I have been away from blogging for quite some time now.  Family health issues have, literally, overwhelmed me and it has taken every ounce of strength I possess just to get from one day to the next.

Things started to go south in September when my husband awoke one morning with the lymph glands in his neck swollen to the size of golf balls.  There were no other symptoms, but the swelling persisted so off to the doctor he went.  Blood tests were ordered but came back negative for any infection or virus, so our family doctor advised hubby to take large doses of echinacea and let him know if things did not improve.  Gradually, the swelling subsided and we thought all was well.  Little did we know that this was just the beginning of a medical mystery that would test the limits of our patience, understanding and faith.

Not long after the swollen glands had begun to subsided and because this condition had gone on for some time hubby and I pressed for a CT scan in an abundance of caution to rule out lymphoma.  The CT scan was eventually scheduled and when the results came back we learned that there was no sign of any growth or tumor.  The scan did show a rather sizeable osteophyte that was displacing the larnyx, but no one seemed overly concerned about this.  We went on about our lives, relieved that whatever had prompted the swollen glands wasn't anything serious. . .but we had only to wait just a few days longer for the firestorm to erupt.

About a week after the result of the CT scan came in, hubby awoke with a strange new symptom.  When he swallowed, his left ear hurt.  In the next couple of days, the pain began to intensify until one morning he awoke to pain so intense that it brought him to his knees.  It was the weekend, so off to Urgent Care he went.  The Urgent Care doctor was the most apathetic excuse for a doctor it has ever been my misfortune to meet.  He did not palpate my husband's neck, nor did he look in his throat or ears.  After checking hubby's latest blood work, he pronounced that there was no infection or virus and he didn't feel it was appropriate to prescribe anything.  He told hubby to call our family doctor on Monday if he was not improved.  By Sunday, my strong, brave and stoic husband was brought to tears each time he had to swallow.  He had stopped eating and drinking and as a diabetic this is very, very dangerous.  In desperation, I carted him off to Emergency thinking that they would be able to discover the source of his pain.

Our experience in the Emergency department was one that left us shaking our heads.  While the doctor who saw hubby was very nice, very concerned and did all he could to try to help, he eventually told us that the problem was beyond their ability to treat and he should see an ENT.  When we asked why he could not have an ENT consult in Emergency we were told, incredibly, that they did not have specialists for consult in the Emergency Department. . .REALLY?  Hubby and I were dumbfounded.  We left with a prescription for pain meds and a feeling that we had just been an episode of the Twilight Zone.

On Monday, by which time hubby was far worse, I was on the phone in nearly hysterical.  The doctor prescribed Percocet and suggested a short course of steroids in the event that the osteophyte was pressing on a nerve and the act of swallowing was just enough to trigger the pain.  Thankfully, the Percocet was so strong that it took the edge off hubby's pain.  I was able to get him to at least drink liquids at that point.  The doctor advised that he would expedite a visit with both an ENT and a Neurologist so that between them they might figure out the cause of the pain.  Hubby and I felt a huge sense of relief thinking that we were finally on the right track.  But this is where it gets fun.

Late that same day, our family doctor called back and told us he was able to get us in to see the Neurologist following Monday and the ENT could see us later in the week.  By day two of the combination of steroids and pain medication, hubby was much more comfortable.  A few days later we saw the ENT, who after scoping hubby and completing a physical exam, pronounced that he could find no reason for the pain related to the ear, nose or throat.  He encouraged us to follow up with the Neuro and also prescribed a  broad spectrum antibiotic in the event that the condition might have come from a low grade infection.

While the pain was much less intense, hubby was feeling very tired and lethargic.  He was having trouble focusing and felt that his vision was blurry.  I chalked it up to the Percocet and was not terribly concerned.    But he continued to deteriorate physically and emotionally.  He was confused and dizzy and lethargic and had no appetite.  He complained of blurry vision.  He could not focus on the TV or at the computer.  His blood sugar readings were very high and despite strict carb counting, his numbers just did come down.  We thought it might be the illness and the lack of exercize, but it was troubling.

