The Underdogs: Me and Snoopy

I'm reading this book about service dogs for children with disabilities. The chaos of the family life of those children prior to getting a service dog reminds me of my own childhood family chaos. 

I could tell the story from many perspectives but for now I'll just start with our dog.  My brother and I longed for a dog.  We asked my dad repeatedly if we could have a dog but the answer was always no.  My mother was not opposed but my dad had the final say.  He would say they were too much work.  He would say they made noise.  He would say that he had grown up on a farm with animals, and he had had enough of animals presumably forever.  

Each year, we would ask him if we could have a dog.  He would say, "Who would take care of the dog when we visit your grandparents in Oregon this summer?"  (My father's parents.)  We visited them every summer for my dad's two week vacation.  For my brother, Zack and I, we just really wanted a dog. That's all we knew about it.

By fourth grade, his parents left Oregon and moved to Oklahoma.  That summer, we went to Oklahoma for two weeks.  

During elementary school up to this point, we had a family that lived across the street, the Carlson's, who had three kids our ages.  A boy, Robby, who was a year or two younger than Zack.  A girl, Christine, who was Zack's age and Linda, who was my age (three years older than my brother).  We loved the Carlson's and played with them every day all the time.

When I was in fourth grade, they moved away to Alaska.  There was a huge hole in our lives.  (Our mothers also spent an extraordinary amount of time together including ironing and doing other housework while talking on the phone.)  In June after returning from Oklahoma, there was a vacancy from missing the Carlson's that nothing could fill.  We begged dad for a dog and finally he said yes.

There was a litter of mixed breed puppies with a family a couple streets over from our house.  We picked out an all black dog.  My mother and brother loved Peanuts.  I didn't care what the dog's name was.  So, they named him Snoopy.  Snoopy was the cutest puppy in the world.  He grew to be around 35 pounds.

We all loved Snoopy.  I loved Snoopy.  Snoopy did everything with Zack and I.  He followed us on our bicycles when we rode all around the school.  He went with us on our adventures in the woods.  He was our best pal and teammate.  During the summer, when we went to our grandparent's beach house on weekends (my mother's parents), Snoopy came with us.

More than anything, I wanted to have Snoopy sleep with me at night.  My mom said he couldn't sleep in my bed with me. So being a young person of infinite ideas, I slept on the floor with Snoopy in a sleeping bag all summer.

My mom told me that when I was very, very young I had a little dog.  I don't know it's name.  My mom told me she got rid of the dog, because she didn't want her baby girl smelling like dog.  (In my head, I imagine a loss as a tiny child that I couldn't name.)

My mom kept telling me that when school started I would have to sleep in my bed and Snoopy couldn't sleep with me.  She kept telling me, "Remember, Snoopy won't be able to sleep with you when school starts."  I knew what that meant for me, but I had no idea what it meant for Snoopy.  

When school started, I rolled up my sleeping bag, put it away, and crawled into my bed.  From an adult's perspective, naturally, Snoopy crawled up on my bed to sleep with me.  But, from a kid's perspective, "How do I make him stop?"  The answer was, I couldn't.  

I would start out at night with Snoopy on the floor.  Then, at some point, Snoopy crawled onto the foot of my bed and went to sleep.  He never woke me when he crawled up.  Then, at another point during the night, I was awakened by my father yelling at Snoopy to get off the bed and hitting him.   

This was an outcome I could not have predicted and no adult assisted me in avoiding. For months, it was a nightly occurrence unless when my dad came home drunk he just forgot to check on me and the dog.

Unfortunately for Snoopy and I, this same scenario played out when we went to my grandparent's beach house on Vashon Island.  We would take Snoopy who was Zack's and my best friend.  At night, we would sleep on a couch that folded flat into a bed and sometime during the night, Snoopy would crawl onto the foot of the bed.  Also, every night, I was rudely awakened by my Grandpa yelling at Snoopy to get off the bed and hitting him with a newspaper.

