Jenni

It has been awhile since I’ve posted. That’s partly because it’s summer, and life has been pretty busy; and it’s partly because I have been procrastinating. This post has been on my radar for months. I have drafts of it. I have walked away from it and come back to it so, so many times. I am a perfectionist, and I know there is no way to perfectly articulate my feelings about Jenni. But it’s time to say something, however inadequate my words will undoubtedly prove to be.

Jenni is Jim’s wife. She is a vet, too. She is an amazing vet. And she is my friend. She is my dear friend. I don’t have any idea what I would have done without her all of those months that Huan was sick. Jenni was with Jim just about every time he examined Huan, both at my house and at their clinic. She also independently examined him, ran cytology, came to my home by herself. One day, she spent at least an hour of her time calling specialists all over the state to consult on Huan's case and research prices for MRI scans—from my kitchen.

Those are the objective, quantifiable tangibles. The implicit, qualitative intangibles of Jenni’s goodness—well, that’s the stuff that is impossible to convey adequately with words.

I remember very distinctly, months and months ago, perhaps even before Huan got sick, Jenni told me in a casual conversation that: 1. She never cried in front of a client and 2. Whatever happens to an animal after it has been euthanized—I mean beyond carrying it out of the room—she can’t bring herself to do. (I don’t know exactly what that is, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.) I was touched so deeply by that. I have had vets before Jenni, as I have had animals my whole life. I have always been a little unimpressed, even saddened, by the seeming lack of emotion and personal engagement. I mean, I understand that there is—even has to be—a degree of desensitization, but I often left the vet’s office thinking, “Didn’t you go into this profession because you loved animals?”  Every experience just felt sterile, overly scientific, clinical, routine, even rushed. What I love about Jenni, what I find so impressive and unique, is that she is as competent as she is compassionate. I mean, the girl knows her stuff. But she is never, ever showy or imposing or redundant. She doesn’t railroad people or rush them or raise her voice—or love the sound of it. And she is always professional. But she is always a person, too, a good person.

Case in point: Before Huan passed away, weeks before, when I knew death was imminent, I called her. I needed to brace myself. I didn’t want to go in cold. Through quiet sobs, I asked her a multitude of pretty graphic and specific questions about what would happen to Huan when he died. And she answered every single one--patiently, kindly, gently, truthfully. In fact, before Jim injected Huan with the anesthesia on the day he died, he went to explain the process to me, and I stopped him. I already knew. I am so grateful to Jenni for that. I don’t think there is any other person or professional with whom I would have felt more comfortable having that conversation.  She was the absolute best.

Another case in point: On the day that Huan died, Jenni was with Jim. She was so gentle with me and with Huan. And when it was all over, when she and Jim left the room to give David and me a chance to say our final goodbyes, I could hear her crying in the other room. As I write that, I, myself, am crying. I don’t think she knows I know she cried. It turns out she was true to her word: She didn’t cry in front of a client. But she did, in fact, cry. And that’s how I know there is such a thing as becoming too desensitized in this profession. Because Jenni is not. After countless euthanasias and years of experience, this vet, one who surely “got into this profession because she loves animals,” was moved to tears by the death of a Mastiff and the heartache of his owners--because she is a person still, one who understands a dog is more than its breed and scientific makeup and the owners more than mere clients. And I know she was uniquely connected to and involved in this case, but I also know she is remarkably compassionate and selfless with other clients. Once, for example, she took a dog to her own home, with its owners’ permission, because she was confident it would not survive the night alone in the clinic. She tended to that dog throughout the night--again, in her own home--forgoing sleep in order to ensure its survival.  One would be hard pressed to find a better vet--or a better person.

And, incidentally, Jenni is as creative as she is competent and compassionate.

In October, five months before Huan died, I told Jenni about a page in Grace’s baby book devoted to baby’s first animal and about how much it meant to me to make that page special with a meaningful picture so that Grace would, in some capacity, know Bubba. I told her, probably in another conversation, that Grace was going to be a giraffe for her first Halloween. And Jenni went to the store, bought fabric, and spent hours of her life making a lion’s mane for Huan so that he and Grace could have a properly themed Halloween, so that Grace could have a special page in her baby book. So that her mother's pain could be mitigated by the creation of a beautiful memory that would comfort her always.

