Bubba and/or Mastiff?

I have drafted at least three posts in recent weeks. They are all saved. Maybe I will publish them. Maybe I won't. Don't really know yet. For now, there's this:

A couple weeks ago, my BFF called me and told me a friend of a friend had an English Mastiff puppy, eight months old, whom she could no longer care for. Apparently she found herself in over her head (she already has other dogs) and gave the dog to a rescue. I hadn't thought about getting another pup yet, but this prospect got me thinking. Ultimately, David and I agreed that if all circumstances were "ideal," we would take him. Well, turns out this pup has "major food aggression issues" and wouldn't be safe with my daughter. My daughter is, of course, my first priority. But I did prepare myself to have another Mastiff, and I even got pretty excited about it. When it didn't work out, I was sad. Sad that I wouldn't have this Mastiff. Sad that I didn't have Bubba. And I was really, really angry that this dog would miss out on a good life with me because its owner was irresponsible. Dogs aren't born with food aggression issues. I could stick my hands in Huan's food, tug on his ears while he was eating, take his bone away, etc. without him even flinching. Heck, he would drop his bone if we told him to, or even if we just gave him a "drop it" kind of look; and he would never touch or take his food until we gave him permission to approach his bowl.

So now I have the itch. I have been on Petfinder daily. I submitted an application to a national Mastiff rescue outfit. And all of this Mastiff talk and thinking and looking really, really, really makes me miss Huan. Today, David, who is very open to getting another breed of dog, said to me regarding getting another Mastiff, "You aren't going to get Huan back. I mean, he was Huan." And I cried because it hit me: Maybe that's what I really want and am looking for, not another Mastiff necessarily but another Bubba. My Bubba. Even my veterinarian cousin remarked in response to all this adoption talk that Huan was an exception and credit to his breed, that even "independent of" me, he "really was something special."

So rather than sadness, I am going to try my best to feel gratitude and happiness and pride for the amazing being that Huan was and for the countless ways in which he blessed my life. Because he really, really did. In the meantime, my adoption app is out there. Whether I am looking for a Mastiff or Huan specifically I can't say for sure, because I don't know how much of Huan was Huan, his breed, and / or my influence. But I know I would do right by another Mastiff--if for no other reason than, once upon a time, a Mastiff did so very right by me.

Do I See a Bubba?

A friend of mine posted this link on my facebook wall. I have watched it dozens of times. It truly, genuinely makes my heart HAPPY:

Tank, the Mastiff featured, is smaller than Huan was (before he got sick), but the mannerisms and behavior are so strikingly similar! The garbage picking, the guilty eyes, the I-Know-I-Was-a-Bad-Boy walk of shame, even the tactic of "hiding"on the dog bed (riiiiiiiiiight)! I feel like I am seeing Huan every time I watch. I wonder if Tank has consumed articles of clothing and various writing utensils, too. Anyway, here's my boy looking a little culpable and contrite:

Bubba and his bed--after he ate most of it.

When I came home one day, I found him like this, with paper stuck to jowls. (His mouth looks open in this picture because he had a bone in it. Bubba always needed a bone in his mouth when we came home. You just can't see it because his mouth was that big.)

Busted, Bubba! (I really thought it would be worse.)

There are, of course, many other instances of similar infractions, but we don't have them captured on camera. Most of them just weren't "cute" in the moment, like the time we came home to black ink smeared ALL over our hardwood floors after Huan apparently ate some pens.

Yeah, I think there is definitely another Mastiff in my future. It's funny how cute paper-jowls and partially eaten dog beds can look. Even black hardwood floors don't seem so bad in retrospect. So thanks, Tank, for that perspective and for reminding me of the utter joy that is the Mastiff spirit. And, for what it's worth, I think that garbage lid looks great on your head.

It's a Half!

13.1 miles, 9/24/11, 2:09:04, 9:51/mi. (Addendum: I JUST realized, after posting this, that my time and pace are likely better than what is indicated. My Garmin said I ran 13.25 in about the same time as the race people said I finished 13.1. I just now realized the discrepancy in distances may be attributable to the fact that I ran around this castle / fort on the course one too many times. AND, to add insult to injury, if that's the case, I don't even have a real record of my actual time for 13.25 because I bawled like a baby, hugged David, and stretched for about 6 years before I even remembered to STOP the timer on my watch. BOOooooooo.)

The bad news:

I have a whole multitude of issues going on with my legs, hip and back.

I dropped my iPod in the toilet literally seconds before I had to take off and had NO music for the entire race.

I have no real record of my actual time and pace.

The good news:

I am feeling so much better! I have followed every doctor's order about heat, ice, stretching, and anti-inflammatories exactly. And after not really running for nearly three weeks, the most pain I feel right now, in this very moment, is the good kind of sore, the kind that lets you know your muscles have been awakened after a long slumber. And I felt fantastic for the duration of my run, too, which is really great, given that I didn't know how I would respond to the "don't run through pain" mandate if I did, in fact, feel pain. I was, truthfully, scared, not of the prospect of pain, but of my likely unwillingness to submit to it or of the defeat I would feel if I had to. I am glad I wasn't put to the test. 