I took hubby on an outing just to get him out of the house and hoped it might serve as a "pick me up".  We chatted as we drove toward our destination and suddenly hubby blew up!  He got extremely angry and when the we stopped at a traffic light, he got out and told me he was going to walk home!  We were, at that point, about 5 miles from the house.   I was sitting at the light in disbelief.  While hubby was a warrior in the courtroom, he was a gentle, loving husband who had always shown the tenderest of feelings toward me.  His behavior was so out of character as to be frightening.  When I was able, I turned the car around and after begging, pleading and ultimately threatening to leave him I was able to get him in the car.  There was no doubt that there was something very, very, very wrong.  Then, later that evening, hubby noticed a fruity smell to his urine - a telltale sign of ketones - and we grew more concerned.  It was certainly time to get another opinion.

We made an appointment with his endocrinologist, but unfortunately we had to wait a week to see her.  During the visit, she explained that prednisone is a glucocorticode.  It had caused a glucose toxicity and had so overloaded his system that his pancreas had just gone on vacation because it could not handle the amount of glucose that was pumping through his system.  The doctor put him on insulin and told him that his blood sugar levels should come down in a month or two.  We began the regimine and as expected hubby's blood sugar levels began to come down.  Within six weeks he was off the insulin entirely and back to normal.

At about the same time that things were normalizing for hubby, our oldest daughter began having severe abdominal pain and nausea.  She saw her doctor who sent her out for a CT scan.  The scan revealed an inflammed gall bladder, and since her pain was growing worse, he advised her to go to the ER to be admitted for surgery.  In what can only be called a comedy of errors, the ER did not admit her, but did another CT scan and pronounced that there was no sign of gall bladder disease.  They sent her home and told her to return if she was "not 100 percent better" in the morning.  Of course she did not get better, so she called her doctor and he arranged a surgical consult for her.  After seeing the surgeon, it was agreed that she needed to have gall bladder surgery.  While one is always mildly concerned when any surgery is performed, gall bladder surgery is pretty routine and we were not worried as to the outcome.  We were not prepared for the consequences of her surgery and began another descent into medical hell.

Our daughter came out of the recovery unit in extreme pain.  The pain was so intense that she was crying even under heavy narcotic medication.  The recovery room nurses assured her that the pain was normal and would subside over the next few days.  Our daughter, herself, is a nurse and kept insisting that something did not feel right.  Nonetheless, we were not overly concerned and felt certain that she would bounce back quickly.

Over the ensuing days her pain did not abate.  She was taking pain meds at the highest dose allowed and at the shortest intervals allowed.  She complained that the pain was sharp and stabbing whenever she took in a deep breath or turned her torso.  She could not eat, could not keep anything down and was getting dehydrated.  After 8 days with no improvement, I insisted that she go to the Emergency Department, because it was New Year's weekend and her surgeon was not available.  She spent 12 hours in ER.  She had yet another CT scan, an ultrasound, x-rays and was given pain meds and put on an IV drip.  The upshot - they could see nothing amiss.  Depressed, tired and still in pain, we returned home.

The next morning, we were able to see her surgeon.  He reviewed the ER tests and also agreed that there did not seem to be anything amiss.  He referred her back to her primary care physician and suggested that perhaps a referral to a pain management specialist was in order.  As we left the surgeon's office we both were on the verge of tears.  Obviously she was in pain.  Obviously there was something wrong.  Obviously no one cared to pursue it.  For my daughter, it was doubly frustrating.  She is a nurse who works for this hospital system.  She felt incredibly let down and disillusioned.

She did see her primary care physician who likewise could not tell her why there was so much post surgical pain, but did think a referral to a pain management specialist was in order because it may be the case that my daughter might be one of those rare individuals that did not respond to narcotic pain medication.  WHAT A LOAD OF CRAP.  Regardless of whether her pain receptors did or did not respond to narcotic pain meds, SHE WAS IN PAIN and that pain had to have a cause.

It has now been nearly a month since her surgery.  She still has pain - although thankfully it has abated somewhat.  But she still struggles with nausea.  She has lost a total of 21 lbs in the last month due to her inability to eat.  She is due to return to her job in the pediatric ICU in about 10 days and I wonder if that is going to happen.  To make matters worse, her hospital is cutting back and she is fearful that this absence with give them a reason to terminate her employment.  No one should have to worry about while recovering from an illness but, sadly, it is a fact of life today.

