Charlie. The dog knows.

There is more than one reason to have a dog.

Charlie.
He has been acting a little different lately. He chooses not to go outside with me to do chores in the morning. He insists on staying in the house near hubby. He insists on getting up into the hospital bed with him during hubby's naps.

Does he like that situation much better than going out and smelling things? Or does he know that his master is not well.

When Charlie was under a year old, my MIL entered a nursing home. Charlie was allowed to go see her on a regular basis. He'd sit on her bed quietly while she petted him. In the hallway as we'd walk in or out residences would ask to pet him. Since he is only 7 inches tall, I'd lift him up so people could pet him.

Charlie would wag his tail furiously and make little soft noises. Sometimes a resident would give Charlie a ride in their wheelchair. Charlie would sit quietly and proudly as if he was a tiny king.

Charlie's nursing home visits stopped with Covid. I asked about going once more and since my MIL was no longer a resident [she died during Covid], they wanted Charlie to be a licensed Canine Good Citizen.

Poor Charlie. Sit, stay, down, are not in his vocabulary. 

Waggy Tails, Grunting with Pleasure, Wiggling, and being absolutely Cute are his strong points. Being silent and snuggling up to people are another.

Charlie now greets the hospice people with Wiggling and Happy Grunting [his Pekinese mom grunts with pleasure].

He will sit on his chair and take in all the conversation between Hospice and hubby.

When hubby gets his sponge bath, Charlie has to sit on the bed and oversee the process. He lays on the end of the bed and watches. Still as a statue.

Lately he is spending more time watching hubby. His every move is followed. Normally Charlie will take his place on the couch or his chair in the eating area and snooze while keeping a sleepy eye on the activity in the house.

Now he follows the wheelchair everywhere. 

I'd say that he is an exceptional Emotional Support Dog. Does he know what he is doing? Probably not. 

I looked up Emotional Support Dog and was surprised at how easy it is to get an animal certified without any special training.   Hmmmm.

That aside. Charlie knows.
He knows that one of his people needs his warm little body next to his and that somehow it makes that person feel better.

Seven years ago I brought home this funky little puppy and my husband said, "Well, what is he good for?" I handed the pup to my husband and he snuggled right in and made himself at home.

Indeed, what is he good for?

Charlie, you do not need a letter or a certification. We now know your purpose. 

And it is appreciated.

How it was...becoming Stoic & Help

Sorry this is sooo long! But, it has been on my mind for quite a while.

I was raised in a home where complaining was discouraged. 

My mother had a saying that many children might recognize: "If you're going to complain, I'll give you something to complain about."

I never thought of her as mean or terrible; that's just how things were. Complaining simply wasn't done.

That is, unless she complained. Then it seemed acceptable.

I quickly learned to dodge my mother's criticisms and adopted a Stoic demeanor.

A Stoic individual is characterized by strength and resilience, confronting life's challenges with reason and tranquility. They keep their emotions in check and often manage stress and hardship without complaining or seeking others' support.

Is being Stoic a beneficial trait? I'm uncertain. It was advantageous during my childhood. Not reacting to my mother's anger was more effective than panicking. Stay calm. Stay silent.

Once, I believed she punished me just to provoke tears.

It was a childish notion. I was just a kid, assuming she sought a reaction. So, I adapted. No reaction. It might have infuriated her more, but I felt victorious in some perverse way; I had outsmarted her. It was my super power.

She could strike me with a riding crop on the back of my legs, and I would stay mute. She couldn't make me cry. I was too tough and I just gave her the death stare.

I was 18 when she had her last attempt at swatting me out of unprovoked anger.
She raised a wooden spoon and I caught her arm in mid swing. I was stronger than her and perhaps an inch taller. 

I will never forget telling her quietly: "Never again. You will NOT touch me ever again." I held her arm and stared into her face. I must have had rage in my eyes that she could see. 

She dropped her arm and never tried to hit me again, though the verbal abuse ramped up.

