Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Again

I had another dream about Millie last night.  This time we had been separated again somehow.  It seems like maybe I had moved somewhere else, and somehow she found me and came back.  It was like one of those news stories you sometimes hear about dogs who get lost half way across the country but somehow find their way back to their owners.  Just like in the last dream, there was the sense that she was sick or there was something wrong, and this made it so amazing that she had found her way home.  Somehow I knew she had followed a dirt path through forests and meadows and wilderness, and everyone was particularly amazed that she walked the whole way, considering how unnatural her silly little pug body was--how in the world did she make it out there on her own?

I'm not sure what to make of these dreams about her coming back to me.  Subconscious denial, maybe?  Maybe, but I sort of doubt it.  I think it might actually be the "bargaining" phenomenon.  I'm not a very religious person, and I'm not sure who or what I could possibly bargain with.  But grieving the loss of Millie has pushed the limits of my agnosticism.  In the first few weeks, the pain was simply so unbearable.  I have written about how I have tried every single thing I can think of that just might ease this pain.  I have found myself at times not so much believing in a higher power but simply putting it out there to the universe that I NEED SOME EFFING RELIEF.  There seems to be nothing in this world can comfort me, so if there is anything that can help, it's going to have to be "supernatural."  My "prayers" and "beliefs" are not cognitive...in the technical philosophical sense of being propositional...in the technical philosophical sense of having truth values.  Instead, I just find myself thinking:  look, I understand that there is nothing anyone can do about the fact that she is gone.  But please please please fill my heart with her presence, whatever that means.  I can go on without her little body in my bed every night, or by my side every day, but I need to feel like she's with me in some way.

I haven't made any progress on that, and that is probably the source of these dreams about her coming home with me.

Friday, April 23, 2010

I live to dream again...

Recently I had my first clear dream about Millie.  When she died, I immediately began to hope I would dream about her.  I just knew that was the only way I could possibly have the experiences and feelings I miss so much.  Of course my heart couldn't handle dreaming of her right away.  A few days after she died I dreamed that I was about to look at pictures of her, and that alone was so painful that I woke up.  Since then, for the most part, she has been present in my dreams, but my dreams have not been about her.

A few days ago, though, I dreamed that I took a trip somewhere.  Somehow, for some reason, Millie was there.  I hadn't given her away or left her somewhere, but for some reason she was there, away from my ordinary life.  I had a sense that we were separated because she was sick and/or dying.  But she seemed okay.  We did some serious cuddling, and I had sweet experiences of her cuddled up by my chest and neck.  We went on some walks on Aspen Place where the house is in Evergreen.  There was a sense that she would be gone soon, but for the time being she really seemed to be okay.  So I decided to bring her home with me.  That part was really clear; I was telling everyone in my dream that I had made this big decision to bring her home with me, and then I woke up.

Who knows what any of it means.

The depth of my grief has given me a new awareness of just how deeply bonded Millie and I were.  I wrote in an earlier post that I never took Millie for granted, and that's true.  And I was very aware of her mortality.  I knew it would be horrible to lose her, and I knew that someday I would.  But I really did not know my heart could hurt this bad, and that shows me how much love my heart can hold.

Monday, April 12, 2010

What happened?

I think most people reading this know how Millie died, but I know some don't, so I decided I should write about it.

Anyone who knew Millie knows that she had an insane drive to eat anything and everything she could get in her mouth.  The week before she died, she got into some trash in the bathroom.  This kind of thing had happened before, so I wasn't terribly concerned, and I decided to just monitor her.  After she vomited up some trash after a couple of days, I figured we were out of the woods.  She was slow to get back to her normal self, though, so I took her to the vet on Tuesday morning.  They did an x-ray and found an intestinal blockage.

Millie had a previous intestinal blockage two years ago.  In that case, it was HORRIBLE.  At the time we did not know what, other than food, she had eaten, and the vet could not find any blockage on x-rays or ultrasound.  She just kept vomiting.  She'd been in the hospital for four or five days before they found a piece of a Nyla-bone on a second or maybe even third ultrasound.  I remember being terrified during those days before they found the blockage.  The blockage itself was minor compared to the hell of trying to figure out what the hell was wrong.  It was such a relief to find a cause for the vomiting and, of course, get it out.