We tried to make Snoopy pleasant little dog beds, but nothing could compare with Snoopy's need to sleep with me.  I felt bad.  I was sure it was my fault, but I had no way to figure out how to make it stop.  Because of the cruelty of my father and my fear, it would never, ever occur to me to simply ask him and my Grandpa to just stop and let Snoopy and I be.  What a horror that there was no way for me to make it stop.

My lack of direction for dog training got even worse when Zack and I started school in the fall.  Snoopy followed us to school.  My mother didn't want Snoopy in the house, because he would make it dirty.  Zack and I would walk to school and make Snoopy stay at home.  But, repeatedly, the principal would come get me and tell me my dog was at school and threaten me with the dog catcher.  I didn't know how to make Snoopy stop.  I would take him back home.  If he followed me, all I knew to make him stop, was to beat him just like my dad beat me.  I would hit him or kick him trying to make him not follow me.  How could Snoopy know the difference between going to school during the summer while we rode bikes and not following us in the fall when school started?  No adults helped with the problem.

One day, my neighbor saw me beating Snoopy and told me that was no way to treat a dog.  I felt so ashamed.  I didn't hit Snoopy again.  But, then, we tried tying him up.  Snoopy would cry and cry.  He would not stop.  If I let him off the rope, he would stop.  As soon as I tied him up again, he would go back to crying.  One day another neighbor walked up to our house and yelled at me, "If you don't shut that dog up, I'll call animal control."

I was at a total loss.  Mom still wouldn't let Snoopy in the house.  Snoopy took to running off during the day mostly to the people where we got him from.  I didn't like it, but I couldn't think of an alternative.  For a few weeks, Snoopy would bring a friend back with him.  He was a big German Shepherd type dog that we called Luke.  I wanted Luke to like me.  I wanted him to stay at our house with Snoopy.  Luke came and visited with Snoopy for about three weeks and then he was gone.

Finally, we took Snoopy to the vet to get fixed.  It was just Zack and I.  The vet was about a quarter mile away on the highway.  We took Snoopy in, and they told us to come back and get him at five o'clock.  Zack and I were back at five but the doors were locked.  They were closed.  No one told us to get there before five.  

Zack and I were bereft.  We could hear Snoopy whining.  We wanted Snoopy.  We didn't want to wait.  We called to Snoopy.  I said, "Snoopy, don't worry, we will get you."  We were crying.  The vet and his family lived behind the office and down a story.  We went in the back yard trying to figure out how to rescue Snoopy.  

There was a sliding glass door and the vet's family had sat down for dinner.  We begged him to give us Snoopy.  I guess having us hang around was worse than taking the time to give us our dog.  We went home with Snoopy.

Snoopy continued to disappear for periods of time usually not more than a day or two.  In the winter, Snoopy was finally allowed to come in the house again.  One night, I woke up.  My dad was yelling.  Snoopy was screaming.  My dad was beating Snoopy.  I didn't know what Snoopy had done.  But, my dad was beating him.  My mom was yelling, "LeRoy stop."  Zack and I were crying.  We were terrified.  

My dad almost beat Snoopy to death.  Snoopy had no broken bones or anything.  But, he never went near my dad again.  I wish I had that choice.

Finally, in sixth grade, my dad stopped coming home drunk.  He stopped coming home at all.  One night, the furnace pilot went out.  Mom, Zack, and I were huddled in the living room fold out couch trying to stay warm.  My mom kept calling my dad asking him to come home to light the pilot.  No one else knew how to do it.  My dad wouldn't come home.  We were so cold.  

After that, my brother who was probably nine learned to light the pilot.  Women didn't do things like that in my family.  We never had to wait for my dad again.

Another year went by, and my mom finally kicked out my dad.  I had encouraged her to do that for months and months.  We had stayed up late nights while she cried waiting for my dad to come home.  I tried to comfort her.  I tried to bolster her confidence.  Instead, I just became her sole support.  I had no way to escape my mom's need but to go to school and stay late talking to my teacher.

One day, Snoopy came home and he had lost an eye.  We didn't know how.  We couldn't afford to go to the vet.  So, it was just like that.  Snoopy had one eye.

