Try To Sleep

It has been nearly three months since October 21. And in all of that time, I have been unable to bring myself to write about Molly's death. I keep thinking about it; she deserves a proper post. But in so many ways, writing about it makes final-final. That I have processed my feelings enough to sum them up here. And I don't think I have.

Our little Mo died on an otherwise-beautiful October afternoon. I'm sure everyone in Minnesota was remarking what a beautiful day it was as I sat on the couch and ticked away the minutes stroking her meringue-fur belly and heavy, silky ears, knowing the time was coming where I would force myself to get off the couch, get in the car with William, and I would betray her by bringing her to vet, where we would have our last snuggle, forever and ever, amen.

Mo long had a heart murmur; we knew that. We knew what would eventually come. Her heart would become too big for her chest, or it would fill with fluid, or any other variety of things. We had been told. But her last few checkups had been great, and I had suspected nothing. Right when we moved, she developed a cough; completely unrelated, the vet strongly promised, to the second-story fall she suffered the day we moved. (Just a sprained paw was all the damage done that day to my little blind baby, who was just trying to find us among the hustle-bustle of the move; little did I know the worst was yet to come, and sooner than later. I kill myself over thinking about that unnecessary suffering.) I kept thinking the vet was maybe a little wrong; maybe her ribs were bruised or something was jostled and irritated, and that the cough would go away.

A couple of vet visits later, and it was confirmed that the early signs of congestive heart failure were all there; that the normally black, clear void that showed as her lungs on the X-ray indeed looked laced with smoke. I could see it. The vet was very optimistic. She said this was treatable; many dogs lived with it with no ill effects to speak of, for years. I sobbed at the table despite her repeated insistence that this was not a surprise and nothing to get too excited over.

Don't they say moms "just know?"

We began courses upon courses of medications, some more expensive than others, and we gave up sleeping at night because her cough intensified then and could be heard throughout the house. William and I took turns sleeping on the couch for the very small bit of relief it allowed. For weeks this persisted, coupled with late-night discussions with our ever-faithful vet, who promised our options were not exhausted—yet. But I knew better. We were just rotating around without any relief for Molly, nothing that really quieted her cough—instead, the diuretic just made it hard for her to control her urine. Her accidents seemed to cause her no end of shame, even as we pet and soothed her that it wasn't her fault, that we knew she was such a good girl.

So then, the day I found out that there was nothing more our vet could do did not come as a surprise, and maybe it came with a little relief to know we had absolutely, positively exhausted every option out there. It wasn't just the congestive heart failure, after all; that had gotten much better. It was another, uncurable thing: Her trachea was collapsing in two places. Vets can administer steroids for relief, but unfortunately, it would intensify her heart condition. The vet looked as though she might cry when she told me. "It sucks, this is really shitty." Her hands fluttered uselessly after she delivered the news. She told me to schedule the appointment when we were ready. She said, "I'd feel confident doing it today if William were here." And she did me the kindness of telling me Molly "seemed tired." A gentle nudge: Soon. I heard her loud and clear. I went home and told William—we hadn't really anticipated that this particular appointment would be The Last One, so I had gone alone. I told him I couldn't make the call, I just couldn't, but I also couldn't have the cloud hanging over my head; the spectre of making the phone call, the knowledge that she might truly be suffering despite her sunny disposition. So my brave husband did what I could not; he scheduled the appointment as soon as possible. "What should I say?" he asked, phone to his ear as it rang. I was speechless. Finally, I said, "Maybe just tell them it's time for us to say goodbye." The code.

We stopped feeding her dog food. We fed her hamburger and rice, and she even snared a taco off the coffee table one night while my back was turned (I must emphasize this was not a dog that seemed sick otherwise, which made this whole decision about dying harder) and she wagged her nub for all it was worth, even though she choked as she ate. I worried needlessly about the onions in the guacamole.

