Wednesday, September 07, 2011
I figured I needed a vacation.
And I have been working a lot. But not that much, in the grand scheme of things. What with my shortened hours at my day job last month, I suppose I was only working 42 hours a week. With regular hours back on, I guess 55. Certainly doable.
And my vacation came, in the form of a proven reset button. I went camping Labor Day weekend with my childhood "second parents." I've been going with them and their daughter since I was 8, and the whole thing is so steeped in tradition. My friend couldn't come, so it was them, my husband and me, which is just as well. I love them, so it wasn't weird or anything. It was also the first time my husband had come. His having a good time was very important. He says he did.
But since we got back yesterday, I don't know what's been the matter with me (or him, or us). He just says the WRONG things all the time! And I even tell him what the right things to say are. Like, yesterday, I wanted to go to bed by 8pm for second job, and our plane landed half an hour late, giving me 72 minutes from landing to 8pm. He had decided last minute to check a bag, because he had gotten a bunch of liquid stuff from his sister. You know how when people travel back to their home countries, they always wind up taking a lot of stuff back for people and coming back with stuff for other people? That stuff. Liquid stuff that was probably worth $5, he paid $25 to get the bag checked and spent a good 20% of my 72 minutes waiting for the checked bag.
But that's not what I said. Not at first, anyway.
I complained about the plane landing late, and he said, "Oh, are we at Dulles? Did I make the pilot land the plane late?"
And it's like, "HEY! Don't be a jerk! Just say it sucks, and be done with it." When he didn't, then I brought up the 72 minutes and the $25, especially since a local friend just got back from Peru, so he could have brought the liquid stuff he wanted straight back here to DC, instead of making us schlep it all the way from Texas.
Then, tonight, while I was taking a shower, I poked my head out because I could hear some noise. Little Dog had pooped in the bathroom. I start screaming my husband's name. He doesn't come. Four, five, six times, I yell, everytime louder, till I can't yell any louder. By this point, the dog has walked through it, somehow gotten it on the bathroom door, and is leaving a trail of nast in his wake. Once I was finished with my shower, I was really annoyed.
I came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a robe, and saw that he was washing dishes, cooking, and had the TV up, so he could hear it over the running water, and I told him really exasperated-like what the dog had been up to, and come help me clean it up now. He held the bag while I cleaned, about which I didn't complain. Then, he brought it up later how I'm picking fights, and I told him, I'm not angry with you about not hearing me, but wouldn't you be irritated in that situation, if you'd been yelling for several minutes, and I never came. Even if it weren't on purpose, you would be annoyed. Then he started in on, "Why didn't you do this? Why didn't you do that? I'd've done this. Etc." And that made me so mad.
So I went crazy.
He picks at me all the time. If it isn't sarcasm like at the airport, it's critical questions like the poop. And as I get madder, he just keeps doing it. Then, he goes, "Why are you yelling? I don't understand," but he KNOWS what he's doing. You know what I mean? It's like I'm a beehive and he's a brat with a stick.
The end of this last drama was that we talked and I actually don't know that and don't even really think we solved anything, but an uneasy truce has been set. The best I could manage was a snide, "Yes, you should treat me with respect, and I will do the same." And he said, "I don't feel you're being genuine," but I was. It was snide, because I had a hard time paralleling the people we were at that moment with who we had been a few hours previous. It made me sad.
Anyway, I woke up this morning to a bunch of my soda in the fridge, the computer set up for my second job, and a love note from him. Much better.
Now, please don't think I'm glossing over my part in this. After all, I titled this blog post "Volatile," and my husband certainly is NOT the volatile one.
But I'm not quite sure why I'm acting the way I am. Is it because of the second job? And if so, should I quit? I really don't want to. I really enjoy the work and the company. And how can it be the job--or the lack of sleep due to the job--if it started at the end of the vacation, when my reset button was sufficiently pushed? Why IS he annoying me so much? And what to do about it?