All of this has left me with a very bitter taste in my mouth for the medical profession.  Perhaps it is a result of "Obamacare" or the impending implosion of the system when the full force of the federal healthcare system is realized, but from my perspective, there is a sense of apathy among the medical professionals we have encountered in the last several months.  No one seems to want to do anything beyond the absolute minimum that is required.  No one seems to genuinely care.  I recognize that medical professionals see all kinds of people and that many of them are malingering or drug seeking individuals.  That is certainly NOT the case with hubby and daughter.  Neither fit into that mold and in point of fact, both of them abhor pain drugs and having to take them.  My daughter is ashamed and embarrassed by what we have encountered.  As an RN, she is committed to providing her patients and their families with the best care she can provide to them.  She advocates for her patients and does everything within her power to make sure they get the care they need.

It is a different world these days.  Hard not to be jaded.  Hard not to feel hopeless.  And yet, those are the feelings that evil takes hold of and pulls you down.  So, I struggle with my faith.  Faith in the system, faith in my fellow human beings, faith in a world that seems to be coming apart at the seems.

"Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe".
Voltaire


 

Mom

My mother will be admitted to hospice this Friday.  She has late stage Alzheimer's Dementia.  She just turned 90 years old a week ago today.

Ten years ago, just before my father passed away, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Dementia.  Her short term memory loss came on suddenly and in the beginning there was even some suggestion that she might have suffered and ischemic episode and that her memory loss might be transitory.  Sadly, after a battery of tests, it was determined that she had not had a stroke and the diagnosis of Alzheimer's was made.

I was determined to learn everything I could about Alzheimer's Dementia and set about finding every word written on he subject.  I thought that with the knowledge of what the future might hold for my mother, I would be bettered prepared to help her.  The first thing I did was to encourage my father to sell the family home and move to an assisted living facility that had step down care.  Dad's health was not good and I know that it would be easier to transition my mother while Dad was still alive.  Sadly, my father caved into my mother's insistence that they remain in the family home and six months later he was dead - leaving me to deal with the issue of my mother and her declining health.

As was expected, all suggestions that my mother move into an assisted living facility were summarily rejected by her.  I recognized that, for my mother's own safety, I would need to seek to be her Conservator.  While I was clawing my way through Probate Court, my father's sister moved in with my mother to care for her.  These two old ladies had always been more like sisters and it seemed a good solution.  My aunt even thought about selling her own home and finding a place in assisted living with Mom.  The gods, it seemed, were against us.  My aunt died exactly six months, to the day, from the date my father died.

I was in a real jam now.  My mother's short term memory loss was rapidly accelerating and she was doing things like paying the mortgage two and three times each month, or leaving food on the stove to boil.    My oldest daughter, who was in nursing school at the time, moved in with her so that we could try to keep her safe until I could get the Conservatorship in place.  I went to my mother's house every day at lunchtime and each night after work, so that my daughter could have some study time.  I still had two daughters at home and as helpful and supportive as my husband was, they needed me at home.  It was such a difficult and stressful time and only because I have a loving and supportive family did we all get through those first few months.

After I was granted Conservatorship of my mother, I found a very good facility with a dementia unit.  Most of the facilities I visited were awful.  At one point I didn't think I would ever find anything that would work, but Greenhaven Estates has been such a good place for Mom.  They have great programs, a small patient to resident ratio, the food is healthy and the staff and administrator have been open and receptive.  There have been few times in the last ten years that I have been unhappy with anything.  In those few times, the staff was very quick to address the issues I had and take whatever steps were necessary to correct them.  The nurses have been so supportive of me and have always lent an ear when I was feeling frustrated or sad or frankly, overwhelmed.  

My mother remained fairly stable for most of the time she has been at Greenhaven.  She was high functioning in that she could dress and toilet on her own, and she was able to walk to meals and activities without assistance.  I would come and pick her up to spend holidays or lazy summer afternoons around the barbecue.  We would go out for Starbucks or for Coldstone ice cream.  Sometimes my oldest daughter would join us and we would go to a tea house for lunch.  Our conversations were mostly superficial, but she could be conversant (even if there was the occasional inappropriate thought spoken out loud).  We could still have fun together and something of our mother/daughter relationship was still intact.  I loved seeing her smile when I entered the room and giggled as she would introduce me over and over and over to her little gang of mealtime buddies.