We would randomly hit the icemaker button on the refrigerator, so that it felt like it was snowing desserts—she loved ice cubes so much, and she would come running. We gave her all the treats and yogurt she could eat. We snuggled her and told her we loved her. The two nights before we said goodbye we had a cast of visitors, who came to give her a last treat and pet and keep our spirits up as time ticked down (we were endlessly thankful for the celebration of life, not mourning of death, and for keeping our minds off the clock). She had made quite an impression on everyone in her four short years with us.

Her appointment was scheduled at the end of a Friday afternoon. We spent the day with her, taking her through the McDonald's drive-thru for a McDouble and fries. We walked in the park and took some photos—they turned out beautifully. In some of them, she appears to be smiling. I would swear to you she was happier that day than she had been in weeks. Did she know?

We took the long way to the vet's office, prolonging the inevitable but also giving her a chance to take an extra-long car ride with her head out the window (another one of her favorites). When we got there, they quickly and compassionately dispatched us to The Goodbye Room. They took her and hooked her up to an IV, returned with a clay imprint of her paw, with instructions to bake it when we got home, to make it permanent. They laid blankets and a little potty pad across my lap just in case, then gingerly set her down, a purple bandage wrapped around the IV, her little Muppet fur displacing itself around the edges.

It was so hard, that moment, but she was so docile and settled right in. It's like she had given herself over to the process. Like she accepted it more than we did. I have to believe she knew and she was ready. She was not agitated or fearful. She was so, so, so tired. I have to believe that she thought it was the right thing. That she understood that we had done everything we possibly could; endured as many sleepless nights as we could; paid as many vet bills as we could. I have to believe that she knew that if we could have made it any other way, we would have. We would have moved mountains.

The vet came in. Not our usual vet, but she spoke highly and sincerely of Molly, as though she knew her. It helped. I thanked her for doing such a shitty job—and she reminded us this was in fact the absolute best thing we could do and that she was happy to provide relief. And that we could take as much time as we needed right now.

But we could not stop time and I was a flight risk. I wanted to hike her twenty, fluffy pounds under my arm like a football and win the Heisman running out of that office. I saw myself bounding down the stairs in my mind, one arm out, fur flying. Instead, William and I gave the go-ahead.

I was really glad my sister told me this before we went, and so I will share it with you, in the sad knowledge that some of you may need it sometime: It is a very peaceful moment and the process itself is nothing to fear. The vet administered the drug slowly through a syringe, and, honestly, I could not tell when Molly left us. She never stirred. We cried, but silently—she hated tears. (No, really, she would pace when I cried, and literally wipe my face her her paws.) We murmured all the sweet nothings we always said to her. We held her until the vet assured us that she was gone. (I'll never forget, she said, so kindly, "Her heart is so big, it is taking a little longer for it to stop," as she felt around with her stethoscope. And, oh, how I ached knowing she suffered in her last weeks on Earth, but yet I reveled in the idea that her heart was so big with love.) Her heavy limbs were draped on mine and over William's; she was still warm. I would have sworn to you she was sleeping, like any other afternoon. I wasn't afraid to touch her after she was gone. To me, she was still there. I had to walk out and I tried not to look back. But I did. The vet was cradling her sweetly in her arms. I forced myself down the stairs and out the door.

You guys, saying goodbye to a beloved pet, my sweet Momo, was one of my biggest fears. She was my girl, our girl, our first dog together, our first love outside ourselves together, our first. I can't remember our relationship before her, it seems. I used to panic thinking of her end days. When we got her, she was scared, she had been alone and abused for years; she didn't even know how to play or what to do with toys. The broom made her cower, and sometimes if William stood up too fast she skittered away. By the end of our time with her, she took naps on his chest while he watched football. She never trembled when we opened the closet door. She was our shadow, our family. Loyal and loving, a true companion and master negotiator and peacemaker. She probably saved our marriage a time or two; she hated when we were at odds with each other and she often made the first move when we'd retreated to our corners, as if to say "Enough is enough, just apologize already so we can get back to food and snuggling." She was all the noble things a dog should be, and we loved her unconditionally, and there is no doubt in my mind she loved us back, wholeheartedly and without reserve.

