Doubling-down on that Second Chance–A not so typical story about Viagra.

“Oh, it’s sensible! Everything she does is sensible. It can’t be argued with. I just wonder sometimes if she knows people have feelings.” —Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner

Pretty sure Stegner had me in mind when writing that piece of dialogue. Of course, that’s complete bullshit, I was 9-years old when it was published, but you know the feeling I’m talking about. You read a particular line or passage in a book and have the distinct feeling the author is looking right at you in that moment and describing what they see. Then you’re owl-necking around the room hunting for the hiding author. Waving into glass reflections of framed pictures, rubbing the white ring on the coffee table left by that chilled whiskey drink you maybe had one too many of, searching under the lid of the toilet tank. Are they under the flapper valve? We find authors that have pulled us from the firmament and written us so purely onto the page like some people seem to find Jesus.

Or maybe not. The point is, I’ve been faulted quite a few times in relationships with family, friends, or significant others for holding too tightly to reason, but there is one area of my life in which emotion reigns supreme—my pets. Reason be damned when it comes to their lives. Last Wednesday, I got a call from my neighbor that filled me with  body-racking emotion. My sweet, old boy, Jet, had collapsed on a walk.

Almost one year ago now, Jet was brought into Last Hope Rescue as a senior foster. His story of getting a second chance at life was tough for all of us involved. One of the good parts of the story is that I became a foster failure and adopted him as a Bronson.

The past year has been calm and uneventful. He’s been active, healthy, and naturally old-man grumpy, so getting that call threw me straight into the aww-hell-naw zone. On the rare occasions I do feel emotion, my brain has no idea how to deal with it and I usually end up going through a battery of extremes. My initial response to anything that scares me is pure rage. Although this may be helpful for personal safety in most of life, it is not helpful at all in circumstances involving something you can’t actually punch or stab.

I resorted to temporary flight instead of fight after hanging up the phone and realizing what might be happening. Once again, Jet had decided to wait until the busiest time of the year for me at work to need help, but luckily I work with a close-knit team, so there was no question that I leave and go be with him.

My truly awesome neighbors had worked together to get him back to my house by luring him with treats by the time I got home. I was able to get some food in him and his regular pain meds before he fell asleep. Thursday saw some improvement during the morning hours, but by evening, he was back to collapsing after barely walking ten feet. I resorted to carrying him in and out of the house and realized it must be true what people say about women’s strength increasing tenfold when they are emotionally invested in whatever is happening that requires brute force.

Friday, Jet spent the afternoon at our vet’s office having blood work, x-rays, and other scans done while I spent another day trying to be present for work while listening to depressing songs like this one and sporadically crying my face into a puffed mess. When our vet sent the results over to a specialist in town, the specialist told her that he needed to see Jet as soon as possible. GAH! *insert more20180312_104246136459660.jpg emotion here* She said it looked like either signs of heart failure or cancer. What?

No.

By early Saturday morning , I was pretty sure I’d be coming home from the specialist office without my boy. He could barely stand and his eyes were spiritless. Two hours and numerous ultrasound images later, doc came into the room to tell me the news. It’s his heart. There appears to be a tumor along the top, which actually isn’t causing any issue and is smooth and even, meaning likely benign. For now, nothing to worry about there. But then there was the inflamed right ventricle causing blood flow issues which explained his sudden need to lie down after even minimal physical exertion.

The good news, it’s treatable. SWEET RELIEF. So doc starts telling me about the med, using the scientific name, and the dosage and that I should see results pretty quickly, but given my own personal health history, I keep asking questions about what exactly the med does and possible side effects and so on and such. Finally, he stops me, puts his hands out, shrugs his shoulders, and demurely says, “It’s Viagra.”

*insert instant flushed face here*

I wasn’t the only one to turn red though. Doc stumbled over some words trying to tell me the history of Viagra and it’s origination as a heart medication and that the happy side effect wasn’t expected but the company soon realized they’d make way more money off the happy side effect than the original intent of the drug and so forth and…blah blah blah…my 14-year old dog is on Viagra. For heart issues.

