We're getting there.

[Update: a merle Great Dane sits on frost burnt grass. She is wear a green t-shirt and has only one front leg. Behind her is a red garden chair and garden pots and plants. She looks alert but over it. Out of everything my old green t-shirt has been the best thing to cover her wounds and stop bandages from moving.]

This post is the follow up to my last (Filaments) which was the lead up to her surgery.


"Freyja's temperature is always low, so this represents a fever for her."

What is it about vets that they instinctively trust the animal and the readings before them? Try to explain something similar to a medical practitioner and you can see the internal eye roll before they hustle you out the door ignored and untreated. So many Dysautonomia patients often have internal thermostats set outside normal parameters. After years stuck at 38C my body now frequently inhabits the region of 35.2- 35.5C. A couple of my regular doctors believe me, but even as I described back when I was getting regular saline IV's, a nurse despite multiple forms of assessment refused to believe her instruments, or me. Mind you even when I told my pacemaker surgeon that I don't process sedation or local anaesthetics properly, it wasn't until I continually woke up mid procedure and in pain, that I was believed. And yet for Fryeja's vet it's not a stress. She simply believes and believes in, her patients.

It does give me confidence. Not all vets do well with giant breeds. I've seen towering men baulk at touching both Freyja and when he was still with us, Thor. Giant breeds always attract comments about their size ("You should put a saddle on that!"), and it can be off-putting, belying a gentle nature and a breed that still considers itself a lap dog. But practicalities of treating a large animal aside the vet is at ease and just gets on with the job. She walks in comforting and confident and Freyja just goes with the flow. And in turn I feel confident and comforted. I am grateful for that. We go back in today. Maybe I can convince her to give me a litre of fluids and a cortisone shot in my bursitis inflamed hip, when she's done with Freyja's stitches. There definitely seems to be a lot more practicality and in many ways compassion, in veterinary medicine that has been lost in human medicine where all too often the patient is seen as less than, an inconvenience, or even at times the enemy.



It's been two weeks since her surgery, nearly three from the time we walked in ignorant and free from the worry and stress that has permeated so much of days since. And I am tired.

So so tired. But we're getting there.

It's been a rough few weeks and chronically ill bodies don't tend to react well to stress. Life hasn't stopped so we could focus on the one stressful issue. Instead it kept throwing things our way including the sudden loss of my uncle. He was a tough guy. Three bouts of cancer, a heart attack, broken bones and a 70s rock and roll lifestyle that he never really shook. He was a guy who always lived life by his own rules and never mellowed with age. And sitting in front of his casket and listening to his singing and bass playing, quintessential Oz Rock, it felt and continues to feel unreal. And I am still processing. But we're getting there.

We're getting there
We're getting there
We're getting there

I keep reminding myself.
Slow and steady wins the race, right?



Standing in the vet's consulting room going through the procedure for the surgery I was simultaneously trying not to throw up from worry and fighting back tears at the prospect of what lay ahead for her. She didn't know. We were leaving her with strangers to have a life changing operation. We couldn't explain to her. Sucking up the responsibilities of pet ownership is tough when it comes to decisions like these. Realising how much you love the trusting, furry, stink ball in front of you at the same time as you have to watch her go out through the door after signing the paperwork, is even tougher.

Perceptions of time vary depending on the circumstances in which we are living and the stress of waiting for the phone call felt like an eternity. When the vet finally called it was late. It went longer than expected. She did really well. The scans were clear and the procedure straight forward except for the complications of her size.Would we mind if she went home and had dinner before we came in to see her? Of course. Well not really. Emotional brain wanted to scream no and run straight to the clinic and break down the door. While logical brain knew it was already 7pm, that the vet was also on call and working hideously long hours over an incredibly long working week. We could wait, Freyja could wait, and perhaps more importantly, the vet could go home, see her family and have a breather before the emergency after hours consults started to roll in.

Thankfully calm and rational Mr Grumpy was in charge of phone calls on the day.

8:30 pm Freyja was tucked up under a blanket surrounded by hot water bottles and blissfully unaware thanks to the slow steady drip of morphine into her veins. The relief of seeing her was overwhelming. To touch her paw and stroke her muzzle. To have that tangible connection. Then and only then did the vets words seem to take on form. It went well. She was okay. She was in good hands. I went home exhausted but slightly less anxious. Slightly.

Great Danes aren't supposed to be in tiny country vet clinics. Her 58kgs and long limbs meant only just fitting on the fully extended operating table and a room all to herself for recovery. Similarly the next day she was perched on blankets in the middle of the main surgery room. Allowing her company and after a quick look around at the other inhabitants, clear acknowledgement that her bulk would not fit into even the largest of their cages. A small excited whine, thumping tail and waves of relief. Who knew you could be so excited to hear your dog had peed? Who knew as I write nearly two weeks since the surgery, seeing her pee and poo would continue to excite me. This is much of what the last to weeks have involved.