At fourteen, I ran away from my mom.  A couple months later, I ended up in Western State Hospital.  While I was gone, my brother lived alone with my mother.  I heard that one day Zack saw that Snoopy's other eye was in trouble.  My mom wouldn't take him to the vet.  My brother was terrified Snoopy would lose his good eye and be blind.

My brother called my Grandpa and begged him to help Snoopy.  Grandpa took Snoopy to the vet.  After that, Snoopy went to live with my Granny and Grandpa.  Not long after, my brother and mother moved out of the house.  They moved into an apartment where they couldn't have a dog anyway.

When I got out of Western, I went to live with my Granny and Grandpa.  I found myself living with Snoopy again.  Both Snoopy and I had a good life with my grandparents.  We had regular meals and lived in safety.  Snoopy slept on the floor on Grandpa's side of the bed.  He was nominally my dog.  But, Grandpa and Snoopy became good buddies.  Grandpa took Snoopy with him everywhere.

Just before bedtime, Snoopy would sit in the doorway between the living room and bedrooms watching Grandpa and willing Grandpa to come to bed. If Grandpa didn't come, Snoopy would put himself to bed. 

When I left home, Snoopy stayed with Granny and Grandpa.  After Grandpa retired, he took Snoopy in his truck everywhere.  Grandpa was a big recycler and had a route he followed.  He disconnected the dome light in his truck so the passenger door could stay open while he was doing things.  That way, Snoopy could let himself in and out of the truck.  It also was a way for Snoopy to not get too hot in the truck.  Grandpa called him ole Snoop because he poked his nose into everything.

My grandparents lived in my home town of Des Moines, Washington.  I moved to Olympia.  Snoopy stayed with Grandpa.  Again, I wanted a dog.  I waited until I lived somewhere stable before I even thought I could get a puppy.  

In February 1984, I got Sasha.  He was a mixed golden retriever, yellow lab pup.  I didn't want a dog who was too rambunctious.  I looked at the litter.  All his brothers and sisters were jumping up and carrying on.  Sasha was trying to sleep, and they were bothering him.  I decided he was the dog for me.

One of the things I really needed to know about myself before I ever had children was whether I could trust myself to not hit my dog.  It wasn't a problem at all.  I never hit Sasha.  I loved him.  Sasha was a loyal and good natured dog.  He just wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.  But, he was always game for anything I wanted to do.

The year I got Sasha, Snoopy started having heart problems.  He woke my grandparents in the night screaming.  Grandpa took him to the vet.  By now, Snoopy was about 18 years old.  The vet said there was nothing he could do.  He had a couple more of those awful bouts.  I saw my Grandpa the day he had to put Snoopy to sleep.  My Grandpa cried.  His heart was nearly broken.

When my Grandpa came to my house and met Sasha, he fell in love.  Grandpa wouldn't let himself have a dog again but he was always glad to see Sasha.  Sasha was always thrilled to see Grandpa.

One day, I asked my Grandpa why he loved Snoopy so much.  My Grandpa told me the story of being a teenager living in Olympia (1929 or so).  There was a stray black dog that looked a lot like Snoopy who followed Grandpa and his friends around everywhere.

Grandpa and his friends hated this black dog.  They couldn't seem to shake him.  For reasons unknown to me, they tried everything to get that dog not to follow them.  They tied him in a bag and threw him in the back of a truck.  He came back.  They put him on a freight train, but he came back. Then one hot day, Grandpa took that dog out into the water, held him under while he thrashed, and drowned him.  Once the dog was dead, Grandpa felt really, really bad and regretted it the rest of his life.  Snoopy reminded him so much of that dog that this was how he could make amends.

Snoopy's story is my story.  We were both underdogs that survived.  Lots of underdogs don't.  It wasn't by our wit, our courage, or our beauty.  It was only by our luck and the fact someone cared.  It was also, of course, because my Grandpa had to make amends.  Thank goodness someone was making amends. Otherwise neither of us would have survived.

8.28.16

[#1 Picture of Grandpa and Snoopy at the beach. 1976]

[#2 Picture of Snoopy, a black dog, on the porch at Vashon. 1970]

Deterioration

It's amazing how much you can do while slowly deteriorating physically. Not everyone can see the changes. But, I see them. Slow and relentless effecting my every physical act. 