The course itself was absolutely breathtaking. And there were all sorts of adorable and gracious people throughout clapping and shouting all sorts of wonderful affirmations. One woman yelled, "I just admire you all so much." A precious, elderly gentleman shouted to me personally, "Way to go, 162! Looking good!" Complete strangers. Just awesome. If not for my iPod falling in a toilet, I may have never heard their beautiful voices. 

My iPod did, in fact, survive.

My time and pace are pretty impressive, all things considered, even though I have no idea what they are.

A few pics to document the journey:

Race chips. David ran the 5K (after working until 3AM and having slept for only 3 hours) because he is a good husband. He also ran a 5K on Fathers Day after not having run since he was a kid. I don't recall his time for that race, but he completed this one in 29 minutes. Unreal.

I don't know how many races are in my future, but I will never  wear a different racing shirt.  My whole life as a runner began with Bubba and a 6 mile "grief run." I am as likely to forget that as I am to forget him.   

Pre-race. Happy?

Nope. Scared bleep-less.

2-ish hours later: the finish line!

HAPPY for sure. Can you tell by my stride? I was already crying tears of joy.

Post-race. That's a beer in my right hand.

Beer again.

The couple who runs together...

I thought I would feel unfulfilled having completed a half marathon with no certain prospects for a full, especially given that the full was my objective all along. The very word half does rub me the wrong way, but not for the reason I thought it would--not because I feel like there is more to be done, but because I feel like there is nothing more for me to do. I don't mean that in a complacent way. I mean merely that I have done all that I can do, and I don't think it's possible for me to feel any more "full" of pride, satisfaction, and accomplishment. This must be what everyone refers to as "runners' high." Euphoria beyond words...

Dear Running:

As I was driving to work in the early hours of the morning, Lady Gaga's "You and I" came on the radio, and I thought of you.

The song, for one, is such a good running song. In fact, I put it on my iPod right before my failed 8, our last date together, the abrupt ending of which left me in tears. And, this morning, it happened to come on when the sun was rising, when you and I would have been on our mile 5-ish--if we were still together, of course.

Before I knew it, I was wiping a tear from my eye and simultaneously chuckling aloud and shaking my head in nostalgic amusement. And that's when I knew it for certain:

We're not over.

You haven't always treated me well.  I'd even say you've hurt me pretty badly. I got caught up in the "chase," pursued you too earnestly, and you dumped me. Hard.


I don't know that I'd give "anything again to be your baby doll," but I know there is still "something" between us, something "about" us, and I think it's worth investigating. I really do.


I'll be seeing you soon. Count on it. 


Love,
Danielle

Somewhere between "Big" and "Home"

I don't really know where that is yet; but, more than likely, I will have to find that medium. (Whoever said mediums were "happy"???)

Doctor's report and prognosis:

I still have no idea what is happening with my hip (there was reference to two joints and possible eventual stress fractures), but I start physical therapy Tuesday for that issue--whatever it is.

Regarding my shins, the doctor explained a radiologist "may very well read stress fractures," but she didn't order an MRI because she doesn't "need an MRI to tell [her] what to do"--and that's to insist that I rest. And rest means do nothing. If I weren't training for a marathon, she would have told me to rest indefinitely, and that may be the eventual mandate anyway. Right now, it could be "the difference of one run." Because I am crazy (that's my word; she was nicer), she told me "technically," I could count from Friday, the day of the failed 8 (or .5), and not from yesterday--if I "wanted to justify that way" and rest for fewer days.   So...this weekend I can start with the recumbent bike. If that doesn't hurt, I can progress to the elliptical. If that doesn't hurt, I can do "light jogging." And NO pain allowed. Translation: Sayonara, Marathon. I just don't see how I could start jogging and progress to 26.2 by the end of October. In addition to the long runs, there are multiple "short" runs (e.g. 5-10 miles) weekly.

I just realized I left off with 16. I had only TWO long runs left before the marathon: an 18 and a 20. Damn.


I do get it. I did way too much, way too fast. As the doctor explained it to me, there are lifelong runners who train for 6 months-1 year to run a marathon. I have never been a runner and woke up one day and decided to run a marathon. I committed to an 18 week training program, and I refused to forego bootcamp and gym days to boot. As I said to her yesterday, "This is my fault. I own it."

I have had my tantrums and tears and meltdowns, and today I got choked up when a song that I listen to repeatedly on my runs came on the car radio. (It reminded me of being a teenager, and feeling all nostalgic and sappy, listening to Dave Matthews or Sarah McLachlan.) But now I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Again, it's my fault, and self-pity is unattractive. So, the potential pluses:

1.  If I am being honest, as I said to one of my favorite friends and true champions of athleticism, I don't like running like this. The kind of running I have been doing for quite some time is the bad kind of everything: pain, fatigue, challenge, chore, etc. I am actually looking forward to healing, to being pain-free, and to loving exercise again.

