

Gosh, I haven’t posted for such a long time.  I’ve been busy with my full-time job, my husband of 24 years, 3 older dogs, my mom in a nearby assisted living place, working out...basically living my 64th year on Planet Earth.  I'm happy and content and mostly NOT crazy.  I don't update much because I know my blog is about the most boring thing around. 

But something is giving me the urge to update.  I need to write about this...something that happened yesterday, a random, kind of weird, event.

As any of you who have read any of my blog over the years (HELLO?  anyone still out there?), the number on the scale has always made me insane.  I used to obsessively weigh myself and then the mind games would take over.

Is the scale up? Is it down?  Why doesn't it move? Oh crap I've gained! ...on and on.

Because of this mindset, I literally stopped weighing myself a few years ago.  For me, the specific number doesn’t matter…or rather, it SHOULDN’T.   I don’t even let them weigh me when I have my annual physical, although they always fuss a bit about that. (My doctor, who knows my history of eating disorders, agrees that as long as I am a "normal" weight, the "real" number doesn't matter.  So she has given me permission to just I tell them a number that I think is reasonable.) 

Plus I really don’t look at myself in the mirror, because when I do all I see is a huge person, big and scary, kind of like the Abominable Snowman.  (Thanks, Mom!)  Even in my gym, I've asked my trainer to cover up the mirror where we are working out, so I don’t see myself.  I actively avoid mirrors.  When getting dressed, I will look very briefly to make sure my skirt isn't tucked into my underpants, but other than that, I don't look.   Even with 5 years of therapy with a therapist whose specialty is eating disorders and BDD (body dysmorphic disorder), I still don't look in mirrors. 

As I mentioned, for the past few years, I have been working out and eating right (still doing IF for the most part).  I feel great!  As hard as it is for me to believe when they say it, people often will remark to me how lucky I am that I'm so tall and thin.  After not seeing my 2 sisters-in-law for over a year, when they picked me up at the airport this summer, they both said they didn't recognize me because I've lost so much weight.  Even my gynecologist referred to me as “slender” the other day.

The fact is, I’m really not that thin.  I am tall (5’9”), with large boobs, and a good sized butt.  My thighs are thick and I have broad shoulders.  My abs are strong, but they are covered with a bit of belly fat (which I hate BTW).  But I think I carry myself well and I know how to accentuate my best feature...my long legs (thank heavens for tunics with leggings and high heels).  And since I'm pretty muscular, I'm sure I give the impression of weighing less than than I actually do.

All that being said...the number on the scale shouldn’t matter. Right?  As long as my size 10 jeans fit fine, I've been perfectly content just going along without knowing "that number." 

But here's what happened yesterday to shake up my peaceful little world:

My husband and I were at the Pacific Science Center in Seattle to see the Terracotta Warriors exhibit.  While we were waiting for our time to get in, we wandered around the Center and looked at some of the other stuff which is geared towards kids...interactive displays, etc. 

One of the displays was right in the middle of the lobby.  As we walked by, not realizing this exhibit was a MIRROR, I accidentally glanced at myself.  I was surprised when the first thought that came into my mind was, “Hey, I don’t look huge!  I actually look kind of small!”   I quickly looked away and we continued to wander around when we came to another exhibit that tells you what you weigh if you were on other planets...the Sun, the Moon, Neptune, etc.  My husband playfully told me to step on and I did without thinking "this is a scale!" (Well, DUH)

We both laughed when we saw that I weigh over 4,000 lbs on the Sun.  I saw all the other funny weights, but all of a sudden, I saw what I weigh on EARTH.  I was shocked because I guess in my mind the number should have been at least 10 lbs less than what it said, based on how my clothes fit and my knowledge of what I used to weigh in the past when they felt a certain way.  With panic in my voice, I said to my husband "It says I weigh XXX!"  He knew immediately what I meant, and said "Oh, that scale is probably fucked up so don’t worry about it."  He knows me and my mind and my emotions so well!

But I have been ruminating on that stupid number ever since.  Obsessing.  Trying to make sense of it.  Letting it bother me.  Discounting what I saw in the mirror, where literally 5 minutes before I thought I looked okay?  What does that stupid number matter?  I feel good and strong and fit.  But I went from a high of thinking I looked good, to a low because the number on "the scale" didn't match what I thought it should.

It almost feels as if I've been Mindfucked by Science.  I guess the only thing to do it just keep doing what I'm doing...AND NOT GET ON ANY SCALES!

Thanks for reading.