Unsuspected parallels

I met N when she moved to California. I was new to the area, having spent less than a year here. I was walking the old dog, minding my own business, when she came to me, greeted me and said we were going to be neighbors. She also mentioned that she had a mini poodle just like mine, and that maybe we could walk our dogs together.

Indeed, right after she moved in, we became friends, and our dogs got along very well. She was very supportive after the first miscarriage, and also after the old dog died less than a month later. Still, one thing she said was that everything was going to be all right. What did she know? She had three grown kids, and a healthy dog.

Now N's dog has died too, and she is very sad, and nobody takes her pain seriously. And I wish I could tell her that she is going to be all right, but that would be a lie.

I have the yellow dog now, but I still miss the old dog. Whenever we go to places where we used to go with him, the memories still make me sad, even though it's been almost two years since he died.

All I can tell her is that yes, hers was a cute little doggy, funny, loving and well behaved, and that she has every right to feel sad about her dying.

Her pain is real and nobody should be telling her to pull herself together because it was just a dog, or because she could easily get another one if she wanted, or that she should get a shelter dog because there's many animals in need of a home.

Hey, all of a sudden this sounds familiar. I've been told that mine was just a miscarriage, not a real baby, that I could just (HA!) have another baby, or that I should adopt because there are many children in need of a home.

Argh.  People seem to have a limited repertoire, whether it's fetuses or puppies. Depresssing.

Pets vs. Kids

We recently gave a friend a ride and I felt the need to reassure him that he needn't worry about dog hair, since the yellow dog usually sits on a towel whenever she drives with us.

The conversation drifted towards the old dog, who did not shed, given that he was a purebred Poodle. And then we could not stop talking about our dead dog. The spouse and I told one funny anecdote after another and described his foolish habits and his vicious alpha-male temperament, in spite of which he had been a wonderful dog and we still missed him so much...suddenly I felt very foolish and made a comment on how he must be tired of listening to us talk endlessly  about a pet.

His reply? That it was preferable than listening to people go on an on about their kids.

So there.

Second Best?

One of the issues that worries me about adoption is the adoptee's feelings about being second best. The adopted child sooner or later realizes that her parents originally wanted a biological child, but they had to "settle" for adoption. Now, I am sure that I could love any child and care for her regardless of having a biological connection to her or not. The main issue here would be the child's feelings about the matter. How would I feel if I were an adopted child, and my parents had originally wanted someone else but had to settle with me instead?

In the case of the yellow dog, I knew perfectly well that I wanted a shelter dog just like her, no worries there on my behalf.

But what about the yellow dog's preferences? I know, she's just a dog, but I often wonder about her first owners, the ones that ruined her tail and made her so mistrustful of people. Based on what I know of dogs, she probably loved them anyway, because that's the way it is with dogs: They  love their humans, no matter what.

So basically, we are some sort of "second best" for the yellow dog, her first choice being the humans that never bothered to pick her up from the pound.

Under the risk of offending someone, I confess that this makes me think about foster kids. Their first choice would be, obviously, their biological parents.  If I were a kid's "second best", and  she my own "second best", would those two cancel each other out?

Progress on two fronts

My depression is improving. I've been listening to a Tito Gobbi CD. One of the most tragic arias is when Rigoletto discovers that his daughter has been kidnapped and sold to the duke of Mantova, for whom he works as a jester.



And then it hit me: my own tragedies are much less operatic. At least I was not born a hunchback whose only possible job is to be a jester, and whose daughter ends up being kidnapped, sold, raped and finally killed. Somehow, miscarrying at 17 weeks does not seem THAT bad. I am planning on watching other Verdi operas. They might bring me some catharsis.

Another thing of interest happened today. We were talking about doggie daycare for the yellow dog. We had a week long free trial. If we do it everyday, the spouse will not have to come at lunch to give her a potty break. Also, more importantly, she will be playing all day with other dogs and be a bit more restful when we get back home. She basically sleeps all day when we are at work and that's why she wakes up at 3:00 am to romp around and play. During this week trial she was always exhausted at the end of the day and she woke up at 6:30 am everyday.

The spouse and I were discussing whether or not to indulge in this luxury every day of the week. His position is that, as long as I am working, I should not feel guilty for this expense. He digressed and mentioned that being able to give a loving, comfortable life to a mixed breed mutt from a kill shelter made him feel good. And then he added that maybe it would feel even better if we were to adopt a child in need.