2.  There is the half at the end of this month. It is probably out of my reach at this point. But there is always a possibility. Even if I lose some conditioning by then, if I miraculously feel pain-free, I really believe I have the mental fortitude and drive to pull it off. (Of course mental fortitude wouldn't carry me through 13 miles if I hadn't already completed months of long distance training.) And there is still October if miracles really do happen, and there is always the spring season, too.

3.  I am pretty confident now that I am one tough cookie. I am proud that I set out to achieve this goal of gargantuan proportions, and I fought tooth and nail to make it happen. I can look myself in the mirror and say that I never once slacked or cheated, that I never once failed to do my very best. That's all anyone can really do. And, in the end, I made it pretty far. 16 miles for a single run and an average of 20-30 miles of running per week are nothing to sneeze at.

4.  My bootcamp class just ended. I wasn't planning to register for the next session because my body could just no longer take that kind of hit while running that kind of distance. But if I am no longer running that kind of distance, maybe--maybe--I can resume bootcamp in three weeks when the next session starts. I love bootcamp, more than I have ever loved any fitness-related activity, including running.

5.  Now that I am a mom, I often think about how my daughter will one day judge my actions; in fact, the thought of her as a teenager thinking it was cool that her mom ran a marathon a year after she was born is what sustained me on many painful runs. Now, I hope that she will respect my effort more than she will judge my ultimate performance; that she will see this experience as a lesson about sometimes needing to appreciate life's journeys more than the destinations; and that she will admire my genuine desire to be a healthy, strong, fit woman and role model to her. At a recent bootcamp class when we were doing Spidermans, my instructor jokingly said to the class, comprised of all women, "Remember when you were a little girl and you used to dream of Spidermans..." A bunch of women joked, "Barbie didn't do this!" or "This was not what I dreamed about Spiderman." And my first thought was, "I hope my daughter dreams of doing exactly this one day."

So, in the end, maybe a medium can be happy. I may need a GPS to find it, but I am willing to try.

Of Mastiff and Marathon

I am having kind of a hard time lately. I miss Huan so much, more than I have in a long time. I don't know what else to say about that. He was extraordinary. I will never have another dog like him. I will never know another soul as gentle and gracious and humble and sweet and good and decent as he. Repeat.

I have been training for a marathon, for months actually. There. I said it. Only a few people, until now, have known that. I haven't even registered for it, but the registration screen has been minimized on my laptop for what feels like forever. I have been afraid of jinxing it, I guess, but it's too late for that.

Current status: my longest run to date is 16 miles. I have been running 3-4 times a week, all according to the guidelines of a free online training program. There is always one really long run (e.g. 15 miles), 1-2 shorter runs (e.g. 3-5 miles), and one long-ish run (e.g. 8-10 miles). My times have been pretty impressive for a rookie (9:30-40ish on long runs), though that may be because I am a total idiot and haven't stopped to rest or hydrate ever. (No, I am not kidding.) I have also maintained my bootcamp days, but had to drop my leg day at the gym. I have, until now, maintained my upper body weight training regimen. And now I am injured.

Injured?

For weeks, my shins have been very painful to the touch, and it has gotten increasingly more painful to run on them. I have also been suffering through hip pain that is now pretty unbearable. There have been a couple of times when my leg has gone numb, and I haven't been able to support my weight while running. This past Friday, I set out to do an 8 miler, and I didn't make it 1/2 mile before I had to stop, tears streaming down my face, and limp home. I remember thinking, "I don't even know how to distinguish anymore. What will I tell the doctor? Does the pain radiate up my legs or down them?"

I have an appointment with a sports medicine doctor tomorrow. I have an appointment with a podiatrist on Friday. I am icing and stretching and taking anti-inflammatories. And resting. For the first time EVER, I missed a run, a 12 miler yesterday. I have no idea how much more I will have to miss. I am scheduled for a half marathon at the end of the month, which is just part of my training for the full in October. I don't know that I will be able to do either now. And I can't even stomach the thought of that. I have given this everything I have to give. I have set my alarm at 4AM on long run days so I can be home in time to get the baby when she wakes and so Hubby can leave for work. I have run in South Carolina, while on vacation, down cobblestone streets in the midst of Hurricane Irene storms. I even set my alarm at God knows what time to fit in a 10 miler before our flight took off for South Carolina. And, to reiterate, it has really, really hurt most days, even to run one mile.

I began running a week after Huan died, and I haven't stopped since. I always wanted to run, to be a runner,  but never really had the kind of motivation that the loss of Huan inspired. (I often call it "grief running.") And I did  toy with the idea of training for just a half, but I tend to operate in extremes. I go big, or I go home. I go Mastiff. I go marathon. And I have to believe that, even if I can't physically cross the finish line, everything that has carried me to this moment in my training--the struggle, the love, the grief, the tenacity, even the dedication to get out of bed at 4AM for months on end--that's all big stuff--bigger, perhaps, than even 26.2 miles.

I really hope I can believe that.

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