Getting up each day requires an assessment.  What is my capacity for walking today?  First thing in the morning, I have to determine how many hand holds I need for going from the bedroom to the bathroom to the living room.

What is my energy level today?  Well, that's a moving target.  At this moment, maybe I feel like doing anything is like walking through six inches of mud.  Maybe later on, I will only notice one inch of mud.

When I'm ready, I start thinking about bathroom business and making breakfast and lunch to go to work.  There are multiple issues threading my way through getting ready for work:

- Taking medication in the form of pills.  I can't hold pills well anymore.  They jump out of my fingers, usually hitting the floor, landing somewhere, and vanishing.  Fortunately, we don't have small children.

- I make tea and marvel at whether I spill water, tea, or honey.

- It is no longer safe, from a spillage perspective, to hold an open container of liquid thoughtlessly.  I am a ginger ale a day person.  I favor aluminum cans.  Last year, my partner bought me a six pack of plastic ginger ale bottles with lids.  What a revelation!  The spillage reduced exponentially.  I hate plastic bottles so everyday I poor my aluminum can of ginger ale over the sink in the same plastic bottle used over and over.

- In addition to saving the floor from ginger ale, it has also saved many a workplace desk.  I take a sip and always put the plastic cap back on.  I can't tell you how many times I've visited folks with offices, keep the plastic cap on, and sigh with relief when somehow my arm manages to tip the bottle over harmlessly onto their desk.

- I also have to pace myself.  It used to be if I was 20 minutes late I could just speed things up.  But, not anymore.  To hurry just invites disaster.  If I have to hurry, some step just needs to be cut out completely.  Otherwise, I risk making a mess or entering into so much pain that I just have to stop moving for a bit.  It's hard to make an appointment when I have to stop moving prior to leaving the house.

One of the things that drives me crazy is that I can look fabulous but feel like total shit. One of my favorite lines is, "Just because you feel like shit, doesn't mean you have to look like it."  The theory is a mixed blessing.

This all started in June of 2011.  I was just recovering from a deeply dangerous depression nearly loosing my partner and probably my life.  I had been going to the gym, seeing a personal trainer, and loving it.  When I walked through the parking lot from work to the gym, my feet started feeling funny.  

My feet began to be very unhappy in shoes with some kind of buzzing feeling.  I tried all types of shoes including leather, sandals, tennis shoes, and just plain socks.  For a long while, walking around in socks at work was the better choice.

Sometime towards the end of that year, I saw a foot doctor and a neurologist who both said I had neuropathy in my feet, peripheral neuropathy to be precise. But, there was no clue as to why.  It was not the worst thing in the world, and I soldiered on.

I kept going to the gym.  In late 2011, I got this extreme pain down the right side of my leg.  In the search for that cause, I learned I had a cyst pushing into a nerve in my spine that was 90% for certain causing the pain.  In April 2012, I had the cyst surgically removed.  The pain down the right side of my leg went away.  But, by June 2012, a new pain in my legs replaced it.

This new pain was a dull muscle ache.  My legs felt like I had just run five miles and felt oxygen starved.  Then, the tingling in my feet and legs started.  I hurt my back in October 2012 and had to stop going to the gym.  I went back in December 2012 but then had to stop again.  I had trouble walking any distance.  I began to use a cane on the bad days.

I launched into the What's Wrong with My Body department.  No doctors had a clue.  I began the treatment search.  

"Have you tried acupuncture?"  The most famous line folks with neurological problems hear.

"Yes."

"Massage?"

"Yes."

"PT?"

"At least three different practitioners."

"Naturopath?"

"Yes."

"Diet change?  Go off gluten, dairy, sugar?  Eat lots of green vegetables?"

"Yes, as much as I am capable of."  I know I never really put my back into the diet thing but often I can barely stand to eat as it is.

My symptoms worsened.  Some days, it involved my arms and pain in my hands.  But, it would ebb and flow.  Some days, it would reach the point of pain where I would freak out thinking my life was on this terrible decline into major disability.  Then, I would get better for a few weeks before going through another period of difficulty moving and walking.

