Getting old sucks
Today is my 43rd birthday. Gah…that sounds so old! I still feel like I am about to turn 18 or 19. Somehow, I’m in my 40s. I guess the alternative to getting old sucks too (just ask my brother.)
We had some drama. We took a short road trip to northern California, in order to scope out good camping areas before a much-anticipated road trip to Seattle (maybe) in August. We decided to stay at La Quinta in Redding as a sort of base camp, and explore Lassen and Shasta areas as short day trips. This particular hotel will accept dogs up to 50 lbs (and our 13 year old Akita, Rutger, weighs about 55, but they don’t check.)
(Favorite toy, about a month ago)
Saturday night, Rutger woke me up panting, and with the sound of a trickle of pee on the carpet. In the 13 years we’ve had him, he’s never done anything like that—he’d rather burst, the poor thing. So, I knew something might be wrong with him. George got dressed and took him out for a walk (at 2 am!) and came back to the room and said “We have to go home. He’s having that problem again.”
“That problem” is a vertigo that makes his eyes spin in his head. He can’t stand up without falling over, let alone walk, won’t eat, and won’t drink water until it subsides. He’s had it before, mildly, maybe 4 times, and each time it’s progressively worse, and takes longer to recover.
(peaceful slumbers, slobbering on the couch about a month ago)
I called the front desk and told them we needed to check out because our dog was having a medical emergency, and we hit the road by 3 am. We arrived in the bay area (me, laying on the floor of the syncro with rutger on his bed) at around 6:30 AM.
So, we had to cut our trip short, but more importantly, we learned that he can’t take the stress of road travel anymore, which is sad, because he’s such a good travel buddy.
(he loves road trips!)
(well, what’s not to love? Look at the luxury!)
We called the vet, and talked to him again, and concurred that it’s likely some form of “ideopathic vestibulo-cochlear” issue that old dogs just get, and there’s nothing you can really do for them but keep them from tumbling down the stairs.
So for the last couple days, he’s refused to go upstairs, and so George and I have traded sleeping in the downstairs bedroom with him until he gets his confidence back up to go up the stairs (sigh)
Some way to spend my birthday!
I’m only glad he’s recovering a bit, though he’s still a bit wobbly on his legs. He’s eating ok, and hydrating well—able to go to the bathroom as normal.
So for once, it wasn’t about me and my issues, I guess.
In the meantime, I’m spending all my time on hold trying to get through to the EDD about my disability benefits, and making appointments here and there for dentist visits, and my neurologist, and so forth.
I had my ACLS recertification class yesterday, and I was honest with my instructors about what I’d been through and they were very accomodating as far as making me pretend to do CPR compressions—so long as I showed them I knew what to do, it was ok with them that I didn’t really push hard and fast on the CPR dummy and hurt myself.
I’m still in a bit of pain, and the burn is flaking/peeling off—and underneath the skin looks somewhat normal, if a bit too pink still. But other than two inch-long scars, and the peeling, you can’t tell anything has happened—oh, besides the fact that I look a bit butch with such short cropped hair. Once you tell people what you’ve been through they understand you did not choose this hair style!
I’ll be glad when the color comes back to my hair, or…if it stays like this (this odd patchy salt and pepper that is much darker than my normal hair color) to when I can start coloring it and resume some semblance of “normal” (whatever that is!)
43…wow. I’m 13 years older than my brother ever got to be, so I shouldn’t be depressed about getting older. I’m lucky to be here, and I know that.
(a fatter me, with a little hair, at Mount Shasta)
(me and Rutger at Dunsmuir, a small town on the way to Shasta where we stopped to stretch our legs)