Bringing her home has been both nerve wracking and a relief. I have slept on the couch next to her and also jumped out of bed when I've heard her cry out or stumbling around in the lounge. I watch her and clean up after her. We've wrapped meter upon meter of bandages around her torso. And my bum and legs have gone numb from sitting on the floor next to her bed. I am continuously covered in her hair and slobber. And changing her blankets sometimes multiple times a day due to incontinence. I am tired. She is tired.

But we're getting there.

I find myself speaking in high pitched excited tones. And soft low comforting notes.

Every unsteady pee and poo is celebrated. Ever hop/step applauded.
Every moment of discomfort soothed. Ever stress comforted.

She lays before me in the loungeroom in one of my green t-shirts trying to keep a dressing on her infected drain. We continue to ply her with antibiotics and cuddles and take calls from our vet checking on her progress. She is quieter than normal. In our multiple trips to the vet since the surgery her nervous energy, especially in the presence of other dogs, is gone. I don't know if she's more settled or more over it. Only time will tell. Today we go in again to check the infection and hopefully remove the stitches from the two large wounds that occupy the space left from her now amputated shoulder and leg.

"All I want is to do is go inside and rest and this annoying woman keeps trying to make me walk." * * Freyja is still not feeling great and pretty meh about the world but we have to keep her up and moving if only in short bursts with much rest in between. It's all a bit slowly slowly but we're getting there. Hopefully the antibiotics are kicking the infection in the wound and she'll pick up again soon. We're both tired but hopeful. She's been my companion for 8 1/2 of the last 11 years I've been ill so I just want my energetic, slobbery pup back. * * [Image: a short video of Freyja a merle great dane wearing a green t-shirt walking a little in the back yard on our Winter frost burnt grass. More a hop walk as she continues to learn how to get around on three legs. At the end she flops tired to ground to look longingly at the back door where her warm bed resides.] * * #greatdane #merle #ilovemygreatdane #tshirt #amputeedog #recovery #tired #exhausted

A post shared by Michelle Roger (@michelle_roger) on Aug 8, 2017 at 12:23am PDT

 We're all tired.

But

We're getting there.

Michelle

Thank you to everyone who has sent me and Freyja lovely messages. I keep thinking I'll catch up with them but I realise now it's unlikely. I have read them all but the fatigue and stress has meant all my spare energy has been focused on taking care of her. If you want to keep up to date with how she goes I'll be updating over on Instagram.

Filaments

[Image: A large merle Great Dane, sits on the lap, or perhaps squishes the legs of a woman with dark hair. The woman in a cream cardigan and sitting on a blue and white patterned throw, is cuddling the displeased Great Dane. They are at a beach with big scary waves. They are sitting on sand near a peace of drift wood and a small creek winds it's way out to see in the top right corner.  This is one of my favourite photos of Freyja. She's always been a lap dog and very protective. Though in this case I'm not sure if she was protecting me from others on the beach or seeking protection from the big evil waves.]



I want guarantees. No, scratch that. I need guarantees. I need to know Option A will lead to Outcome B. One hundred percent. No deviations. No messy odds that allow for Outcome C, D and Z to come into play. I am a tantruming two-year-old demanding my due. I want it and I want it now. Rational thought sweeps in and out to be replaced by panic and screams that it's not fair. And it's not. Even when rational me says it's part of life, emotional me is still in the foetal position. The decision's too big. It's all too quick. But still it must be made.

She doesn't care. She sleeps on her brown and tan couch as warm Winter sun streams in through the angled blinds. Blinds that hold a layer of slobber. A layer of oil from nose presses and fur. Light comes through the window whose pane is patterned with overlapping nose prints. The top line of which mark her height as clearly as any notch or biro line on a door frame. No matter how often I clean, her presence is announced from front door to back, in oils, slobber and fur.

Half wrapped in her blanket, legs tucked under pillows she twists awkwardly to look as I emerge from my bedroom. A morning tail wag thumping heavily on the cushion gives rhythm to her excitement. The tangle of limbs uncurl. She flops to the end of the couch in her usual half-stretch half-stand that seems more attributable to an initial emerging from three months hibernation instead of 12 hours over night.