My upbringing taught me to be self-reliant and resilient. I hardly ever engage in conflicts. When someone infuriates me, I might just offer a smile and adopt what my son labels as passive-aggressive behavior.

He might be right. I typically avoid arguments and steer clear of confrontation. Yet, in some way, I ensure I have the last nod.

My mother demonstrated the most effective form of punishment: the silent treatment. She executed it with such skill that it filled our home with tension. We tip toed around her, not sure when she would erupt. Living with her was sometimes like tiptoeing around a ticking bomb.

I often wonder if she employed these tactics as a means of survival during her childhood, or if there was something more sinister at play.

Despite it all, we sort of loved her. Dad loved her no matter what.

As I matured into adulthood, I evolved from a shy child to someone who could navigate murky waters with some confidence. I became a 4H leader and a teacher. I wanted to give other children what I never had.

My father was a man with a huge heart, a mild manner, and a great imagination, who worshipped the ground my mom walked on.

Neither parent grew up with parents that were loving and caring. My father's mother divorced in an era where you did NOT divorce. She remarried and shipped my dad to grandparents who did not know what to do with my dad.

Mom was raised by a brutal father who would lock her in the wood shed for real or imagined transgressions. Her mother was ruled and abused by her dad. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So where did that leave me as an adult? The first time my heart actually throbbed with such incredible love was when I held my first son. I knew then, what love was. My husband was an abuser also, I'd married my "mom" -- he had a drinking problem and was a control freak.

The end of our marriage came in the barn one day when my 'ex' husband held me in a choke hold and told me that he could kill me and make it look like an accident. He was a Paramedic after all. I believed him. I ran away that night with the clothes on my back in an old truck. [I don't think the kids ever forgave me for that, but my survival instinct kicked in and I ran like hell.]

Jump forward 30 years. I am still stoic. 

I married a Vietnam veteran with his own issues, and somehow we two very broken people made a go of it with so much love and respect for each other. He broke through my iron heart.

But I have learned how important friends and being kind to others are. One thing I never learned [never was taught] was to do those beautiful little touches that my friends are always doing.

I get a card in the mail, I get a phone call from an old school friend. How are you? How are you coping?

How did I not learn how to be super kind and sensitive and thoughtful enough to send cards or do something unexpected to friends. I never learned those things, not those little touches that are so amazing.

I only know how to give my friendship and to jump in when someone needs something. I will drop everything to go help others.

How odd, I never learned the nuances and small touches that others have shown me. This really came to light when a very wonderful lady sent me a package this past week.

I'll write about that package and other fine things that have happened to me on the Mulewings blog.

But this morning I sat here wondering. 

And I still struggle with this idea today.

I have just found that asking for help may be the hardest thing I've ever done.

While meeting with a social worker who sat on my loveseat with Charlie in her lap wiggling around ... I asked for help.

I guess facing the realities of Hospice has shown me something I've never imagined. The kindness and thoughtfulness of humans is a real thing.

I'm not doing this alone anymore.

Sorting it out

Over all Rich's health physically since the knee surgery to remove the nasty patella bursa, he has regained mobility and some strength in that knee. We have been seeing PT twice to three times a week and it is obvious to me that he needs to be going back to Pulmonary Therapy.

I try to bribe him into moving about and doing things. But he is focused more on either sitting at the kitchen table and staring out the window [when I inquire as to what he is looking at he seems to come back into the present world and blink...his answer? "Nothing."]

Part of this is the damage done to his brain from the stroke in 2017.

One of the very hard things to separate out with all of Rich's past history of PTSD and MDD is the lack of motivation which was there pre stroke but is now much worse.
In fact the medical field studies Apathy and Hypersomnia. Both of these neurological issues can happen after a stroke in the front part of the brain. Let's toss in some other medical issues and the patient becomes very 'complicated' as the doctor who did the knee surgery said to us.

Is it depression? Is it PTSD? Is it neurological? Bradycardia? COPD? Is it the Pulmonary Emboli? Painful bursa? Is it imagined? Is it real? What is it?

