Oboe hams it up at the Vet’s office.
Watching my husband age, with all of his back issues, is one thing. Watching my parents age is another. Both the hubby and my parents can voice their ailments, their problems, their aches and pains that need medical attention. Even as I prepare to turn the big Four-Oh on Thursday, watching myself age is truly a piece of cake. Watching my baby, my Lab Oboe, age is devastating and frustrating. Despite all those wishes on various stars, Master Oboestill can’t speak.
The hubby and I know his time is coming; still, we’re nowhere near ready for that time to arrive. I thought we were going to be forced to be prepared yesterday. Ironically, despite all my well intentionedplans to prepare for life’s major stressors, the plans didn’t seem to help much.
Warning, if you’re reading this over breakfast, lunch, dinner, or even the simplest of potato chips, you may want to click away and read the story later.
Two weeks ago, the pup had a nasty bout with diarrhea. I’ve seen doggie doo before and people doo too. But, I’ve never seen anything like what I awoke to that Sunday morning. Oboe tried to jump up onto the bed and when he did, everything in his 90 pound body spewed out onto the covers. All over the covers and all over Oboe. I’m not exaggerating when I say “spew”. Projectiles. I woke to the smell and scene in the early hours of the morning, to a shaking pup, covered with his own mess. At the same exact time, the hubby – who had fallen asleep on the couch – awoke to a similar scene all over the family room. We sent the pup outside while we went to work around the house and he lay in the grass, shaking all over. When the house was cleaned, it was time to clean the pup. At four in the morning, we got him into the kids’ bathtub and went to work. Kerri Elizabeth would say later on Sunday morning that she swore she had a bad dream that we were giving Oboe a bath in the middle of the night like crazy people. Crazy indeed. I was mid-relapse with a slew of M.S. symptoms, all increasing exponentially through the stress of the events at hand.
That same Sunday, the home healthcare nurse visited to begin my Solumedrol drip. I was certain our home smelled horrific. She didn’t seem to notice. Three days and a few pounds of boiled hamburger and rice later, the pup seemed back to normal. A week later, he went to the bathroom in the house again, nothing like the time before, but still so out of the norm for our fella.
A week went by without incident. Then Monday, the hubby called me at work in the afternoon, telling me the diarrhea was back, in liquid form. It was running like water. My stomach turned. In the early morning hours of Tuesday, the hubby awoke to a minor mess in the family room again, but then saw blood mixed in with what was left behind. I spent an hour or so lying on the floor with Oboe, who despite his best efforts just couldn’t get comfortable. He changed positions minute after minute. It was obvious he was in discomfort.
I had a conversation with him, asking him to give me a sign. Asking him to tell me what he needed me to do. The next time he took a walk outside with the hubby, Tom returned, grim faced. The only thing that ran out of Oboe that morning was blood. He told me I should cancel my MRI scheduled for that morning and come with him to the pet hospital. I took a quick shower, sobbing the entire time. He had to run into work to open the door for his part time helper, so we met up at the hospital. During the drive, Oboe, too weak to sit up in the back seat, strained his neck towards the open car window. I couldn’t help thinking, “Is this the last time we’ll take a drive together? Is this the last fresh air he’ll feel on his face from a window?”
I arrived at the hospital first and left Oboe in the car. I went in to talk to a nurse, to get a sense of what to expect before I actually brought the pup inside. Of course I was preparing for the worst: complete kidney failure or cancer. After a variety of tests were complete, we were told that Oboe is suffering from a number of ailments. He has an easily treatable viral infection in his intestines. He also has colitis, which is causing the diarrhea and the bleeding in that area. He has a urinary tract infection, brought on by prostate gland disease. Of course, he still suffers from degenerative osteoarthritis.
I asked the doc to do an ultrasound. It was selfish and only for my own peace of mind. I just had to know if Obie-wan-Kanobie has cancer. The doc talked me out of the procedure, calling it “over the top” and premature. (Apparently they need to sedate the dog and shave his belly and with all the trauma Oboe had suffered in the previous hours, the doc didn’t want to hurt him any further). The doc instead suggested a course of medications over the next series of days. The meds will relieve the discomfort by shrinking the prostate, dry up the viral infection and help the colitis. Within days the meds should make the world right again.
The true test will come after Oboe finishes the treatments. Hopefully the problem will be resolved, but if the conditions return, especially the prostate issues, we need to begin discussions of “other options.” We’re hoping for a quick recovery, perhaps some diet modifications, and many, many more months before options need to be outlined.
I guess we should look at yesterday as a dress rehearsal. How can one craft a plan to prepare for her major life stressor without experiencing what it will all really be like? We’ve experienced that test drive now, sending me back to the drawing board to develop a better plan – one that’s better for me, the hubby, but most importantly, for my baby.
