It's the devil I love

I've left this post very late. Now there are too many things to write about, and I'm too little inclined to do it properly.

In any case.

Happy went on Phenobarbitol. Finally. I was miserable about giving it to her, when I did, because I'd just been through consecutive lectures from my vet and pharmacist about all the possible side-effects. Like just for example: dizziness, drowsiness, decreased activity, and long-term liver damage.

"You pick your battles with this drug", I was told, which I felt was putting a positive spin on it. Depending on how my dog would react, I figured, the battles would be picking us. And she's never been the most active, healthy, coordinated animal to start with, especially for her age (4) and breed (Australian X thing). So I imagined her turning into kind of bean-bag chair, on the Phenobarb, lying around squashily and rolling down the stairs when nudged.

But I'd done all I could do to put it off, so I gave Happy-the-dog (as printed on the prescription bottle) her first dose as somberly and compassionately as I could. As if I was fulfilling someone's dying wish by smothering them with a pillow.

And she loved it. I mean she loved the spoonful of wet cat food I hid it in, and amazingly enough, she didn't fall over an hour later with her legs in the air and pass out for the rest of the day. Which would be normal for her, actually. But no, she thrived on the fucking stuff. I'm telling you, she got more excited than I've seen her in ages. Happy-the-dog was up and down the stairs like a flash, wagging her tail and growling around the designer tennis ball in her mouth. This being the designer tennis ball I spent way too much money on in Manhattan when I was walking around during Ivy's nap and missing my dog like crazy. For the first time, I felt validated in buying the stupid thing. And in starting her on pills. That too.

It's been almost a week now, and she's still doing incredibly well. She seems livelier than before, and only slightly more clumsy. I'm told most dogs adapt to the medication within a month or so, and I'm hoping she'll back to her old, only slightly more graceful self by then. But she seems, um, happy in the meantime. And I'm relieved. So that's good news.

Plus, now that I've gone ahead and got her loaded up with the paradoxical pills of wonder, and found that it hasn't ruined her life, I've decided to hold off on two of the three major tests that would prove, as much as possible, that she IS epileptic. Namely, the spinal tap and the cat scan. Both of which, the specialist assured me, would almost certainly come up with nothing abnormal, both of which would involve discomfort for Happy, and both of which would leave me just about penniless. Just about.

I think I was determined to go through with all three tests, to start with, because I was still hoping that it wasn't epilepsy. Even if it turned out to be a brain tumor or something much more dangerous, I was holding out for the possibility of a quick fix. To make it all better.

It dawns on me, (it has before), that this has more to do with my own medical background than Happy-the-dog's. When I started to have joint trouble in highschool, I couldn't bear the idea of arthritis. I went to all these doctors and did all these tests, and arthritis seemed more and more likely, but I still hoped it was something stranger, more rare. Like a nice bone disease. Wouldn't that be swell?

Even though arthritis was something that could be fixed, (not cured, I mean, but held in remission, using expensive American drugs I'd have to shoot into my thighs twice a week), I resisted the diagnosis like a crazy person. I didn't want something that had to be mantained. I didn't want an ongoing prescription. All that shit. I wanted it to go away.

But, blah blah blah, it doesn't always go away. Epilepsy is progressive, like my kind of arthritis, and the only way to keep it from fucking with your life is to treat it as you go. You can't just ignore it. And it could be so much worse.

See how I learn and grow? See how my dog helps me understand my life? Ain't that grand?

Yeah. Anyway.

I worked my last official day of work on the first of September. It was fun and sad. I only wanted Ivy to see the fun of it, though. I didn't want her to get the sense of something ending. Because I'll always be in her life. Just not as regularly. Not as often. So we had fun.

And then I babysat her the next night, and we watched That Darn Cat and she had a bubble bath that she told me featured too many bubbles. When I left she was running around the house saying "Catch me! Catch me!" She was having fun. I was leaving. It was how I wanted it, and it felt normal, but also weird that it felt normal. Because, you know, I haven't even missed a day of work yet, but I'm no longer a part-time nanny. And I know it.

It's a good thing Ivy can't ever stop being Ivy. That would be the last straw, I'm telling you.

Today I went to my first class, and it was a good one. I liked my professor, I liked the new couches in the creative writing lounge, and I liked how successfully I avoided the mobs of highly-stimulated first years that were all over campus. Driving home, I was exhausted and pessimistic, but I figure for a first day back, that's normal. It's the first days that fill me with excited hope that I have to watch out for. Not to mention, I was feeling slightly queasy.

The last couple of days have been hard on my stomach. I don't know if I had some bad carrot juice or something, but I've been feeling horrible after every meal, and sometimes all night long. Specifically, there's wanting to puke, and there's pain. As in stomach pain of the ulcerous variety. Delightful? No indeed! I've been self-medicating with glasses of skim milk, at night, which seems to help. A little.

So: Doctor's appointment on Monday. This is a reminder to myself. DO NOT forget the doctor. DO NOT forget her, man. She holds all the cards.

And probably there's more backed-up stuff I could get into, but I'm winding down.

Winding down.

Stopped.