There was a slow, gradual decline in her skill level and general health as would be expected.  Then just over  two years ago she began to dramatically change.  The first thing that happened was that her level of confusion escalated.  I could no longer bring her to my house or take her on outings because she would become confused and agitated and would cry and cry.  One skill after another eluded her until she could not longer ambulate and became dependent on a wheelchair for mobility.  She had lost bladder control and she could no longer dress or bathe on her own.  She could no longer get into and out of bed without help.   She became extremely combative and cantankerous.  She would yell at and hit the caretakers who tried to help her.  She would yell at the doctors and other medical personnel when we went for checkups.  There was even one unfortunate incident in which she called a medical assistant the "n" word (a word I had never before in my entire life heard her utter).  She yelled at me and would strike out at me and then would ask me what was wrong with her.  At that point, there was still something left of her that recognized that something was very wrong.

I had to petition the court for permission to administer psychotropic drugs.  All of the other mood alteration drugs had failed her and she was becoming more and more out of control.  She was placed on Zyprexa, and her agitation and anger swiftly abated - but so did anything that was left of her.  The medication was so sedating that for most of her day, she sat napping in her wheelchair or in the easy chair in her room.  It was hard to see her like that, but given the alternative, there was really no other choice.  She no longer recognized me.  No longer introduced me again and again and again to her circle of little old ladies at Greenhaven.  In her mind, I was just another caregiver.  

Each time I have seen my mother in these last two years, I die a little inside.  I am overwhelmed by the sight of her. I am filled with a mixture of pity, and sadness and (God forgive me) revulsion.  I sit with her, stroking her hair or running my hands over the dry and cracked skin of her arms and talk about nothing in particular, because my mother is no longer capable of having a conversation.  When I visit, I can't wait to leave and once I am in my car I am filled with shame because I feel such relief at being away from her.

On my mother's birthday, she had a small stroke.  Both of her hands are in contracture and the left side of her face is slightly droopy.  She has weakness in both of her arms and in her left leg.  She can now no longer feed herself.  She has lost 6 pounds in the last month and she is almost non-verbal.  So, when we saw the doctor yesterday, it was decided that it was time for hospice care.  The finality this decision implies was like a punch in the gut and at the same time I feel that a great burden has been lifted.  My mother will now get very individualized care and the management of that care will be coordinated by the hospice nurse.  While I am still my mother's Conservator, this situation will allow me to be, at the end, her daughter again.

Last night I tried to call up all the happy memories of my mother.  I rummaged through a box containing old photos and letters.  Thinking about how my mother parented me made me smile and feel so blessed to have had such a wonderful mother.  She made my Halloween costumes and taught me to read before I was even in kindergarten.  She always had snacks ready after school and would sit and ask us about our day.  While I hated her meatloaf, and tried to sneak as much of it under the table to my dog as possible, she made the best fried chicken I have ever had.  I watched her sit at the desk and pay the bills.  She handled the investments and the budget.  She ran a seamstress business out of our home and all of the "professional" women in our neighborhood had all their suits made by my mother because she was "the absolute best at tailoring."  When she went back to work (I was 12) I saw her rise up the corporate ranks while still running her home like a well oiled machine.  Dinner was always on the table promptly at 6:00 p.m., clothes were always washed and pressed and lunches were always made and ready for us to take to school in the morning.  I cannot tell you how many times I have beaten myself up because I could never be THAT kind of woman.  I always fell way short of my goal to be "like my mom" but Mom never lost an opportunity to tell me how proud she was of me.  The best compliment she ever gave me was when she told me that I was the best mother she had ever seen.  Wow...