I can only change myself and my reactions to things, and I do need to work on that. I wish he didn't know how to and didn't so frequently push my buttons, though, either. I've COACHED him in dealing with me, and he doesn't do it. I'm absolutely NOT the type to say, "You should be able to TELL how I feel," or "Why don't you ever say the right things?" or "Why didn't you get me X for Christmas? I wanted X. How could you not know I wanted X? Can't you read my mind?" I'm NOT that way. I am very explicit in my instructions, "Just say, 'it sucks the plane was late.' Period," but it's like he doesn't listen. Well, it's not like he doesn't listen. He really doesn't listen. Argh, it is so frustrating!!!
Now that I've come to a natural ending, I kind of feel like maybe this blog was a waste of time for you and for me. I don't know. I am really down on myself lately. But it just seems like this is so small compared to other people's stuff. And maybe even boring to some people. I hate when people post drivel. Ah, well.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
After my last blog, my husband had to take Sammy to the cardiology department at the clinic where the ER is based, because they couldn't tell if there was fluid in his chest at the regular doctor. Sammy has a heart murmur, and I guess that made it harder. They needed a specialist.
Before he got to see the cardiologist, he saw the ER doctor who released Sammy yesterday. The doctor looked Sammy over and said that he has to find a different point of reference when it comes to Sammy, "because, to me, (pointing at Sammy waddling along the floor) THAT is abnormal."
Then he x-rayed Sammy's abdomen...and Sammy's digestive tract was COMPLETELY clogged. The stomach was full, the intestines were full, the rectum...EVERYTHING. He asked how much we fed him. Sheepishly, my husband said he may have had two breakfasts this morning, but I'm pretty sure that's a fib. I'm pretty sure that his stomach was so full because I gave him three servings of green beans, a cookie, and a heaping measuring cup for dinner.
For the record, also completely my fault. But I was just SO HAPPY that he was home, and the green beans are a low-calorie treat!
So the ER doctor said that that was probably the reason he couldn't sleep very well and why he was crying everytime he sat down on his belly. It could also explain the strange breathing.
Sammy had to stay at the doctor until the cardiologist was available to see him. All of his problems were potentially because of his tummyache, but also there could be fluid in the lungs or chest, or it could be because of heart disease from the heart murmur.
Husband got a call a little later telling him he could pick up Sammy. Oddly, the problem wasn't the full tummy, the heart murmur or fluid. It wasn't fluid...it was FAT. There was FAT in the chest area, which, they told him, "is very common in overweight dogs."
So Sammy was diagnosed as having BUTTERBALL SYNDROME.
He should be about 10 pounds, but he weighs 13.7. When we got him, he was between 12.5 and 13. I got him down to 11.5 pounds at one point, but then my husband started doing weird things, like giving him a cookie EVERY TIME he pooped outside. Giving him a treat EVERY TIME he got his eyedrops. Giving a treat EVERY TIME he looked extremely cute. And apparently, I found out today, the heaping measuring cup at dinner is a staple when my husband feeds him. I normally make sure it's level or even a little lower.
It's a wonder Sammy doesn't hate me. Not only did I almost kill him, but I also am a food miser. Well, now Dad's going to have to be a food miser, too. His new treats are green beans. One at a time.
So, maybe Sammy needs his own SparkPeople account. Hey, SparkGuy! Can you start a SparkDog website?
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
My husband just took Sammy to the regular vet. He's not sleeping, he's not breathing quite right (which they noted at the ER, but thought was probably anxiety), and he's whimpering, which he never does. After I left this morning, husband called and said he's crying nonstop. He'll walk a little, stop, cry, then walk a little more, stop, cry... We were short with each other. I called the ER to find out what to do, and they told me we can either give him pain meds, or he can go to the vet, either them or the regular vet (preferably regular vet) to check him out. When I called my husband back, I told him I would call the regular vet to see if they can take him right away. I said this three times, and three times, his response was something to the effect of, "Well, can I go? Are they going to be able to take him?" Finally, I was like, "For the third time, I will CALL THEM AND LET YOU KNOW." Which made me feel very bad, because I could hear Sammy crying in the background, and I know he's freaked out.