This time, when the vet found the blockage, I was sad that Millie would have to go through such major surgery again, but I did not suspect for a minute that we would lose her.  The previous blockage had been so bad, simply because it was so hard to find.  This time it seemed so simple.  The vet even joked that for some dogs, you end up taking something like this out of them every year, and you just wish you could install a zipper.

The vet called Tuesday afternoon after the surgery.  He said that Millie had been an ideal patient; her vitals had remained perfectly strong throughout the surgery, and she was doing very well.  He was very alarmed at how much damage the blockage had done, though.  He'd removed about a foot of perforated intestine.  He just could not believe what a tough girl she was.  When he saw what she was dealing with inside, what kind of pain she must have been in, he just couldn't believe that she had been walking around, wagging her tail, and acting so nearly normal before the surgery.  Primarily, he was simply impressed by her strong little constitution.  At that point, toward the end of the day, she was resting but ready for visitors.

I stopped by the vet on my way home from school.  They walked me back to the recovery room.  She was the only patient, so it was nice and quiet.  They had put a heating lamp next to her kennel, which I knew would make her very happy.  Almost as good as Gramma's fireplace.  She perked up a bit and was in good spirits when she saw me.  I stood at her kennel, stroking her head and body gently for a few minutes but I thought I better make it a short visit.  My presence seemed to just make her think it was time to go home.  I knew she must be feeling horrible, and I wanted her to rest.  The vet said that they would offer her small amounts of food during the following day (Wednesday), and if she was able to keep it down, she would be able to come home that night.  The only concern was that a certain protein level in her blood was a bit low, but it was simply something the vet would be keeping an eye on.  I went home that night feeling relieved that she had come through surgery so well, that the damage had been stopped and repaired, and 75% sure that she would be home the next night.

I spoke to the vet mid-day on Wednesday, and Millie was still doing well.  They had given her some food in the morning.  She had been more than happy to eat it, but she had vomited a little later.  After such intensive surgery, this was not unexpected.  But because of this, and because that protein level was still a little low, they decided to keep her for another night.

I stopped by for a visit again on my way home from school.  I remember my first thought when I saw her was that she looked so old.  Her little face had gone gray prematurely, starting around 5 years old, I think.  She seemed very tired.  They had switched her to a new pain medication because the vet was not convinced that she was getting enough relief.  She, of course, perked up for my visit, wagged her tail a little bit and tried to stand up.  Soon she settled back down and relaxed.  Even though she was obviously happy to see me, she seemed old, tired, and sad.  I assumed that she was doped up, and I was glad actually that she seemed more likely to rest.  So I went home.

I really missed her that night.  I had been pretty hopeful that she would be home by then, so it felt weird that she wasn't.

When I woke up, I had missed a call from the vet.  I called them back, and the woman said, "Ms. Strickland, I have some bad news for you--"  I was sure she was going to say that Millie had thrown up her food again and so they would have to keep her through the day.  But instead, she said "--Millie passed away last night."  I started screaming, and I'm not sure when I stopped.

So what happened?  Everything after that moment is a blur.  But at some point the vet who performed the surgery called from home (it was his day off) and explained that, from what he could tell, the low level of that particular protein had prevented her intestines from healing quickly enough and that her internal sutures must have ruptured overnight.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Not so much acceptance as defeat.

This is such shit.

Today I feel a little different.  I said in my last post that I feel like I've been running away from March 4th as fast as I can.  Today I might have stopped running.  For a minute I thought this might be something like acceptance.  I think the shock has warn off a bit.  It feels real.  But it doesn't feel the way I think/hope acceptance will.  I just feel bludgeoned.  Eventually you submit to the blows, I guess.

But then again, I could easily start screaming and rip someone's face off for not giving me back my baby lady.  The way I miss that girl feels a lot like rage.  Therein lies the real truth that has defeated me:  I don't feel any way, except bad, for very long.