I call that progress.

Yellow dog issues

I am tentatively declaring the yellow dog officially housebroken. Yesterday was her fourth day in a row without a single "accident". She also knows "sit" and "stay", and is making progress with "down" and "fetch".

She struggles with "come". She sometimes obeys the command, especially if a treat is involved. But more often than not, she sits at a safe distance and stares at me with mistrust. I swear, I never used that command to scold her in any way. Whatever the issue is, it comes from her previous life.

Her tail is a mess. It was shortened through a "traumatic event", according to the vet. She's all right now, and whoever groomed her left a tuft at the end of  her tail to dissimulate the deformity. I cannot help but wonder how it happened. Maybe someone went at it with a hacksaw or, in the best case, she had a horrible accident involving a heavy door.

If I ever adopt a child, will I also be worried silly about previous traumas, unexplained scars, medical history..? Do other potential adoptive parents have the same worries?

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Yesterday was, overall, a very good day. I finally got my feast of  raw oysters and mercury laden swordfish, washed down by birth defect causing beer. This was my negative HPT celebration, long overdue.

I also brought the yellow dog to the dog park, made great progress socializing her and got great tips from other dog owners about stopping her barking to strangers. I even met an extremely friendly guy who had learned Spanish in Guatemala and wanted some practice.

I later checked out this book from the library, thinking it would help me understand some of the yellow dog's behaviors and deal with them. It's nothing serious, it's just her barking to strangers and some of her rough playing. We've made some progress but I wanted some additional pointers.

After the library, I went with the spouse to a coffee shop and began reading. A few pages into it, I started crying. Later, reading at home, it happened again.

Let me tell you, this is no tear-jerking story, it's just a dog trainer narrating her experiences with service dogs. Some of the anecdotes are very sad and have made me think of my own loss.  Normally I am good at not crying when the spouse is around, but this time I really could not help it.

I feel like a wuss. The stories themselves prove that there are worse losses than mine. I know many bloggers have had multiple losses, while I only had one miscarriage. Why can't I just move on and be grateful for the good things in my life?

I wonder if I ever will be able to read a book or watch a movie without the sad emotions surfacing and taking over me. It's got to stop, but I don't know how.

For now, I think, I am going to read Calvin and Hobbes.

Fun with genetics

According to 23andMe, I have a slightly higher than average risk of bipolar disorder, heart attack and retsless leg syndrome. Other than that, nothing serious. The bipolar part is interesting. Would that explain my bouts of depression? I don't think I've ever been through a manic episode, though. I do know that SSRI's (like Prozac) are not for me.

I already knew that my maternal haplogroup was Asian. Which is not surprising, 85% of us Hispanics have an Asian maternal haplogroup. Still, looking at the rest of my DNA, in addition to South American ancestry, I also have lots of European Blood, along with some African and Asian. I am a carrier of Bloom's syndrome, a very rare disease. One quarter of reported cases are Ashkenazi Jews. Could there be some Jewish DNA in me? Maybe. The important thing is that I am truly mixed!

I feel closer to my dog now. Given that pet insurance is cheaper for mixed breeds versus purebreds, I should consider myself lucky.

Another thing 23andMe told me was that I have the typical odds of developing PCOS, based on one locus, and slightly higher odds of developing PCOS based on a second locus that has also been linked to the condition.

In other words, I paid 200 dollars to be told what I already knew. It is fun though, and I will be spending many hours at their website looking at my DNA quirks.

Teddy Bear

Last Saturday we spent over a hundred dollars in pet supplies. When the old dog died, I gave away all his things to the local shelter. Food, treats, beds, blankets, toys, towels, coats... The only things I kept were the grooming supplies, a hand knitted sweater and that little brown teddy bear, which in the end was the only toy that interested him. He last played with it five months before dying. I left those things in a plastic bag at the bottom of the linen closet. Sometimes, when pulling out cleaning supplies, seeing the teddy bear made me sad.

When the yellow dog arrived, I decided she could have the teddy bear. I don't want it to be stashed away, bringing me sad memories whenever I come across it. I prefer to watch the yellow dog chewing on it. Given how rough she plays, the teddy bear will not last too long. But you know what? It does not matter. If that teddy bear ends his days being destroyed by a doggy, he will have served his original purpose.