Maybe he had a broken bone, but how did they not check for that at the ER? It would seem to me that a fall would SCREAM for an x-ray.
I just got some BBMs from my husband, so this is what they say:
The doc is checking sammy
He thinks he may have some fluid and that's why he can't sleep or lay down
They are taking some x-rays of his chest
I'll let you know more later
And I'm thinking back to the invoice I got from the ER, and I don't remember any x-rays. Ugh, really? I hope that whatever is in his chest is okay. This SUCKS.
What have I done?
Monday, August 08, 2011
This'll be short, but I didn't want to just comment on the other blog in case someone who cared didn't check back at it.
I spoke with the doctor, and he told me that Sammy is moving around on his own. They took him off the seizure medication, and then they went ahead and took him off the pain medications to see if any weird behavior could attributed to that.
There is a little weird behavior. He only ate a little this morning, which worries me, since he always acts like we haven't fed him in a month, but they didn't seem concerned about that. They were more concerned about the way he's walking, about which I'm completely NOT concerned. He's blind and isn't steady on his feet, tends to hug walls, and has a slight limp. What they're seeing is probably all just that, but I guess it looks weird when you're used to dogs that aren't such a mess.
I'm going after work to look at the way he walks and tell them whether it's normal. Then, I think I might go to an Irish pub nearby. If his walking is okay, and he doesn't have any more seizures, we should be able to go back and pick him up tonight.
I also need to clean up my car. It still smells of dog seizure, which smells like something else that starts with an "s." But I figure I'll be better able to do that after a few Guinnesses. Sorry, Starfish.
Monday, August 08, 2011
started really nicely. I spent the evening celebrating a friend's birthday at another friend's house. Lots of talk, lots of laughter.
I came home, put my food into the tracker (that wasn't good), and announced I was taking Sammy outside, feeding him, and reading for a little bit before I went to bed.
I woke him up and took him to the living room to wave at his dad. Then, I took him back to the bedroom to let him outside.
I don't know how what happened next happened. I don't know if my pants were too long, the groove of my shoe caught in the threshold or if I stumbled on my own two feet, but somehow, I tripped.
And I dropped him on the bricks.
And he began to breathe really funny. Then, he began to seize.
I screamed for my husband, and he came out. Later, he asked me why I didn't call him, but I did. I guess he saw us outside.
We ran to the car. I drove. My husband held him while he twitched, puked and defecated on himself. I ran a red light. I drove 55 on a city street. I'd've gone faster, but I caught up with the car in front of me. Then, we passed a cop. Thank you, car in front of me.
When we got him to the ER, he had stopped twitching and was breathing normally.
We got him inside and they took him. Once I could sit down, I started to cry and didn't stop until we left.
He's still there. They're observing him for more seizures. They let us see him before we left for the night, and he looked okay. He was on Valium, but he was snoring like he does at home. I think he liked that we were petting him.
But no one will just TELL me he'll be okay. He's doing "fairly well" this morning. "Hopefully," he'll be fine. I want to think he's okay, because they said that he hasn't had another seizure, he's lifting his head on his own, he's urinating on his own, and his blood pressure is a little high, but not too high, and that's probably because we feed him too many treats, my little butterball. And since he's blind, he's used to bumps on the head...right?
But I still can't stop crying. This is the worst thing I've ever done, and the worst thing that's ever happened to me. And I know it was an accident, and I know it could happen to anyone, but it was still all my fault, and knowing all that doesn't change anything. And I know feeling bad doesn't change anything, either, but I...I can't forgive myself till he's home with me and okay. And if he's not okay? How can I live with myself?
I am so sorry. I am so sorry.
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