Signs

Things are getting better, slowly. I'm finding my new pug-less normal, which let's be honest, being down a pug really sucks. The kids have been distracting me from my grief, which is both good and bad. Sometimes I just want to be alone and cry, but then someone will be peeling off all of his clothes and another someone will need help getting her Barbie dressed, and I’m forced to deal with the reality of my day, in my face, rather than the tears.

I miss the little thing so much, and I feel her absence everywhere. I miss the “thuh-thunk” of her hopping up on the bed at night, as she needed to jump on a trunk to get up there. I miss her immediate presence when something is dropped on the kitchen floor. I miss her clean-up duties, as I now have to get out the broom after every meal and I knew she cleaned up the crumbs but oh my God did she clean up some crumbs. I kicked a kid’s soft rattle in the basement, twice, and the first time I had to turn around to see what it was because it must have been something Marti rattled around.

Days go by without me opening the back door. I can vacuum without having to worry about Marti freaking out. The fire alarm started beeping its low-battery warning the other day during Owen’s nap. He slept right through it, but he wouldn’t have slept through Marti’s barking at it every two minutes. Someone throws a Kleenex on the ground, and I don’t jump up to wrangle it out of Marti’s mouth.

In the mornings, the kids test me. Owen refuses to get diapered and dressed without a fight --- a literal punching and kicking fight sometimes --- and depending on which side of the bed Avery woke up on, she can be unruly too. There was no wrong side of the bed with Marti. Doors would get slammed as I’d wait for the kids to run off some energy before coming to cooperate with me (particularly as it became harder for me to heave myself off the floor to chase them), and Marti and I would be left looking at each other like, “Kids these days.” I could always count on her to be nice and not slam the doors.

The kids break my heart too. Avery was very upset the first day after she saw how upset we were. It wasn’t until days later that Owen noticed, asking, “Where Marti go?” when I picked up her collar in the car. He’s still saying “Marti all done doctor?” which sets off a wave of tears each time. I’m trying to be as age appropriately honest as I can be, trying to explain the permanence without it being scary. It’s hard, and it’s definitely new parenting territory. I can’t say that it’s my favorite part.

I still get the panicky waves of grief --- the ones that crash over you when you realize you’ll never see someone or something again. When you realize how permanent it is. They’re fewer now, but they’re still crushing. I’m trying not to question the “what ifs” and “could we haves…” We did the best we could have done with the information we had at the time. When Marti starting getting sick, it really wasn’t that far out of the norm. She dropped a little weight --- but she had been 26 pounds in December, so I had tried to dial back her food because of all the crumbs I knew she got from the kids. She threw up here and there and would skip a meal or two, but that was pretty normal. When her vomiting became more frequent and the missed meals added up in April, we headed into see the vet. The X-ray appeared normal; bloodwork was great. An anti-nausea shot, four anti-nausea pills and a bland diet seemed to clear things right up. Her appetite and enthusiasm returned.

So when a few weeks later, she started her once-a-day puke and skipping meals, we hoped it was once again minor. I headed back to the vet, another doctor in the practice just to get another opinion. He noticed her bloodwork from April was slightly off --- possibly indicating Addison’s disease or pancreatitis. We got another anti-nausea shot, pills and another blood test that showed had her electrolyte levels were still off, so they brought her in to perform a 4-hour blood test to see if it was Addison’s. Addison’s seemed to fit --- and it was treatable. I was crushed when the vet called and ruled it out. He said to see how everything went and let him know how Marti was doing --- but Marti had stopped eating after three enthusiastic days and hadn’t eaten the previous night or that morning and was throwing up again. He had me come in for another few pills to get through the weekend, and she’d have an ultrasound Monday to see what they could find. By Saturday morning, she was throwing up a lot more. She’d bark and throw up a little liquid. We’d pick her up, the same. She was down to 18 pounds and we were just starting to get worried about her making it through the weekend. I got into the vet --- the original doctor from April --- and she gave Marti another shot and some cat food to tempt her appetite. When Marti worsened, we ended up going to an emergency vet that afternoon. They took an X-ray, which showed something worrisome and a thickening of the intestines, but couldn’t say for certain what the problem was. They administered fluids, and showed me how to do the same for the next day.