We left the office, and the sun was streaming through the windshield. We drove down the freeway and this Low song was on the radio:

You stretch your wings
You take a breath
You hide your feet
Embrace your head

A tragedy, no there's never enough
You try to sleep
But you never wake up

Try to sleep
but you never wake up
No you never wake up

It gave me chills, the timing of that song. We spent the evening trying to run away from that drowning sadness. Avoided going home to a house without her. William bought me a little rose-gold band with a tiny little pink-sapphire heart atop it. To remember her by.

And the other things I will remember: her face peeking up over the edge of our bed once she knew we were awake for the day; her tightrope-walking routine to get our attention as she edged along the bed; her crazy, crosswise walk outside; her fat, squishy paws that smelled like caramel corn and Fritos and vacuum dust; her love of her stuffed bunny, Bun-Buns, who she would lovingly fake-bite, shake by its neck, then take a nap on every time we came home; her sunny-side-up naps on the couch; and how she snored and ran and dug and ate in her sleep; how she would get up on the couch before I could even sit down, ready for attention whether I could give it or not; her nose snorting underneath the door while I was in the bathroom. Her devotion to the pursuit of food. Her nub-tail immediately wagging in agreement to everything I said. The sweetness that everyone felt about her; that made everyone fall in love with her. That she was ours. So distinctly and loyally and wonderfully ours.

She was meant to be with us. I will remember the door opening as we were about to leave the Humane Society empty-handed and there she burst through the door with the cold sunlight, panting and cute as a button. And our arms raised up together to point at her. It was January 23, and if she were still with us, she would be about to celebrate her 13th birthday (we think). As dog "rescuers" will say: Who rescued who?

She was it. She was our divine intervention.

Our bestest girl in the whole wide world. God. We miss her so.

Mirror, Mirror

There are a few things I do want to blog about but haven't had time to catch a breath!

Today, unfortunately, was one of those days where nothing went quite right. I'll just tell you the beginning of my day, and that should be enough.

So, a couple of days ago, I decided to order myself a couple of things because my clothes have gotten a little too tight. (I posted about this a couple weeks ago).

Long story short, I have been on the no-pop-wagon for 41 days and counting. I thought for SURE this would help. I've been eating salads and lean proteins for lunch, low fat yogurt and low fat granola for breakfast, lots of fruits, and tons of fresh food since the Farmers' Market is in full swing. I've even been working out... that's just starting, but I have been doing it. I've been giving it a true effort.

In any case, I figured that wedging myself into jeans that made me feel like a stuffed sausage was not helping my self-image, so I figured I'd buy a pair to buoy me while I tried to get back down to last year's weight.

I got them in the mail last night.

I tried them on before work, excited because they were exactly what I wanted, for half price. I even thought I bought them big enough.

I didn't.

Like.

Not even close.

I'm fairly sure it's a result of the medication I have been on, in a cruel twist, to control my stomach.

The scale keeps rising. I don't want to have to buy new clothes, nor does my new saver self want/can do it.

I can't help but care about it. I know it doesn't change who I am as a person, but I already have enough health issues. I don't need to have to worry about this too. Can't a girl catch a break?

I am most definitely throwing myself a pity party.

Don't Stop Til You Get Enough

Today, the world lost perhaps the finest entertainer we have ever known.

I lost my first love.

Michael Jackson.

As a child, Michael was real to me. He visited me at home, we ate peas at the dinner table together, we danced around the living room--my mom even left him in the car once when we went grocery shopping. It elicited a screechy "Mom! You left Michael in the car!!!" She dutifully turned around, opened the back door, and let Michael out, lest anyone in the parking lot think she was locking a little brother in the car on a hot day.