What if...?

February is the month where my pregnancy started to go horribly wrong last year. These days, I find myself trying not to remember it all and not think about it anymore, but I can't help it. I sometimes think I should have ignored Dr. Mediocre when he said I could go back to work if I stopped bleeding. I should have quit that stupid job at the first sign of alarm. I should have seen a perinatologist right away.

You can't win this game. It gets worse as I wonder if, before getting pregnant,  I should have seen another doctor who looked deeper into the complications of my bicornuate uterus or PCOS. And then I remember all the doctors I've been through already  and tell myself that I could not have done things differently.

It's very difficult not to hate myself or my body when I remember everything that happened. And so I try very hard not to remember.

Luckily I have a distraction.

Doggy pictures!

Of course we made more pictures but  the spouse has yet to email them to me. So I copied the pictures from the rescue webpages. After all , these are the pictures I saw when I decided I wanted her.

I like that she's small, cute and curly like my old dog, but she's different enough that she does not remind me of him. For starters, she's YELLOW.  She has brown nose, eyes and ears. The defunct pooch was all white with black eyes and nose. He was taller, but she has a longer body. He had a very thin coat,while hers is thick, a little less curly and has guard hairs. Her face is completely different.
And the energy! I had forgotten what it was like to have a young dog. She's about two years old, so she is no puppy. But compared to my senile pooch she is amazingly playful. I was told she was a picky eater,  but she gobbled everything up, in contrast to my anorexic dog who needed a lot of coaxing.

She has had two accidents, and she took them well. I thought maybe she'd resent me after scolding her but a minute later she was again following me around. We'll see what happens today, when she will be home alone while we are at work.

I believe she's a keeper!

The yellow dog

I've wanted another dog for a while now. The new job and the kidney adventure got in the way, but I've known for months who I am getting my dog from. There's this charity that rescues dogs from kill shelters in LA and brings them to the Bay Area. I've been browsing their pages since December looking for a mutt.

Last week I dreamed we finally had our dog, a female poodle. She was not white, she was yellow. Only when I woke up I wondered what was with that, given that all the time I have pictured our future dog as a white poodle or poodle mix. I usually ignore my dreams, but I shared this one with the spouse, and with Dr. Funny. The only thing Dr. Funny had to say was that I should speed up the process of getting a dog, since I obviously yearn for one.

Last time I checked the website I found a pretty butterscotch lady that happens to be a Dachshund and Poodle mix. She reminded me of my dream, and I forwarded the info to the spouse in an email that said: "I told you she was yellow". He liked her too and gave me the go ahead.

Today we get to meet her, and hopefully bring her home.

I called Dr. Mediocre and he told me to start the birth control pills this Sunday, even if I never got my period. He did recommend that I perform another pregnancy test because, you know, pregnancy is still the main cause for missed periods. I told him of the three negative results, one of them in the ER, and he said that I could skip the test.

Of course, he planted again the doubt on my mind, and I feel the urge to test again, but I will resist.

On forgiveness

I hate my ovaries and my uterus. I should be kind to them, tell them pretty things, nourish them and forgive them. That's what the therapist says. But I feel like a hypocrite when I try.

I also hate my dog for dying when he did. I loved that dog, he was almost 18 years old and in spite of his age he was a darling. He had some health issues, but you could still tell that he was enjoying life. And then he got an infection and had a couple of bad days.

It's like he said: "OK, this is not fun anymore. I'm going to have breakfast, go take a leak, and then I'll come back, lie on my favorite spot and stop breathing." And that's just what he did.

I always envisioned him dying in my arms. I resent that he took that away from me. I was still very weak from the miscarriage, lying in bed in the guest bedroom and I could not even say goodbye. It was the spouse who notified me that the dog had stopped breathing. I begged him to bring the dog to me, but he did not dare move him. So I hauled up my ass leaning on my walking stick and yes, I made it to the living room only to find my dog's cadaver. He was gone.

I know I should not hate my dog because, really, what else could I have wished for him but a peaceful, natural death? An old dog's death is not a tragedy, unlike the miscarriage. I certainly don't hate my baby for dying, I just hate my body for killing him. So I am very confused about why I feel this way about my dog. I hope I can forgive him one day for his bad timing.

Forgiving my uterus is going to be much harder.