I was relieved to drop her off for the ultrasound on Monday --- and worried when they called saying they’d found a blockage in Marti’s intestine. It could be a tumor, it could be scar tissue. It was hard to say without doing exploratory surgery. He laid out the scenarios, but I just couldn’t fathom it would be the worst case. I was sure they’d find scar tissue from something that she’d eaten; I was sure they’d find actual toilet tissue because she ate it all the time. I was sure a tumor of any sort would be benign, after all, her bloodwork was always great, all other digestive issues were fine. I was crying as I came to pick her up after the ultrasound, and the doctor said he couldn’t say for certain it was cancer. I thought, well, of course it’s not.

Marti had a great night her last night. She had more energy than she’d had in weeks; acted interested and ate a few bites of cat food. I turned the AC on to cool her down and I snuggled with her on the couch for hours. When she hopped off --- which she’d been doing as she got uncomfortable or nauseated --- I moved down to the floor to be with her. I’d pet her, stop, and she’d scratch me to get more pets. We loved her all night long. She got in bed with us per usual, and Alan came to bed with potato chips. We hadn’t seen Marti interested in food for awhile, so when she perked up at the potato chips, she got a special treat.

I didn’t make a big deal of the goodbye in the morning --- I really didn’t think it was good-bye --- but I did have a special snuggle with her as she was at the foot of my bed. I told her that they were going to try fix what was wrong, and that if for some reason they couldn’t, she could go find Rosie (my pug growing up) and my dad and they’d take care of her. Alan took the day off to help me out and we all went to drop her off. I joked that if it was cancer, I’d have to buy ribbons for canine cancer awareness --- not thinking that would be the case. At the vet, they gave me her collar; I joked that she didn’t need it because they definitely knew who she was by now --- and as she walked off, I said “Good luck, Marts.” I was sure my biggest worry would be getting her enough rest and recovery time when I picked her up later that day.

My dad would always pick up spare change. Always. And after he died, I started doing the same. No matter what, when I see a penny, I pick it up regardless of if it’s heads or tails. It’s my dad saying hi, always. After I dropped Marti off, I headed to the park with the kids and Alan went to work from home. As I was walking up to the park, I found two pennies.

The surgery was set to happen mid-day. So when I got the call before 1 p.m., I was surprised --- it was early. And I could tell from the doctor’s voice that it wasn’t good news. There was a tumor, about the size of a walnut, blocking her intestine. He thought he could remove it and reconnect her intestines, although there was a size discrepancy on either side. The bigger problem was that he could see spots --- visible spots --- that could only mean cancer had spread. Certainly he could finish the surgery and we could do chemo, but told us that it was honestly probably best not to wake her up. It was the worst case scenario.

It’s hard not to question what would have happened had we finished the surgery and done chemo. But we just couldn’t fathom having her fight a painful, losing battle just so we could see her fuzzy face again. While sometimes I think it would have been worth it for us, it wouldn’t have been worth it for her. I know that, even though it's hard.

That night Avery picked out a movie from a bag of about ten DVDs her older neighbor friend gave her. Some of them are good --- Disney movies and such --- but some of them are junk, like Barbie movies that just make you roll your eyes. But she picked this one out, and a pug was throughout:

And that weekend, I found two more coins together.

And then in what is the surest sign of a Marti hello, I read a book that I’d had for weeks that I’d never read to the kids before. A dog eating a potato chip.

Then yesterday, we went to the library and grabbed some books. Of all the books, Avery grabs "Sally Goes to Heaven." And of course there's a pug on a couch saying hi.

I know, it sounds kooky. But it makes me feel better. (Well, the book made me cry like a baby, so I was glad I prescreened it before even attempting to read it to the kids.) But what I know of grief is that you take the moments and the things that make you feel better and you hold on tight, much like you hold on tight to the ones you love while they’re here.