I love to walk with the dog.  One of my measures is, "Can I walk the dog?"  Sometimes, I would walk easier and farther.  Hope would spring up.  Then, one evening, my body would tingle from head to toe.  Tingling maybe a misnomer.  It is actually more like laying there while electrical shocks are running through my body.  I would lie in bed hoping it would go away and wake up far more mobility impaired than I had felt the day before.  What one might call a relapse or a flare.  (It would be better if it was a flair.)

For awhile, I just called it, "No Walkus."  This was taken from the idea that what if a doctor couldn't diagnose a broken leg or sprained ankle or some other mobility thing and would just tell a person that it was "No Walkus"?  They l couldn't identify the problem but for sure the person couldn't walk worth shit.  Hopefully, it would just get better. 

On to more neurologists..."What is it?"  

"Peripheral neuropathy."

"MS?"

"Fibromyalgia?"

"Vitamin deficiency?"

"Lyme disease?"

"Was it all the toxins I was exposed to in the 60's and 70's growing up in my grandparent's service station?"  No clue.

Finally, I woke up with such a bad day that I couldn't walk and broke out the wheelchair.  I rolled into the neurologist's office who is now off my list forever.  He said it's not this or not that.  But, "Don't give into the pain."  

"What the fuck?  Do you even know me?  Do you even know my history?"  I thought.  I was flabbergasted.  Telling me not to give into the pain was like telling Einstein not to give into his stupidity.  That is NOT the problem.  I had to use the wheelchair for three weeks during that period.  I know it is a useful tool but I hate being limited to wheelchair use.  Gradually, I worked up to two canes and back to one.

During one procedure, the nurse asked me if I had fallen in the last six months.  I laughed, "Are you kidding?  I fall every other month."

A visit with a rheumatologist.  "Not really Fibromyalgia.  Eat better and keep moving."

Symptoms piled on symptoms.  Loss of fine motor skills.  Loss of feeling in my feet.  Loss of strength in my legs and hands.  

I spend part of my life looking for mobility aids to make things easier.  I now have:

- Three canes, a walker, and two wheelchairs.

- A disabled person's license plate.  (I will not drive with one of those damn placards hanging down all the time!  It's a safety hazard.)

- My cell phone has a ribbon tucked into the case for the back of my hand when I'm holding it so I won't drop it all the time.

- The major jars I have to unscrew all have thick rubber bands around their lids.

- A zero gravity living room recliner which keeps life from being total hell. 

- A sit/stand desk at work.

- A tablet and a keyboard at work for taking notes.

I drag my mind back from what might be in my future.  I am a great typist, and I write. Will I have to adapt to another way of writing?

My mother always dressed us in white.  She loved to tell the story, "Joceile is so neat that she can eat a chocolate ice cream cone and not spill a drop on her clothes or her clean white tennis shoes."  Oooh.  Ahhh.  Not anymore, Mom.

I was athletic until my first bout of mobility issues.  In racquetball, the teacher observed me play and shook his head saying, "You play with finesse."  He knew it wasn't that I was so skilled. I could just fake it.  My partner says I was unconsciously graceful.  It's gone for now.

At first, when my partner and I played catch with our baseball gloves, it was funny.  I stopped being able to reliably let go of the ball.  Sometimes, I would let go too late and the ball would go straight up in the air.  I would cover my head, and both of us would run for cover.  Now, I can't hit a garbage can when I'm dropping something from straight above it.

During one of my treatment regimes, I had a great time for six weeks going to a hyperbaric chamber which increased my body's oxygen intake.  I made great strides in walking and decreased pain until it stopped working for me.  Crap!

Finally, after two spots showed up on my MRI, I really began to believe I had relapsing and remitting MS.  Two neurologists said, "Yes, but get a second opinion."  

I finally landed at the Swedish MS Center in Seattle with one of the best MS specialists in the region.  He reviewed all of my records and my carefully completed ten page questionnaire.  My partner and I waited impatiently in his office.  He came in and said, "I can say for certain you don't have MS."  He went on to say that if I had symptoms like this for as long as I had experienced with MS my MRI brain exam would look like Swiss cheese which it does not.