I’ll say it—it’s a miracle drug. Just two does in and Jet was back on his feet, walking the garden, going out to bark at neighbors. Life lit his eyes and he was up to his usual trick of tappin’ for treats. These doctors have stepped up twice now for my boy and me, pulling us through some dark zones. I can’t thank them enough.

20180310_17130695212397.jpg
Jet the wonder dog has now seconded his second chance at life.

It’s Wednesday again and I am just now feeling recovered from the emotional typhoon of the last week. No clue how you people that have the feels on a regular basis can live this way. It’s exhausting.

 

On a lighter note, it’s Pi(e) Day. Pie. Mmmmm. Should I make one?

 

 

Advertisements

Jet the Wonder Dog–A Story of Foster Failure

Today was Jetski Kev T. Bronson’s Gotcha Day celebration. His true adoption date was May 22, but that was a Monday and who can have a proper party on a Monday? So today, we celebrated Jet. The wonder dog.

The story of how Jet, and his numerous nicknames, came to our humble home is not a long one, but was a giga coaster on emotional rails.

It started with a death. Jet came into the rescue because his human dad died and the family couldn’t keep him. At 13 1/2 years old, we knew it would be hard to place him in a new forever home, but we try to save as many as possible regardless, so we jumped on the opportunity to take in the old guy. My previous foster, Bugsy, had just been adopted by my next door neighbors, so my home was open and I’ve always had a soft spot for the senior dogos. Those who know me, know I can’t not love a grey face.

Old man Jet arrived at my house mid-March. We had just started our busy season at work and I thought a senior dog that was already trained and used to another dog and cat would fit in fine even with my long work hours. The granddaughter of Jet’s former pop brought him over and told me everything she knew about his personality and quirks. After an introduction to my girl, RJ, and a stroll around the yard, it was determined that he would do well with us.

I pretty much knew immediately that he wasn’t going anywhere. There was something in20170423_164023 the way his ears bounced when he walked and his foggy eyes that made me know he was home.

And he did fit in well. He learned our routines and went right along with the feed times, work schedule, treat times, bed times, and walks. During the day he’d sleep in the front room that he claimed as his own and at night he’d sleep across my doorway. We were now a pack of four and we were all happy.

I had noticed that Jet limped a bit and really didn’t like you to touch his side or his stomach. Figuring the limping and touchiness was due to age-related issues, I started him on high quality food and supplements of glucosamine/chondroitin and Wobenzyme. In a few weeks, there was a clear turn around in his ability to walk without a limp and get up off the floor easier. Seemed like we were on the right path to keeping him as mobile as possible.

Then he went in for his checkup and microchip. Our vet informed us that he had never been neutered, at some point he was shot and the bullet was still in him, and something bad was going on in his stomach. This was a Monday They wanted to do x-rays before the neuter, which was scheduled for Friday. Friday came and they put him just in twilight to do the x-rays first. They were shocked by what they saw—a softball-sized and shaped tumor in the area of his spleen and possible swollen pulmonary arteries. There would be no neuter that day. I remember, I was stuck at work where I couldn’t check my cell phone or email, but a note was sent to me that he was “okay.”

After the call to tell me the full facts, we immediately scheduled an appointment for an echo-cardiogram and ultrasound for the following Monday. These showed that he had a slight heart arrhythmia, but his pulmonary arteries looked okay. The tumor was clear and it was on the spleen. Once they had the results, our vets wanted to go in and do the surgery Tuesday morning. No waiting. It was too risky with a tumor that size. Even if benign, it could have burst  at any moment causing him to internally bleed out.

By this time it was the first week of May—our absolute busiest week at work. My emotions were out of control and I’m not one to ever show much emotion. I was so scared that I would lose him after he just came into my life.

Two amazing vets went into surgery to remove the spleen, tumors, and do the neuter on Tuesday morning. Again, I was away from all communication at work and having to try and focus on what was happening before me instead of getting caught up in my thoughts of what was happening to my Jet boy right then and whether he would make it through. At his age, putting a dog under is dangerous, but I knew he was in the absolute best hands for the job. And I was right.