Hypersomnia is just a fancy word for being tired all of the time. Rich had this during his last bought of severe depression. He keeps telling Dr. Schiffman that he wants to feel energetic and motivated yet he just feels tired and can't seem to get out and do anything.

Since I live with Rich daily, I see little bits and pieces that the doctors don't see.

Going to Culvers last week, I handed him an empty soda cup so he could get his Pepsi. I paid and then walked over to where he was at. He stood in front of the soda machine and held the cup.
"I should know this," he said. There were people waiting so I said, "Let me."
I took the cup and filled it and handed it to him.  He shook his head.

When we sat down to eat he mentioned the soda incident and told me that it really bothered him.

There are small things that happen and finally we got into a discussion one morning.
He said he was 'Dizzy'. He'd said that often to Dr. Schiffman and to his therapists who took B/P, 02 readings and came up with normal. It flummoxed most of the doctors.

So I asked Rich.
"Tell me about Dizzy. Is the room spinning?"
No.
"Do you feel like you are going to barf?"
No.
"Does it feel like you did when you had Brain Fog from chemotherapy?"
He glanced at me.
Yes! It feels like I am not connecting! I don't like it.
"Your brain suffered a pretty bad injury in 2017. So it has troubles on some days making sense of everything."
I don't like it.

I feel like I am watching a slow motion crash happening one very infinitesimal step at a time. However. At least I am here for that journey right now. I can be a part of it with him.


There will be days of heartache and frustration,
anger and resentment...

laughter and love
joy and sorrow.

One day at a time.

Offering some hope

We met with Rich's PCP...Primary Care Provider this week.

She is one very straight forward person and she also tells you like it is.

"How are you today Mr. Ewing?"

Rich shrugs. "I'm dying bit by bit."

She answers, "We all are, but I understand how you are feeling. Your meeting with Neuro-psychology flagged you for severe depression. We need to turn that around as quickly as possible."

Rich stares at the floor and then something far away. "Nothing can make me feel better, I just want to feel better once, you know?"

She nods. "Of course you do! I've put in a call to your psychiatrist and he needs to review you AND see you ASAP."

I interject. "I wonder if his meds don't work any longer. Rich has a history of his medications for depression working well for about 6 to 8 years...and then..."

She nods and types swiftly, "You are absolutely right. We may end up with a different regime of meds. And speaking of that we are going to stop the Tamulosin right away. I think you have had nothing but poor reactions to it..."

I pipe up. "I know Rich doesn't want this, but can we look at oxygen therapy? Lately he can't function very long without going back to lay down with his CPAP and 02. He feels extremely fatigued and 'out of it'."

She nods sand turns to Rich. "We will test you, and your heart, your lungs are not elastic so you may need oxygen to keep from damaging your heart, lungs, and brain further. Are you open to that?"

Rich makes a face.

Doctor pats him on the back and says, "Struggling to think, to walk, to breath, is no fun. This will help."

I point out that since he spends up to all but 4 to 5 hours a day with his CPAP and 02, that he is already ON oxygen. She agrees and I see Rich make that connection.

He asks about the aneurysm. She looks at it and says, "If they want to do it, go for it. IF you go in alive you come out just fine." She is not being cavalier, just straight forward.

She types some more.
"I'm ordering a stress test for your heart. I'm putting in for an immediate re-eval of your psych meds."

Then she turns to him. "You know, you are dying, we all are, but I think we can make some adjustments so you don't feel so depressed, so tired, and so frustrated.
I'm going to put you on Aricept for your dementia. I see you will be visiting speech therapy, OT, and cognitive therapy."

She raises her hand and draws a line. "I want to hold you here for along time. Mr. Ewing, you will live and you will feel better. You have a good partner and wife, she is looking out for you."

We leave and I think we both feel a bit of hope.

Is it real hope? I believe so. Because not believing it is not going to help us.
Hope always helps.