Oboe hams it up at the Vet’s office.
Watching my husband age, with all of his back issues, is one thing. Watching my parents age is another. Both the hubby and my parents can voice their ailments, their problems, their aches and pains that need medical attention. Even as I prepare to turn the big Four-Oh on Thursday, watching myself age is truly a piece of cake. Watching my baby, my Lab Oboe, age is devastating and frustrating. Despite all those wishes on various stars, Master Oboestill can’t speak.
The hubby and I know his time is coming; still, we’re nowhere near ready for that time to arrive. I thought we were going to be forced to be prepared yesterday. Ironically, despite all my well intentionedplans to prepare for life’s major stressors, the plans didn’t seem to help much.
Warning, if you’re reading this over breakfast, lunch, dinner, or even the simplest of potato chips, you may want to click away and read the story later.
Two weeks ago, the pup had a nasty bout with diarrhea. I’ve seen doggie doo before and people doo too. But, I’ve never seen anything like what I awoke to that Sunday morning. Oboe tried to jump up onto the bed and when he did, everything in his 90 pound body spewed out onto the covers. All over the covers and all over Oboe. I’m not exaggerating when I say “spew”. Projectiles. I woke to the smell and scene in the early hours of the morning, to a shaking pup, covered with his own mess. At the same exact time, the hubby – who had fallen asleep on the couch – awoke to a similar scene all over the family room. We sent the pup outside while we went to work around the house and he lay in the grass, shaking all over. When the house was cleaned, it was time to clean the pup. At four in the morning, we got him into the kids’ bathtub and went to work. Kerri Elizabeth would say later on Sunday morning that she swore she had a bad dream that we were giving Oboe a bath in the middle of the night like crazy people. Crazy indeed. I was mid-relapse with a slew of M.S. symptoms, all increasing exponentially through the stress of the events at hand.
That same Sunday, the home healthcare nurse visited to begin my Solumedrol drip. I was certain our home smelled horrific. She didn’t seem to notice. Three days and a few pounds of boiled hamburger and rice later, the pup seemed back to normal. A week later, he went to the bathroom in the house again, nothing like the time before, but still so out of the norm for our fella.
A week went by without incident. Then Monday, the hubby called me at work in the afternoon, telling me the diarrhea was back, in liquid form. It was running like water. My stomach turned. In the early morning hours of Tuesday, the hubby awoke to a minor mess in the family room again, but then saw blood mixed in with what was left behind. I spent an hour or so lying on the floor with Oboe, who despite his best efforts just couldn’t get comfortable. He changed positions minute after minute. It was obvious he was in discomfort.
I had a conversation with him, asking him to give me a sign. Asking him to tell me what he needed me to do. The next time he took a walk outside with the hubby, Tom returned, grim faced. The only thing that ran out of Oboe that morning was blood. He told me I should cancel my MRI scheduled for that morning and come with him to the pet hospital. I took a quick shower, sobbing the entire time. He had to run into work to open the door for his part time helper, so we met up at the hospital. During the drive, Oboe, too weak to sit up in the back seat, strained his neck towards the open car window. I couldn’t help thinking, “Is this the last time we’ll take a drive together? Is this the last fresh air he’ll feel on his face from a window?”
I arrived at the hospital first and left Oboe in the car. I went in to talk to a nurse, to get a sense of what to expect before I actually brought the pup inside. Of course I was preparing for the worst: complete kidney failure or cancer. After a variety of tests were complete, we were told that Oboe is suffering from a number of ailments. He has an easily treatable viral infection in his intestines. He also has colitis, which is causing the diarrhea and the bleeding in that area. He has a urinary tract infection, brought on by prostate gland disease. Of course, he still suffers from degenerative osteoarthritis.
I asked the doc to do an ultrasound. It was selfish and only for my own peace of mind. I just had to know if Obie-wan-Kanobie has cancer. The doc talked me out of the procedure, calling it “over the top” and premature. (Apparently they need to sedate the dog and shave his belly and with all the trauma Oboe had suffered in the previous hours, the doc didn’t want to hurt him any further). The doc instead suggested a course of medications over the next series of days. The meds will relieve the discomfort by shrinking the prostate, dry up the viral infection and help the colitis. Within days the meds should make the world right again.
The true test will come after Oboe finishes the treatments. Hopefully the problem will be resolved, but if the conditions return, especially the prostate issues, we need to begin discussions of “other options.” We’re hoping for a quick recovery, perhaps some diet modifications, and many, many more months before options need to be outlined.
I guess we should look at yesterday as a dress rehearsal. How can one craft a plan to prepare for her major life stressor without experiencing what it will all really be like? We’ve experienced that test drive now, sending me back to the drawing board to develop a better plan – one that’s better for me, the hubby, but most importantly, for my baby.