20170505_113129They took the spleen with the massive tumor, which also had two other smaller also perfectly round tumors on it…and his balls. So in total, Jet lost five balls that day. But he made it through the tough surgery and was awake and grumpy! I took his grumpiness as a good sign. The next day, another note was delivered to me at work where I was once again away from communication that read, “Jet is eating, but only if hand fed. He’s being spoiled.” He ended up spending the rest of the week at the vet’s office and they continued to spoil and fall in love with him. It’s really impossible not to. By the end of the week, we were all missing him at the house, even RJ.

Jet was home. Finally. Again. He started his slow healing process with a lot of rest and painkillers.20170416_093556 Each day he got a little more mobile, ate more food, and his personality started coming back. I remembered his Easter morning face that I captured right as he woke up. He had the biggest smile and looked like my own little pun dog pup. That boy was coming back little by little. The biggest difference was his mobility. Once off the heavy duty painkillers, he was walking without any limp and even trotting a bit! Another new revelation, he enjoyed a belly rub. Before, I couldn’t get near his belly.

And then, on my birthday, I got the call from the vet that the tumor was BENIGN. Best birthday present ever!

Needless to say, Jet has made a wonder-dog recovery. He demands nightly walks now and is so much more comfortable. No more constant panting or barely being able to make it up one stair. He still has some pretty intense arthritis in his spine, but we’ve got the right combo to keep him pain free and moving.

The emotional roller coaster seems to have rolled back into the station. For now. Nobody knows or is promised the future though, so today we celebrated Jet and his official adoption into the Bronson family. And it truly has been a family trip. Without the emotional and financial support of my huge-hearted parents, none of this would have been possible. It’s things like this that make me believe in the connectedness of everything. Jet landed exactly where he needed to be. And more so, where I needed him to be. The pack grew unexpectedly, but we can’t imagine how we were before him.

Jet’s Gotcha Day party included his sister, Ruby Joon, and two former fosters, Lolly (and her mom) and Bugsy. Ol boy didn’t really want to play or have anything to do with the young’uns, and he wasn’t overly thrilled about the doggie cake with the candle, but I did catch him a couple times with a smile on his face.

We all wished for many more healthy years for Jetski Kev T. Bronson when blowing out the candle on his Gotcha Day cake.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

C for Chemistry and a Cookie

Pretty sure I got a solid C in high school chemistry. I took it over the summer months and I’m confident the only reason I got that C was because my teacher was friends with my dad, who was a guidance counselor at my school. I remember spending most days getting out of class on the pretense that I was going to see my dad for some important reason or another, which for me was asking him for a snack from the vending machine or to snag me one of the donuts that were intended for faculty only.

So any chemistry I might have learned at one point, well, that didn’t happen. Side note: I also took every math class from 8th grade on twice. My spectacular performances in chemistry and math may be why I avoided baking for so long. I learned to cook through jobs in kitchens in college and I always enjoyed the freedom to experiment and create. But baking? Frankly, it scared me. It seemed too exacting and scientific.

I got over that fear. The need to be learning new things all the time overpowered the fear and I dove in a few years ago. Starting out mostly sticking to recipes, I recently began branching out on my own into the scary nether regions of recipe substitutions and adaptations.

Let’s get chemical! Chemical!     (I also like to substitute words in songs, creating ridiculousness.)

Moving on, cookie time. The other day at work we were informed about a office-wide meeting. I’m a hater of meetings. Not only do I not enjoy groups of people collected in a small space, I hate dumb questions. Those people that say there are no stupid questions are idiots. Call a pointless meeting and you’ll hear a stream of stupidity in the form of questions. They exist.

So I thought, if we’re going to have to sit through a meeting, might as well have something good…like a cookie. I went home and looked around at what I had on hand and found the rest of the white chocolate chips from a previous cookie endeavour. Decided I needed to get rid of those faux chocolately things and since I didn’t have any macadamia nuts, I kept looking for something to go with those little bastards.

Finding nothing that peeked my interest inside, I did what I often do when I need inspiration in the kitchen—I went out to the garden. Running my hands through the rosemary and basil bushes, pulling rose petals of he loves me/he loves me not, plucking chamber bitters from under the peppers, and crushing thyme in my palm. It wasn’t until my foster puppy ran through the lemon verbena, her paw stomping on a branch, releasing that sharp, clean, grassy-citrus scent, that I knew what would pair with the white chocolate.