Likewise, after Huan passed away, I asked her if she knew of anything I could do with Huan’s collar and tag as a way to memorialize him. She suggested a memory box. Within days, she texted me and told me she was at the arts and crafts store and told me she could pick up the box. “What color would you like?” turned into, “Danielle, would you mind if I did this for you as a surprise?” And, before I knew it, she was at my house sorting through pictures and storing them on a flash drive. She worked for days from her own home, and this beautiful creation is the final product. When I first saw it, I bawled. It hangs in my kitchen, above the spot where Huan’s food dishes used to be.

(In case it’s not totally clear, in addition to pictures, Huan's collar and tag, and some text and graphics, in the bottom left corner is Huan’s paw print, which Jenni and Jim took and preserved in clay after he passed away. This is something their clinic does for clients after every euthanasia, and I think it is just so, so special. And I know Jenni worked really hard to get the perfect imprint.) 

It has been almost a year to the day that Huan got sick, almost five months since he died. I have sent cards and notes of thanks and written a post about my cousin on this blog to express my gratitude for people's kindnesses to Huan, David, and me. Jenni is last on my list of people to thank, but certainly not least. In fact, the truth is I am most grateful to her, which is, again, why it has taken me so long to actually find the words to express my gratitude for all the things that are just so hard to quantify or qualify in a card, note, or blog post...for being an amazing vet to Huan and an even better person and friend to me. For comforting words and costumes and pictures and memory boxes. For all of the gestures and moments and conversations whose significance just can't be conveyed with words but which are felt and treasured so deeply in my heart.

So I say--however simply, inarticulately, and belatedly--thank you, Jenni, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. xx

Jim

I am, technically, an only child. But I rarely felt that way as a kid. My cousins, Jim and Jeff, who are the sons of my aunt and uncle referenced in my "Bitter Sweet" post, are brothers to me. My childhood is defined by summers of vacationing, camping, playing, swimming and catching toads, snakes, and crawfish with them. We fished and roasted marshmallows and sailed and suffered horrific sunburns and many bumps, bruises, even stitches and food poisoning. These are my most precious, fondest childhood memories. No, they are my childhood.

At one point, we all even lived together. We had chores, or "designated sponsibilities." We had movie nights with the kind of buttered popcorn that could clog your arteries before the first bite even made its way down. We were even punished together, like after a collective rebellious impulse that involved a closed closet door and whole lot of profanity shouted--loudly, proudly, defiantly--in a sudden fit of what can only be described as spontaneous Tourettes. We rode bikes and played games every day.  We had block parties and common friends. And we had animals, lots and lots of animals. There were Gizmo, Sadie, Max, Fritz...to name a few, and those were just the dogs. There were cats, too, and reptiles of all types and sizes.

I always knew one of us would be a vet. Jim, in fact, wanted to be a vet before he could ever even pronounce the word veterinarian. Fortunately for him, he had the math and science aptitude. I always was much more English-y.

Jim, DVM, got a phone call from me the first week of August, 2010. David, my husband, came home from work at 7AM and found the house covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) He ran to our bedroom and found me asleep, threw off the covers, and found my feet and PJ bottoms also covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) Apparently, delirious from having a new baby and not sleeping much at all, I didn't notice that, when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Grace and let Huan out, my house and I were covered in blood. We checked Grace. We checked the cats. We checked Huan, who was sleeping soundly beside our bed. And there was dried blood on his snout. And so it began...

Jim ran tests, X rays, cytology, so many, many times. He sedated Huan and flushed his nose more than once. He was thorough. Nothing showed cancer, and we could have done an MRI to know for sure. But we knew, after the seizures and weight loss and head muscle atrophy, that whatever this was was degenerative, that Huan was dying. And so Jim, DVM, was again, first and foremost, cousin, brother, friend. He was gentle. He called Huan "handsome" and patted his head and rubbed his ears every time he saw him. He knew--I know he knew--what an amazing dog Huan was and how very much I loved him. I saw and felt his pain every time he saw and felt mine.

One day in the fall, for example, I came home from work, and Huan was bleeding so, so, so badly, worse than any other time. It was, by far, one of the scariest things I have ever seen, second only to the eventual seizures. I called Jim, who was working--crying, frantic, desperate. He told me what to do to get the blood to stop. It didn't stop. He told us to bring him in, so David did. Huan bled all over, and I mean ALL over, the clinic. David apologized, and Jim said, "Better for it to happen here where Danielle doesn't have to see it." And that night, he brought him home to me, having somehow managed to get the blood to stop after he called me to tell me he didn't know if he could--and, incidentally, having assumed the inconvenience of chauffeuring a 200 lb bloody, drooly Mastiff on his own personal time, in his own personal car. He hugged me, kissed my swollen face, and offered to bring me dinner.