I'm vaguely aware that I might not be doing the things I'm supposed to do.  I'm certainly not exceeding expectations, if I'm meeting them at all.  I'm slow these days, slower than usual, and I have to go to bed early to allow for a good hour or two of grief that I can't squeeze in during the day.  I'm scraping by at school, but it feels tenuous.  But what the hell can I do?

And I keep buying books about dogs, regardless of my budget.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

If it looks like I've been crying, it's just because I've been crying.

Today has been on the horrible side.  It's been one month now since Millie died.  I have no idea how a month has gone by.  I feel like I've been running as fast as I can away from March 4th, knowing that I definitely won't feel better until I get to the future, so I'm going there in a hurry.

It still doesn't seem real.  It just seems like I've been transported to another possible world where water is twater (for the philosophers out there) and I am the momma of a 5-month old lab-mix instead of the momma/soul mate of a 9-year old pug-with-special-needs.  I can't believe how much of my identity consists of being Millie's momma.  I know I've said this at least a hundred times in the last month, but everything is so different now.  When I think back about the moment I heard that Millie was gone, it is the memory of a bomb blast.  As I remember it, my hair was blown back by the rushing bomb wind, and my skin was melted off by the bomb-radiation.  I can see that somehow I've made a future for myself, but it's nothing I recognize.  "My world's the surface of the moon, my heart's down in a diamond mine."  (Mike Doughty)

It seems too real.  From what I've been reading, many people feel a presence of their pet when he/she dies.  Jesus Effing Christ I wish I felt that way.  Instead, Millie's absence colors every perception I have.  Where's-Millie?-colored-glasses instead of rose-colored-glasses.  I think this is largely because I was very aware of how meaningful and important Millie was to me and how much joy she brought me every day.  I often marveled about how that much intensity, that much silly sweetness, that much L O V E could be packed into such a tiny bundle.  I can honestly say that I did not take her and our love for granted.  That's good, I know, but nothing is really very good.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Re: Lindsay Re: Dilemma

Lindsay, your suggestion is a great one.  It's along the same lines as another book I've been reading.  This book includes a journal with some prompts that sort of walk you through recording (and hence processing) your feelings and memories.  So far the book and the journal prompts are really helpful, and I think that some serious memorialization is the key to helping me accept this reality without letting go.  I'm never ever ever ever letting go of Millie.  Never.  Ever.

I've been setting aside at least a half hour or an hour to read through this and some other books on grieving almost every night.  You're also really right, Lindsay, to suggest a specific time-frame.  Because I have to bury my feelings so much throughout the day in order to get through life, I definitely need a good chunk of time every day to allow the tears to really flow.  It's similar to a suggestion Adreanne made when her kitty died almost two years ago.  She said that she would allow herself to focus on her thoughts and feelings, even the horrible traumatic ones, for a certain period of time, and then put those thoughts and feelings away, recognizing that she doesn't have to let them take over her whole mind forever.  So that's one thing I've been trying to do.  I think the habit of thinking about Millie, letting those thoughts and feelings fill my whole heart, for a certain period of time will eventually transform into a habit of thinking of her, our happiest times, our big big love, on a nearly daily basis.  And that will be really good.

Thanks Lindsay  <3

Friday, April 2, 2010

Dilemma

Sometimes it seems like the only way to find relief at this point is to let go of some of the closeness Millie and I shared.  The memories are so raw.  Within days of her death, I started to feel like I couldn't wait to be able to look at pictures of her and remember the times we were happiest.  But right now my mind is flooded either with memories immediately surrounding her death--e.g., the last time I saw her alive, or the feel of her lifeless body--or with good memories that, because they are good, remind me of everything I've lost.  So it's hard not to fight to block any and all memories.  As I said in an earlier post, I take comfort in Ruby because she represents my future.  But one thing that makes this so hard is that I don't want that.  I don't want to pull away from my memories of Millie.  I don't want to ever be less close to her than I was a day before she died.  It's a terrible, terrifying dilemma:  do I choose to focus on what I've lost, or do I choose to loose even more by letting go of all I have left?