I clipped a few pieces with both mature and baby leaves and headed back inside to try a new cookie–lemon verbena and white chocolate chip.

20160817_183432.jpgDeciding to use my usual cookie recipe as the base, I thought infusing the herb into the butter would work best. Instead of bringing the butter up to a fast browning, I put it on low and chopped about 12 leaves into it to warm for twenty to twenty five minutes. After that time, I then turned up the heat to medium high and browned the infused butter.

I tasted the butter before adding the rest of the ingredients and it wasn’t quite lemony enough for me. Lemon desserts are my favorite and I need more to balance with the sweetness of the chocolate, so I added about 6 raw, chopped leaves into the flour.

20160817_192608.jpg

Cut the sugar by a quarter from the regular recipe and only did one tablespoon of vanilla extract. I took the risk of messing up the chemistry of the cookie because I didn’t want the savory verbena to be overpowered. The dough ended up coming together despite my changes. Dropped large portions onto the baking sheet hoping the bigger size would even out the flavors and give me the texture I wanted.

After an excruciating twelve minutes, with a flip halfway through, I pulled the sheet from the oven and stared at them while they cooled. They were a beautiful blonde, slightly darker around the edges, the white chunks were highlighted by the visible bits of verbena and the smell was intoxicating. I was pleased with the appearance. Once I felt like I had waited long enough, I made my chamomile tea, grabbed one of those fancy pants cookies, and dove into the deliciousness.

Chemistry and math be damned, I did it.

20160817_194158.jpg

Lemon Verbena and White Chocolate Cookies (mine made 12 extra large cookies):

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

14 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup dark brown sugar

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 large egg yolk

1 large egg

3/4 cup white chocolate chips

15-20 leaves fresh lemon verbena

Melt 10 tablespoons butter in pan on low along with about 12 chopped verbena leaves. Allow that to warm for about 20-25 minutes.

Preheat oven to 375 and get a cookie sheet ready with parchment paper.

Sift the flour, add baking soda and 6 raw, chopped verbena leaves. Set aside.

Bring the butter on the stove up to medium high heat and brown it. Once it has that nutty aroma, pour it into a bowl with the remaining 4 tablespoons butter cut into 1/2 inch pieces. Stir in the salt, vanilla extract, sugar, and eggs. Whisk for 30 seconds, let sit for 3 minutes. Repeat that two more times.

Add the flour mixture to the bowl and stir until just combined. Fold in the white chocolate chips.

Measure out dough into about 2 inch balls. I ended up with exactly 12. Bake on middle rack for 6 minutes, flip sheet around and bake another 6 minutes. Pull from oven and set the sheet on cooling racks. Allow to cool long enough to set…

then try not to eat all of them at once.

Bye, Guy! and a Pie

A friend wanted a pie. Isn’t that how all pie stories begin?

The plot of this one is simple–last day of work for a coworker and he wanted a peach pie. It’s the sequence of events that get a bit blurry in my medi-fuzzed mind. Since I can’t seem to write down recipes as I go, and I have some preternatural aversion to measuring, the particulars of this one may be a bit sketchy. In spite of all that, here we go.

Bourbon Peach Pie with a Bacon Lattice Maple Syrup-Drizzled Topping

20160809_192345.jpg

When I think of peach pie, I tend to think of bourbon. When I think of bourbon, I think of bacon. Now, we’re not going to get into an argument about whether Jack Daniel’s is a whiskey or a bourbon or a bourbon whiskey. For my purposes, it mixes with the flavors of peaches, bacon, and honey just riiight.

20160809_192636.jpgWith ingredients like that, the only way to screw up is to use a store-bought pie dough. Just say no, people. Making your own is pretty damn simple. It may take six or three times to master it, but it’s worth it every single time. So get to learning if you don’t know how already.

Yep. There’s mine in all its near perfection glory. And yes, I’m bragging, but in all seriousness, there’s something about melding together the basics of flour, butter, salt, and water with your hands until it becomes not just the carrier of all the other flavors, but often becomes the star of the show.