Flash forward to February. The seizures started. They happened daily, most often when I was home alone. David and I took Huan into the clinic for a routine exam. When Huan didn't react to another dog in the waiting room, which was very uncharacteristic of him, I lost it. By the time I made it back to the exam room, I was hysterical. I don't know why, but seeing Huan indifferent to another dog was my moment of clarity and resignation. I told Jim that Huan's dignity was my first priority, and when dog owners start talking dignity, death is imminent. The truth is, I even thought that night may have been the night, and if Jim would have told me it was time, I would have deferred to his judgment. Instead, Jim prescribed anti-seizure meds, gave Bubba valium to ensure he didn't seize on the way home, and said we would reassess in a month. He helped David carry Huan to the car while I dealt with the receptionists and paid the bill. Jim and I hugged in the parking lot, and as I was getting in the car to leave, I could see him walk back into the clinic past the receptionists, who were very clearly looking for some kind of exchange, some opportunity to offer words of comfort or sympathy, or maybe to inquire about Huan's status, especially given that they had just dealt with me, and there was no hiding my hysterics, despite my best efforts. But Jim ran his hand over his head, kind of the way you see doctors do in movies when they lose a patient or have to deliver really bad news; never looked up; and kept walking, right past them, out of my sight. I don't know why that single moment resonated with me so much. I think it's because I didn't realize how much the experience resonated with him at the time. In dealing with me that night, he was professional. He was composed. But in that moment, when he didn't know I could see, he was upset. And that touched me deeply. In that moment, I could see my loving cousin. In every moment prior to that one that night, I couldn't see my loving cousin, because he loved me enough to not show me. He loved me enough to be what I needed then: my vet.

That night, I wrote my first post on this blog.

March. Over half a year of running tests, taking frantic phone calls, hugging crying cousins, driving back and forth to my house and Jim's clinic, and the seizures had, in fact, stopped, at least temporarily. The last time Huan suffered a seizure was the last time Jim came to my house for a Huan related incident: Saturday, March 26th, 2011. He left our Nana's house, where he and his wife were eating dinner, after yet another emotional and unexpected phone call from me; went to his closed clinic to retrieve all necessary supplies; and came to my home to help us say our goodbyes to our sweet boy. As Huan lay in my lap on my kitchen floor, Jim injected the anesthesia into his leg and sat with us as he took his last breaths. In that single moment, the tender culmination of so many trying moments, Jim's presence was never more necessary or appreciated. My childhood companion, friend, brother, the source of so much joy in my life, was a source of such comfort when I needed it most, in what was, I think, the saddest moment of my life. How many people can say that about their cousins? Probably about as many as who could say it about their veterinarians.

I am grateful for you, Jim, DVM. And I love you very much.

Bitter Sweet

This is my daughter, Grace. And with her is Doe, my aunt and uncle's lab and Grace's new biggest fan.

On Memorial Day, after my run and a fun time at the zoo, we went to my aunt and uncle's for dinner. My aunt and uncle have about 46 dogs. OK, that's a gross exaggeration, obviously. But they never have fewer than 3. (I come from a long line of "animal people.") The other dogs were pretty indifferent to Grace. Doe, though, clearly, truly, genuinely had an obvious affinity for her. Doe followed Grace all over the house. At one point, they were even swapping and sharing their toys. 

Watching Grace and Doe together was poignant, in the truest sense of the word.  Sweet, for certain. But also bitter. Two months and three days prior, we lost Huan. And Grace was very much still a baby. But now she crawls, babbles, engages in meaningful ways, imitates, shows a sense of humor. She very much became a kid. I anticipated missing the opportunity to watch her relationship with Huan blossom as she matured. (See very first blog entry.) I just didn't realize I would literally miss it by such a narrow margin. Two months. Ouch. If only...

David and I have been struggling with this one ever since Memorial Day. Grace needs a dog. I just wish it could have been Huan. He would have loved her up but would have always respected her space and the boundaries we imposed--like, for example, not entering her room without invitation, a rule, incidentally, that he did observe since we brought her home from the hospital. He would have never, ever begged for her food, let alone taken it. Of course she would have offered it, and of course he would have barely grazed her fingers with his teeth as he took it. She would have toppled all over his ginormous body and tugged on his ears and stuck her hands in his food bowl and taken his bones, and he would have let her. He would have learned the command "Baby kiss," just as he knew "Mama kiss," and he would have happily obliged. He would have protected her. He would have been her best pal. They would have made some duo, my baby and my Bubba. I can't imagine anything sweeter, and I know that, someday, I won't feel so bitter about that. And maybe that will be the day Grace gets her dog.