I remember seeing Michael Jackson moonwalk on TV for the first time, his glitter glove aglow. I remember digging my hand into a bag of popcorn, completely enthralled. My boyfriend was on the teevee! And he floated! The man may go down as the greatest dancer in history.

My brother brought home the 13-minute VHS tape of Thriller, thinking I'd be overjoyed. What I remember is sitting in front of our giant floor TV set (which made that signature ga-thunka, ga-thunka sound when you twisted the dial), hands over my eyes (but still peeking a little), screaming, "That's not my Michael! He wouldn't scare me like that!" Of course, subsequent viewings of the mini-movie thrilled me, like most people, to no end.

I am still the first person on the dance floor when those first bass lines begin to groove on Billie Jean. I unapologetically love We Are the World, Bad, Dangerous, Leave Me Alone. I love him without irony. Throughout his scandals, the disappearance of his face, his strange, sad publicity grabs, I still thought he was one of the most talented people alive.

I feel sad for him. Being the most famous person in the world for at least a decade—a decade of excess, no less—must be lonely. Despite his fame, he always had this melancholy air, this arrested development. Someone worked himself to death, adoring millions, but still feeling fundamentally misunderstood.

The man in the mirrored aviator glasses, military jackets, highwater pants (only he could make those cool), and the glittery glove. The man whose hair caught afire during the filming of a Pepsi commercial. He brought us the bizarre, the spectacular, the sublime. The man who completely overdelivered on his moniker, fulfilled his title as the King of Pop.

His genius made him unreal, untouchable. We stayed home when he launched new worldwide singles. (I particularly remember Black or White.) Everyone was always talking about him the next day, but fame took a toll. He was obviously, seriously mentally ailing. Eventually, we saw less and less of the genius, and more and more of a man in need of help. A sad genius recluse, looking more and more like a freakish wax statue, bankrupted financially and socially.

When I saw TMZ was reporting his cardiac arrest, I thought. It's not possible. It's not real. Then I thought, he'll be OK. Then I thought, uh-oh, number 3.

Tonight, I imagine him walking up the stairs to a great forever, each step alight as his foot touches it, a little further away from us mortal beings.

I don't want to think of it as it is: A mere slip of his former self, he died uneventfully. Like most of us.

Edited to add: After I wrote this, I saw this article at NPR. I wish I had written it.

Erase Replace

OK. I was planning on making a little more dramatic re-entry from haitus than this, but you know me. . . time goes by, then boom! Kat's mad about discontinuing products!

Here's the thing. There is one, and only one, truly great undereye concealer out there. And it's not even expensive! It's Max Factor's Erace.

Look, I have really dark undereye circles, even when I get a lot of sleep. I'm pale, so you can see all my dark veins. It sucks.

I have tested many, many different creams, tubes, and sticks. And Erace is the one for me. And many others. And I know some people are totally hooked on 2000 Calorie Mascara, but I'm a L'Oreal Voluminous girl until the end of time.

I do not know what I will do without my precious Erace. I will look like one tired girlfriend, that's for sure. I have til 2010 to stockpile. Hope there's a lot of preservatives in those babies!!!

--One more week of hectic schedule, then I should be back on the blogging track.

Don't Throw Your Hand

This has been a really terrible week, not going to lie.

At least once a day (sometimes more) this week—no exaggeration—I have heard bad news, the really serious kind of bad, not the "oh that's irritating" kind of bad. It gets put in perspective when it's homes, natural disasters, jobs, deaths, unkindnesses and injustices in an already ugly time.

I'm drained, peeps. A lot of it is stuff I don't feel I have license to write about here—I'm sorry, I don't like being cryptic or hanging the "I've got a secret" thing out there—just because they are stories that belong to friends and family, and they probably wouldn't appreciate them broadcast here and they came to me as a confidant. A lot of loss this week. A lot.