*I have to admit that somehow my crust shrunk a little too much during the par bake this time around. Gah! and shhhhh.

20160809_195202.jpg

While the par-baked pie crust cooled, it was time to skin, slice, and season the peaches. I ended up using a mix of regular and white peaches because I wanted ripe ones. After a lot of feeling up of a lot of peaches, I found five firm, juicy big ‘uns. Tossed with the JD, lemon juice, honey, brown sugar, nutmeg, salt and flour, they were ready to set aside while soaking up all those flavors.

For the bacon lattice top, I chose a thick cut, lower sodium bacon. Personally, I have to
watch my sodium intake for health reasons, but the more I’ve learned about it through 20160809_195530.jpgnecessity to keep myself healthy, I’ve realized most people need to cut back. PSA aside, when it’s floating on a delicious peach mixture and drizzled with maple syrup, nobody is going to notice if it has a little less sodium. I cooked the bacon on the stove-top just long enough so it wasn’t completely done, but not totally flimsy either. Browned, but not crunchy. Mmmmm, bacon.

Once the peach filling was poured into the homemade pie crust and the latticed top drizzled with maple syrup, it was time to pop that sweet lovin’ baby in the oven and sit back with glass of JD. The perfume of the mapled meat and honeyed peaches mingled with the warmth of the liquor sliding along, soothing away the tough moments of the week, month, year, so far. Pie baking is my therapy.

And then it was done. And then it was brought to the party. And then it was gone.

20160809_204427.jpg

 

Pie Dough:

1 1/4 cups all purpose flour

1 stick of unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes

Pinch of salt

1/4 cup ice water

Sift the flour, toss in the salt, and work the butter in until the butter pieces are about the size of a walnut. Make a well in the center and slowly pour in the ice water a tablespoon at a time kneading it until the dough just comes together. Wrap in plastic wrap and put in fridge for at least thirty minutes before rolling out. Put back in the fridge after setting in pie plate before par-baking it.

 

Peach Filling:

2-3 pounds peaches (about 5-6 large)

1/2 cup honey

1/4 cup sugar (I used dark brown)

1 tablespoon lemon juice

2-3 tablespoons bourbon or whiskey (I used 4 tablespoons. heh)

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Pinch of salt

5-6 tablespoons of flour

 

Bacon Topping:

8-10 slices of bacon (I used thick cut, lower sodium)

Maple syrup, enough to drizzle all over

 

425 degree oven for 15 minutes and then drop the temp to 375 for 25-30 minutes.

I had to cover it with aluminum for a few so the bacon didn’t overcook. Just keep an eye on it and let it go to your liking.

 

A Conversation with the Neighbor

His name is Victor and he’s ageless. Well, neither of my parents seem to know exactly how old he is, only that he’s retired from military service and work as a physiologist. Victor is their neighbor in the mountains and the day my mom introduced us he was working on building a car engine, wearing what appeared to be a cut off shirt sleeve on his head to hold back his shoulder length, mousey hair, and some sort of mock prison jumpsuit with a penitentiary name on the back that I can’t remember now, but he laughed with a boyish snicker as he turned to show it to us. I could see why people were unsure of his exact age.

He’s what I imagine my brother might be like when he gets older. They can both talk about anything and seem to know a lot about many different things, but you’re not quite sure how much to believe. Obviously very intelligent with the tendency for hyper-focus. At the beginning of the new year, my mom mentioned that she liked the look of the yellow FJ Cruiser–it reminded her of Costa Rica for whatever reason. Being a lover of all things car, Victor pounced on the opportunity to do the research and find her one. By February, there was a yellow FJ Cruiser in my parents’ driveway. He’s that guy.

After cursory introductions, Victor wasted no time in asking about my health. My mom had apparently mentioned my condition and being that he’s a retired physiologist that still spends time working with doctors and students doing cardiac research at a nearby med school, he wanted all the details of my syndrome.

I’m on vacation, Victor.

I’m okay. I’m good with not knowing too much. I’ve purposely avoided Google for the past three years because I don’t want to become so focused on this that I lose sight of the beauty in small moments of daily life. This syndrome doesn’t define me and I refuse to allow it to even try.