Race Day

Well, I didn't formally "race." My relay fell apart last minute, but I ran my leg, nonetheless.

It was a hard run. It was super hot outside, and I traversed quite a few hills. My hamstrings were sore from my workout two days prior, my heart ached from the loss of Huan two months prior, and I didn't make it through without tears. But I finished.7.5 miles, 1:14:11.

Pre-run

Post-run

Hubby made me chocolate chip buckwheat pancakes, my FAV, to celebrate!

I am certain there are more runs in my future, and I am confident I will get stronger, better, faster over time. And as much as I feel inclined to beat myself up over a modest 10 minute mile, especially since I have pulled off much better times in training, I have to remind myself that this run wasn't about pace or performance, or even about running, really. This run was about a girl and her dog.

And nothing about that can be measured or quantified.

Running and Prepositions

The day before I lost Huan, a friend texted me: “I am trying to get a 4 woman team together for a marathon (about 6 miles each). Would you be interested?” “I am interested. Keep me posted,” I replied.

After Huan passed away, days went by before I heard from her again. She was scared to ask about the race for fear of sounding insensitive (which she didn’t), but she needed to register soon. My immediate inclination was to say, “No, I am not interested. Not anymore. I’ll get back to you when I can muster up the strength to crawl out of this fetal position and keep my composure for longer than a five-minute stretch of time. Maybe in about six years.” But, instead, I told her I was still interested. And, by “interested,” I meant “willing,” kind of in the same way someone is willing to get a tetanus shot when she accidentally cuts off a bodily extremity with a rusty knife. She knows that it is as necessary as it is painful, though certainly less painful than the alternative.

I have never been a serious runner, and I certainly have never run a race. But I never had a dog like Huan or felt a loss of this magnitude. So I committed to a training schedule, one which I have observed--religiously, persistently, diligently--for eight weeks now. In addition to weightlifting and boot(y) camp days, which were already part of my fitness regimen, I added three days of running each week, two shorter runs and one longer run. Today was my last long run before race day next week--and my longest run to date. I ran 7 miles, without stopping.

Running has been one hell of a tetanus shot. Necessary. Painful, though certainly less painful than the alternative. And I feel my immunity building every time my foot meets pavement.

It’s funny…when I teach my students mechanics rules--and I always look for any excuse to talk grammar (like now, for example)--I often tell them prepositional phrases are “grammatical garbage.” “Toss the baggage!” I shout, as I point to plural pronouns and their disagreeing singular antecedents on the chalkboard. (If you are a grammar geek like me, see footnote* below for explanation.)  But running, at least for me--personally, right now, in this very moment and time--needs to be qualified, and such qualifiers are essential, not superfluous: I have run through puddles, torrential downpours, and 40 mph winds. I have run in frigid temperatures and snow. I have run with a shoulder / neck injury and with a sore throat and runny nose. I have run in spite of exhaustion. I am running because of my grief, because it is colder, more consuming and crippling than any Buffalo weather, muscle strain, or illness. I will not run away from grief, and I will certainly not be paralyzed by it. I am running through my grief, without stopping. Maybe someday I will just run--no qualifiers needed--but right now I am running for Bubba. And that kind of baggage alone is worth its weight in gold.

*Certain pronouns, namely each, either, neither, and any variation of one or body, are always singular, regardless of the phrase that may follow them. But if the object of the preposition that follows is plural, one may get confused and opt for a plural verb and referring pronoun. For example: Either of the students has his homework is correct. Of the students is “grammatical garbage,” a prep phrase whose object is students.  The subject of the sentence is Either, which is, again, always singular; so the writer should opt for a singular verb, has, and a singular pronoun (technically a possessive adjective), his.

Grief Pangs

Sometimes I am just minding my business, doing nothing in particular, and I will think of Bubba and cry. I don't even know precisely what it is I think of. I guess that's the thing. There is no thinking, really. There is just this massive void, and sometimes, out of nowhere, I feel it.  And, man oh man, does it hurt.