Among the things I can talk about here are the fact that one of my favorite teachers died this week. I have had horrible stomachaches every day. I have had to comfort people when I had no words of advice or helpfulness. It has been 40 below all week. (I know I'm Minnesotan, but this is getting inhumane.) I have two pairs of socks on. Two. I have my scarf on. In my house.

I'm feeling the weight of the world these days. I feel sad. I feel like there's a lot to think about, absorb. I feel misunderstood, on some levels. I feel helpless. I feel like these are supposed to be the years I've worked for, planned my successes for, and I feel like I look around and the world is crashing down.

I feel like I can't even clearly articulate it.

I have had some really high highs and low lows over the past year, and mostly I have felt good, loved, motivated, and more optimistic (or at least hopeful for change) than I ever have. But this week has so missed the mark, in a huge way. This is an ugly time, and I feel sad that all my peers, and people that I love deeply, are hurting, struggling. I don't want to start 2009 like this at all.

One Singular Scentsation

I come to you, my blog friends, with a serious problem.

Don't laugh.

Bath and Body Works is discontinuing my favorite scent.

I am so FLIPPING mad. First of all, I had NO idea. NO ONE from the company let me know that hey—our most popular scent, you know, the ONE YOU ALWAYS WEAR, the one your HUSBAND loves even—yeah, that's going away. No, NO—I learned the hard way, like when someone doesn't tell you the bad news because they don't want to break it to you and then you find out some roundabout way and you're mad that someone PULLED THE WOOL this whole time and if only someone had TOLD YOU you could have DONE SOMEthing.

The other day, I got an email from B&BW, and it was some Columbus Day sale (I don't understand this sale time at all, but I'll take it.) I went to see if my beloved Brown Sugar & Fig was on sale. Imagine my delight! $5 a bottle for the body cream! I click happily...to find some icky red text proclaiming, "Fond Farewell". I blinked. I pulled the cartoon double take. I could hear Looney Tunes sound effects echoing around me. This cannot be! I hit refresh a couple times. Oh yes, it's true. Discontinued, and oh--sold out online.

Oh, the sadness. Oh, the humanity! How can they do this to me?

My brown sugar & fig obsession started a couple years ago, as a gift from my mom. I had been sick a lot and had a little medical scare, and I think she knew I was feeling pretty down and out. She brought home for me one day a tub of the BS&F butter. I immediately was in love....the warmth, the fruity, the musk, the light hint of coconut. Ever since, the only times I've really strayed were for my former job (where I was a beauty editor)--testing lotions, and if I got a special gift, which was rare (no one ever really buys me beauty stuff since I have a ton as it is).

I've been wearing it as long as William and I have been together. To him, that is what I smell like. So when i sent him a sad, ranty email the other morning, he responded with a sincere, "OH NO! That is the best smell!" Scent is strongly linked to memory. Its like closing a chapter in my life! My mom responded kindly by giving me a bottle she had stashed away in her closet.

But COME ON. I am so sad. Stupid discontinued products!!!!!! I should add that B&BW also discontinued one of the best lavender scents on the market too. Sad day.

I have to say, I actually did yell, "Stupid discontinued products!" as I typed it. Molly came over, put her paw on my heart, and snuggled in. Oh, my dog. She knows the pain in my heart.

Consumed

Seriously? I haven't been blogging, because honestly, my life is consumed with what I'm eating, when I'm eating it, how I'm eating, recording what I'm eating, panicking because my stomach suddenly hurts, rejoicing because it doesn't hurt, oh yes wait a second, it hurts.

Honestly, it's making me super crabby and depressed. I want my stomach back. I want to eat normal food. I want to not have headaches because I'm so hungry. I want to stop craving steaks and hamburgers and spinach (think I'm a little low on iron?).

I want to go to work and feel good all day. I want to feel good when I come home. I want to eat normal lunch and normal dinner. I take pretty good care of myself. I eat right, I'm starting to exercise more, I get enough sleep. I'm 27. This shouldn't be happening. It's like waking up every morning to a little slice of internal hell.