A warm head moves expertly into position. My hand encloses the top and side of her warm head. Eight years of mornings have made the movement automatic. The coffee machine splutters into life and the crack of the container that holds her breakfast leads to the first signs of excitement. Food, her family coming home after an eternity (otherwise known as any period spent outside the front door) and the occasional pounce at the chicken run to watch them squawk and flutter, her main sources of excitement. A rattle of her lead or her desire to let people, other dogs, birds, the crow that likes to sit on the front gutter, or the occasional unidentifiable sound, know that they have entered her domain, the others.

She stops at the door quivering. Bowing, before a stretch elongates her body and she yawn-yelps to calm herself. She waits for me to head through, before a burst of excitement zooms around my right hip and heads to her silver bowl. She's looking great the vet said. Could even lose a kilo or two. Yet the lump of meat is inhaled as if we have starved her for weeks. Suck down the food, quick ablutions and a check that the boundaries are secure, before waiting on the door step to return inside. That's where her family is. Or, more importantly, that's where her couch resides.

Cocooned in the corner of the loungeroom. Soft circular couch. Warm Winter sun. A throne to gaze at both family and the world. Content and unaware.

I want to know we are making the right decision. We had three. One, do nothing, was discarded immediately. The other two are filled with uncertainty that leaves me sleepless and nauseous. The stress of such big, irreversible decisions do not meld well with a chronically ill body. It's all been too quick. Monday just a double check with the vet. Tuesday the bad news. The big bad. The one that left me crying on the phone to the vet, and Mr Grumpy, on the couch, in my bedroom. Wednesday rapid decisions. Friday, tomorrow, surgery.

On Monday when the vet, with her keen eye and calm voice mentioned possibilities, I never entertained it'd be the worst one. It was supposed to be nothing. Benign I was prepared for.  This. This had been locked away in a place where I'd never find it. This was the sucker punch delivered with a calm, sympathetic voice on the other end of the phone. Bad news evident from the first syllable. From the too early phone call. Monday's "it often comes back unclear" replaced by the removal of any doubt and the clarity of the expert eye. "Aggressive," "high grade," "no clear margins," the hole in my stomach growing deeper and wider with each word.

I knew I loved her. I knew but I didn't know how deep it ran. I didn't know how deeply she'd wound her way into my being. I sit watching her sleep and try to catch a glimpse of  the invisible filaments that bind my heart to the smelly, snoring body opposite. They remain elusive to my eye but are crystal clear in the pain that potential loss creates. So big decisions are made.

She's in great health for her age. Well apart from the tumour protruding from her leg. Her heart is strong. She looks great. Apart for the collection of feral cells reproducing at an alarming rate and already threading their way through muscle and tendon. She's in great health, apart from the tumour, though we won't know if it's spread until they scan her abdomen and chest while she's under. She's in great health, if you ignore the tumour that you can't ignore.

It'll give her the best chance. Best chance. Such a pathetic pairing of words. I don't want chance, not even the best one. I want certainty. I want a promise. I want it written in stone. I want to know that when it's all done she'll be back sneaking her head into my hand. That I'll feel the weight of her body pressed against me as I try to hang the washing. That she'll worm her way back into my lap when I sit outside. That she'll still annoy the chickens and and bark at the delivery woman before poking her head between my leg and door frame for a pat and a scratch. That she'll continue to ruin my good clothes with fur and slobber. That she will announce her displeasure at my being out or not getting up early enough, by disembowelling a tissue, or placing items from my handbag outside my bedroom door.

I want to know she'll be okay. I want her to tell me that it's the right decision.

I'm not ready to let those filaments go.

Tomorrow she goes in for surgery and they'll take her right front leg. The leg she holds up to shake hands. The leg she whacks me with when she wants my attention. The leg she touches me with just to make sure I'm still there. Her best chance they tell me. Best maybe. But shit chance, shit option, shitty best chance of all the options. I look at the still growing lump protruding above her ankle, the one that is growing rapidly and now so tender she's not happy even for me to touch. I look at it and know it must be done, even with potential complications, even with the shitty nature that is her best chance. Even if we don't have time to breath between news and decision.

But for today, there'll be cuddles and belly rubs. She'll be my other walking stick as I move around the backyard. She'll give me side-eye when I cuddle one of the chooks, and bark at the workmen across the road. She'll be excited when Mr Grumpy gets home and when the youngest returns after his long trip to the mail box at the end of the driveway. Today I'll pretend and she'll remain oblivious.

Tomorrow we'll trust to the experts. Keep positive thoughts even if at present they are tinged with fear and worry. I'll start breathing again after.

I love my snotty, furry, leaning shadow.
I love the feel of her warm head in my hand
Her weight on my hip
Her continuing belief that she is a lap dog

Even the snot and fur that have been deposited on and in the laptop on which I type.

It's going to be okay.

It's going to be okay.

It's going to be okay.

It's going to be okay.

Michelle