And then there are specific times and moments and occasions that make the grief more pronounced. Every time Grace turns in her high chair to look at Huan's pictures, for example. Every time I find myself asking her questions that I once asked him: "You hungry?" "Want to go for a walk?"  "Wanna go night-night?" And, likewise, every time I issue her a command: "Mama kiss.""Stay." "Sit." "Gentle." "Roll over." No, just kidding. She doesn't roll over, at least not on command. (Neither did Huan, incidentally. And I have never told either of them to roll over. Frankly, I think that's just a stupid waste of everyone's time and energy.) Sometimes, particularly when no one else is home, I expect to see him waiting for me when I walk in the door, and the surprise of his absence stings. Now that it's nice out, I miss walking with him, and I miss the eventuality of watching him pick apples from our trees in the backyard. Just the other day, David felt his own pangs of grief when he mowed the backyard lawn and Huan wasn't there with him, rolling around and scratching his back on the grass and running aimlessly, joyously--jowls flopping--with sticks (ok, logs) in mouth.  Just this past week, I had a bad day, and I cried because I was overwhelmed. And then I cried for Huan, because I thought of how much I would have loved to cuddle him, how he wouldn't have judged or made demands of me, how he would have been my one comfort. Every time I see his box of ashes, I ask myself, "How can a 200 lb. piece of my heart be reduced to THAT?" Every time I am around another dog who begs for food, pulls on its leash, jumps on people and bowls them over, is hyperactive, etc., I think of Huan, of how extraordinary he was, of how blessed I am that he was mine. I say the words, "He was a good dog" to people constantly. And I still tell Huan I love him pretty much every night before I go to bed and every morning when I wake up. I actually say the words aloud.

I miss my boy.

A Baby, a Birthday, and a Bubba

Grace celebrated her first birthday this past week! I cannot believe she is one year old. 

When I first thought about getting pregnant, I thought about how nice it would be for our future baby to have a relationship with Huan well into his or her toddler years. Although our baby didn't even get one full year with Huan, I know his life--however short--touched hers. We have pictures of Huan hanging on our kitchen walls behind Grace's high chair, for example; and when I feed her, she is constantly twisting and turning, trying to see him. She coos and squeals in excitement. Sometimes she cries. We can even ask her, "Where's Bubba?" and she will turn deliberately to look at his pictures. We never, ever taught her that. She did it the first time I asked her that question. I find that so touching--and so revealing. She doesn't have the words to tell me, but I know how much Huan must have meant to her and how much she must miss him.

Every one of my posts thus far has spoken to my relationship with Huan. Today's post is in honor of Grace's.

Maternity pants, specifically the elastic bands on them, give me the eebie jeebies the way snakes and spiders do to some people. But I had to include this picture because I love it so much. I am 37 weeks pregnant and FINALLY breaking the news to Huan that Grace is "in Mommy's belly." I think he took it well. David caught this moment on camera, unbeknownst to me at the time.

I am equally in love with this picture. It marks Huan's first official interaction with Grace. We had just gotten home from her one-week pediatrician appointment. She was in the living room, sleeping in her car seat. David left the house to run an errand, and I was in the kitchen preparing something to eat. When I came in to get her, this is what I saw.  This picture "speaks 1,000 words" about Huan and his heart.

This is the first time, but certainly not the last, that we laid Grace on Huan. For this particular "photo shoot," there  were at least fifteen shots total. We moved. Grace moved. Huan never moved--not once, not even when her foot ended up in his jowls and her hand in his eye.

It is like she is seeing him, really seeing him, for the very first time. : )

One of my friends said it best: "Such 'lil pals."

Hand holding

By this time in Grace's life, we never had to "stage" a picture. Huan and Grace developed their own relationship, independent of us. He often lay next to her when she played.

"He often lay next to her when she played": Exhibit B

"OK, I practiced my 'Roooooooooar,' but I am just not a convincing lion, despite my mane and size. Let's call it a day and smooch."

"So, what do you really think of Mom's jungle themed Halloween idea?"

I like this picture because it gives a good indication of the discrepancy in sizes...

and I like this picture because it shows the discrepancy doesn't matter, least of all to Grace.

This is one of the last pictures of my babies together.  It's technically not a "good" photo. I captured it with my cell phone, and the light is not conducive to a clear, "high quality" picture. But I think it's appropriately symbolic.

I make a living teaching and touting the power of words. Language is, after all, our primary mode of conveying meaning. But neither Grace nor Huan had the capacity to verbally qualify their relationship, and yet their relationship is seemingly all the more meaningful without words. Perhaps more accurately, its meaning and value derive from the type of beauty that exists and endures beyond words.