My mom, on the other hand, has done all the research and still can’t understand it. Hell, I’ve even confused my specialist on numerous occasions. So when Victor asked exactly what I had, the flood gates opened.

She has Nephrotic Syndrome.

Oh, god. That’s not good at all.

In my research, I found that it mostly happens to kids. Boys.

Leave it to me to end up with something that typically affects the exact opposite of myself.

Yes. What do they have her on?

Prednisone.

Did she puff up to look like a Chinese girl?

The first time she got moon face pretty badly. This is the third time she’s had to do a course of it in three years.

That’s not good. Prednisone is terrible on the system.

Hi. I’m right here. I’m standing right between you two witnessing this volley of words like a mute ref at a tennis match. I don’t need a reminder that Prednisone is hard on the body. I live with the effects every day. Hello? Is this thing on?

What was the trigger?

We don’t know. They tested her for all hereditary triggers and she doesn’t have any of those.

So it’s metabolic.

Don’t know. They even did a kidney biopsy and couldn’t find an exact cause.

Well, if it’s not one, it’s the other, so it’s likely metabolic.

Am I here? Do we only exist because others believe us to be real? Does that mean in this moment they don’t believe in me? Am I already gone?

So you’re acidic.

What? I’m over here not existing, so I’m a bit caught off guard with the sudden question directed at me.

Your doctor is treating the symptoms, not the problem.

Okay.

Do your hips hurt?

No.

Just your hands and elbows?

How did you know that?

That’s good. That’s a good thing.

I’m confused as to how any chronic pain is a good thing.

Any sight problems?

Not that I can tell.

Good. How about your hair and nails?

My hair thinned out pretty badly after the first round of steroids, but came back and has stayed thicker than it was before. And my hair dresser says it is quite healthy, so I think I’m all good there.

No laughter. Everyone is suddenly so serious. I hold my hand up to look at my nails myself and he grabs my hand while asking if he can look. Don’t touch me. Why do you think you can touch me? We just met six and half minutes ago. Yes, I’m counting, but my memory is bad and I’m no good with numbers. I don’t like to be touched.

How about her thyroid? Did they check that?

I’m not sure, but I think they did.

I’m invisible again. All I can do is stand here and listen to every single word bounce back and forth and let the heft of them sink in too deep.

We need labs for her T1, T2, T3, T4, and D levels. They tested for Lupus?

Yes, I was so worried it would be Lupus. No diabetes, hepatitis, or HIV either.

Imagine having to tell your mom you had HIV!

What the hell is that supposed to mean and why are they chuckling? I find none of this humorous. In fact, I’m starting to regress to the days before all this when I would faint at any mention of something possibly being wrong with my health. I was well-known at doctor’s offices for having to lay down before they started going over results. Back then, nothing was ever wrong.

I’m seeing small dots of light filtering across my vision. The edges of this scene are getting dark and closing in. I refuse. I will not faint because of this. I’m stronger than this. I don’t feel faint. I don’t feel the staring as I yawn to regulate my breathing and mess with my shirt sleeve to distract my brain. I don’t feel my mom touch my shoulder lightly, letting me know she’s there.

I don’t feel a goddamn thing.

It was time we all walk away. He tells us to get him my records and he’ll pass them on to the doctors he works with. “We’ll put some research students on it. They love complicated cases.” Am I complicated? I always thought I was just Jenn.

Back at the house, I head straight to my room and flatten myself on the floor, looking up at the popcorn ceiling through salt water filled wells. Ruby Joon is all butt wiggles, tail wags, and love nuzzles. She knows when momma has the feels.

My parents are in the living room. From under the door, I hear my dad turn down the television. I hear my mom start to whisper something to him. I hear random words. “Victor said…” “metabolic” “more tests” “research students”. They’re whispering about me.

What hides in parents’ whispers? Fear.

But I’m here. I’m right the fuck here. This thing you whisper about isn’t me. It will never be me. I’m right here in the next room. Come and talk to me. I’m strong enough.

I’m your 38 year old daughter, not a child.

I’m your daughter, no longer a child.

I’m your daughter child.

I’m your child.

I’m yours.

Believe in me, dammit. I want to keep existing.