This actually made sense to me.  So, I asked what he thought was the problem.  Brilliantly, he said, "I believe you have nerve damage of unknown origin."  My partner and I looked at each other.

"Well, of course, that is great news.  But, what caused the nerve damage?"  No clue.  We walked out of there chanting "NDUO.  NDUO."  Nerve damage of unknown origin.  "What the fuck does that mean?"

What it does mean is it seems to be gradually getting worse.  Like a feather slowly falling to the ground on a light breeze.  Back and forth, up and down, slowly, inexorably falling to the ground.  Not there yet, little feather, keep floating as long as you can.

And that's where it lies.  I spend my time appreciating the life I have now.  I am mentally healthy.  My partner and I are reaping the relationship benefits of 30 years of hard work.  We live on a lake in a beautiful part of the country.  We have successful careers.  We pinch ourselves daily at how lucky we are to have such a good life.  

I work really hard to stay in the here and now and not try to divine the future.  No clue as to what NDUO may lead to.  But, right now, I'm lucky for every moment, every act of love and kindness, every understanding of where my life could have led but didn't.

Sometimes, my partner worries about me, and my daughter worries about me.  After reading this, you maybe worried too.  But, don't be.  I keep plugging along, because I Don't Give Into the Pain.

I love my partner, my daughter, my dog, my job, my heart, and my passion for life.  There is nothing else to dwell on today.  I don't own the future.  We can all only take it as it comes.

To life.  

L'Chaim.

8/13/16

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Premonition or Coincidence?

After feeding Scarlett breakfast, she went outside then quickly came back inside making her "I caught something" call and dropped a little bird on the floor.  I got her some treats to exchange for taking the bird.  I could see the bird was breathing. When I went to pick it up, it flew up and went back down on the floor. The next time I cupped it in my hands it flew to my shoulder. I thought, "You can hang here as long as you need to catch your breath" and slowly walked outside. I stood there about five minutes and took this picture before it flew off into a tree out of sight. 

The odd thing was that I had just woken up from an early morning dream about getting a little bird as a gift and loving it immensely. I never dream about birds. So you decide:  Premonition or Coincidence?

8.5.16

Rescue on the High Seas

Tonight as I was making dinner, I looked out at the lake and saw something swimming.  It didn't quite look like a person, but I couldn't tell.  I got the binoculars and saw it was a dog.  Ronnie looked and said, "We gotta go."  The dog was out in the lake swimming in circles with no people in sight.

I went down to the boat and saw some kids.  I called to ask if they needed help.  They said yes.  I got the gas can.  Ronnie untied the boat.  We took off.  A little boy (11ish) swam out to the dog.  As we got closer, the dog started sinking.  As we pulled up, the dog was going completely under.  Fortunately, I have long arms.  I knew I didn't have much time.  The dog was a dark grey, pit, and pretty strong.  It was about six inches under the surface of the water.  I reached down and pulled it up.  Ronnie got the dog up the ladder and then the boy.  The dog was totally freaking out, and the boy was shaking.

We headed back for the dock.  But the mother with a baby in her arms was on a different dock.  There were two girls, the boy, and the dog wanting to get from one dock to the one where the woman was.  Unfortunately, they chose to try to swim and jumped off the dock.  The dog followed right back into the water.  Thus, there was another rescue.

The dog came within minutes of drowning.  Had I not looked out and Ronnie and I taking action, the dog would be dead now.  Apparently, the family was taking care of the dog, Misty, and didn't know anything about the dog and water.

Here's the deal:  Nobody on the lake saw what happened other than us and the family.  When we got back to shore, there was no cheering or honking horns.  How could that be?  Anyway, the dog is safe.  The kids are safe.  The mother said she won't be coming back to the lake with the dog.  Amen.

Side note:  When I went to work the next day, my work buddies had seen my Facebook post above and had filled my work space with a zillion life saver rolls and signs with a dog in a life ring which said, "Joceile is my Hero."  That is when the cheering began.  Both the dog and I are very lucky. 

7.17.15