Yellow

It was a January and without a plan we brought an 8-month old yellow lab into our lives.  It started with an overheard phone call at the Animal Refuge League as we were signing out from our weekly volunteer duties in the cat room.  The one-sided conversation we were privy to included words like young, yellow, lab, pure bred, rescued.   Each of these words caused my ears to perk up because I knew this was my chance to get Steve to make good on his promise that we get a dog.   He agreed and before you knew it we hopped into my 1997 Honda Civic and hauled ass to Raymond, Maine before someone else claimed her, or Steve changed his mind.

When we first saw her she was lying on the floor next to an arm chair.  Her eyes were sad, but if you looked closely you could see a sparkle just wanting to shine.  We listened and learned from her rescuer that she was very smart and would learn quickly.  That day we had no idea how totally unprepared we were for the nearly 15-year journey she would take us on.

Initially, she pushed our patience to the brink with her wild spirit and energy.  How that happened took on many variations, including incessant leash biting, trash diving, and mitten thievery.  She even took to running around the neighborhood looking for doors left open so she could visit an unsuspecting neighbor, and possibly find something good to eat.  There were epic incidents, including the blueberry pie incident, the turkey-poop fiasco, and the Cinco de Mayo scare.  It became clear that she had little interest in wooing us with good behavior, only with her free spirit wildness.

Everything about her was joyous and exhilarating and it was impossible to bridle her energy.  We kept thinking she would be calmer at 5, then 8, maybe 10, perhaps 12, most likely 14.   Her energy and zest never wavered.  Nearly 15 years old and still ready to play, interested in trotting down the driveway with her leash in her mouth, even interested in a game of catch and retrieve with a tennis ball.  Such a spectacular being.  

Throughout her life there would be early mornings when I’d wake up, dragging myself out of bed, sad, or mad, lethargic or depressed; and then, I would look at her.  She would peer up from her bed, smile with her sparkling eyes and wag her tail.  Ready for the day, always.  Ready to love me and make me laugh, always.  Teaching me that everything will be okay.   It will all be okay. 

She was also eager to spread the same joy to anyone who would pay attention.  A working girl she would roam the office looking for someone to play with, to entertain, to comfort, or annoy.   She turned non-dog people into dog lovers; neat as a pin people into someone who didn’t mind a swatch of yellow fur on their black pants.   She entertained at meetings by rummaging through open bags, begging for treats, and finally laying under the table so not to miss a word or an opportunity for some attention.

Phoebe’s life was well documented.  I loved to take pictures that captured her personality and spirit.  She was such an agile athlete, standing tall and lean and a pleasure to watch do all the things Labrador Retrievers are bred to do - swim, run, retrieve, console, love, play, provide companionship, and of course eat.  She had her favorite places to sit, and it never got old to see her laying in the sunlight streaming in through the front door.  There are still memories of her everywhere we turn which is verification of her “great dog” status.

Like all great dogs, the last lesson she taught us was how to find the courage needed to show love in the most profound way. It was excruciating to watch the effects of age on her physical being, and even more difficult to see that in spite of her pain how much she wanted to make us happy.   On her last day, we went outside and enjoyed a gentle May day and shared a rotisserie chicken.  The vet arrived at our house and in the most compassionate way possible we said goodbye.  In true Phoebe style, she wagged her tail until the very end.

For the last year, I have held back on the emotions associated with losing such a loving companion and teacher.  In many ways I have become adept at preventing true sadness to reveal itself.   So finally, as the year anniversary of her death approaches, I decided to open and finish the journal entry I started to write just days after she left us.  The moment I opened it up, it was as if she were looking up at me with those sparkly mischievous eyes letting me know everything is going to be okay. 

Sleepless

I woke up a few times last night.   Lots of aching all over.  Some shooting pain in my feet.  Cramping in calves. My hands were tingling, and my elbows were tender.  Rolling over hurt my hips, but I knew I had to if I was going shift the pain to the other side of my body.  I had to pee, but didn’t get up because I didn’t have the energy to hobble the 15-20 feet to the bathroom.  I just laid there waiting for sleep to take over, and finally it did.

I’m sleeping in longer these days.  Longer than what my morning-person disposition would like.  I think its because I wake up so many times in the night that 5 a.m. feels more like 2 a.m.  So I sleep to 6:15 and spend two hours working out the kinks before I’m ready to head to the office.   I miss the early hours of activity that used to ease me into the day and I mostly miss the exercise I had grown accustomed to and how that never failed to scare away any of the cobwebs that threatened to get in the way of a totally focused day.

 When I do get up, the anticipation of stiffness annoys me so I take my time before I put my sorry feet onto the ground and shuffle into a new day.   Duke, my tank of a black lab puppy, is thrilled I am getting up and I let his joy bring me perspective.   I know that if I get moving, eventually my mobility will improve and no one will be able to pick up on what I’m experiencing, not even Steve, my husband and the person I tell everything to.

Thankfully I have a reprieve from this routine periodically, and sometimes enough consecutive days to convince myself it won’t come back.   But it always does.   This has been creeping up on me for more than a year.  At first I attributed it to being injury prone.  Then I told myself it was a symptom of menopause.  I spent a lot of time in physical therapy, tried acupuncture, chiropractic, massage; went to doctors of osteopath, podiatrists, orthopedics, a rheumatologist, and spent a year on hormones.  I went to the dentist because of TMJ, where it was determined stress was the culprit. I was tested for Lyme disease (three times), multiple autoimmune diseases, checked the levels of just about everything that contributes to pain and the only deficiency that emerged was Vitamin D (yes, that is why I complain about the winter).  But there isn’t enough Vitamin D to fight the effects of what I was eventually diagnosed with - Fibromyalgia.   It’s an insidious disease, hard to explain to others, and sometimes thought to not exist. Most doctors are careful with the diagnosis, others avoid it, but the bottom line is it is most often diagnosed after a process of elimination, hence the multiple doctors, tests, and treatments I went through before getting to this place.

I don’t particularly like this place that I find myself in, but I know I have to figure it out.   I have to work through the shame of the weight gain; adjust to limitations my body is setting for me; explore medication, both natural and pharmaceutical; and I have to be kind to myself.   Honestly, it’s hard seeing myself through the lens of chronic pain.  I look at pictures from the last few years and see an extremely fit, happy, and energetic person.  It makes me sad to be so far away from that Cyndi, and I want to get her back.   I’m thinking that the only way to get her back is to honor the Cyndi I am today so I’m working on that.  Writing this is cathartic and is my way of taking a step to acknowledge this is real, and that the pain will not turn me into anything I don’t want to be.   I plan on being as fabulous as ever.