I found some old letters that Mom had written me when I first got married and moved two hours away.  In those days there were no cell phone and nationwide calling plans.  Long distance calling was what you did in emergencies or on holidays.  Back then, we wrote letters.  Mother's letters were always chatty.  She would tell me that she had spent the evening ironing Dad's shirts or that she had tried a new recipe.  She would ask if I had seen the last episode of some television sitcom or did I know that Macy's was having their White Flower Day sale.  I never appreciated those letters.  I actually recall thinking that they were rather dull and filled with unimportant information.  But now, I treasure those letters.  They are tangible proof of my mother's love for her family.  They record how my mother lived her life and preserve the kind of woman she was.  

As I think about the immediate future, I pray that my mother's end will be peaceful.  Alzheimer's Dementia is killing her bit by bit, taking its time and forcing her to endure the indignity of having not only your body fail, but your mind as well.  Most of my grieving has already been done.  I lost my mother long ago.  The physical form that now bears my mother's name and likeness is not what I will remember of my mother.  I will remember the kindest, gentlest most loving mother anyone could wish for.  I will remember the smell of the Chanel perfume she wore.  I will remember how she taught me to sew and read and cook and be a decent, ethical human being.  My mother's physical body is beginning its final journey into the transition from life to death.  But that which IS my mother will live on in my heart and in the hearts of all she loved and who loved her.  

I don't think I can do this anymore. . .

Tonight, I received word that Buddy, a Samoyed that I helped place with a family in Santa Cruz, had gotten out the front door of the family's home and was struck and killed by a car.  This is exactly the scenario we had hoped to prevent when we placed Buddy with the family.  This was why his former family had given him up.  Buddy was a runner and he bolted when the door was opened.  The family knew this.  This was a big issue.  We stressed the importance of keeping a watchful eye on him.  But Buddy is dead despite all the warnings.

I truly know that there is no blame to be laid upon anyone.  Accidents happen even in the most careful situations.  That being said, I still feel that I am to blame in part because I chose Buddy's new family.  I thought he would be safe with them.  I let Buddy down.  I let his former family down.

It has been a particularly difficult year for me working with the rescue.  There have been more times of sadness than times of joy.   I made a commitment to help homeless Samoyed.  But this year, there were many times that I felt helpless or hopeless.  Maybe it takes someone whose heart is not so squarely worn upon the sleeve to do this work.

Buddy's death has shaken me deeply - and my feelings are out of proportion to the incident.  I feel like crawling under the covers and pulling the blanket over my head.  I don't think I can do this anymore.

Goodbye little buddy. . .

This morning, I held my Ragdoll cat, Jackson, in my arms as the vet helped him cross over the Rainbow Bridge.  Jack's various health issues over the course of his short life finally got the better of him and I made the very painful decision to let go.

The vet and I talked for a long time about the treatment Jackson could undergo today, and what the future might or might not hold for him.  And while, in matters such as these, I am the eternal optimist it was difficult to disregard what I knew to be true.  Jack would be put through a very extensive procedure with no guarantee that the condition would not return again, and again and again.  And the vet explained that when his death finally came, it would be an excruciatingly painful one.  So as much as I love to beat dead horses, I just could not deny that it was time to think of Jackson more than to think of how much I love the feel of him snuggling against my feet as I sit at the computer.

Jack was never the cuddly, sit on your lap kind of cat that I always wanted.  But he showed me great affection in his own unique way.  And we were buddies, he and I.  When I had my back surgeries, he would lie in bed with me, only leaving to grab a bite to eat or to . . . well, you know.  He never left my side.  When I was sick or sad or depressed (which I have been all too often in the past few years) Jack knew and he was my shadow.  While he didn't sit on my lap or in fact anywhere near me, Jack could always be found in whatever room I had wandered.  He would sometimes come up to me and give me a quick little lick on the leg or arm, as if to say, "Hey, I am here and I love you.  Things will get better, you'll see".  And of course, they always did.

Jackson's medical issues plagued him almost from the time he came to live with us as a 12 week old kitten. He was a regular at the local university teaching hospital (where all the rarest and most difficult cases end up) and I swear we have financed an entire wing of our local veterinary office with what we paid out in medical fees for Jack.  He was poked and prodded and stuffed with pills and liquids.  He had drops in his eyes and goo shoved down his throat on a regular basis.  In spite of it all, he retained his quirky personality and seemed to take it all in stride.

Jackson was the chattiest cat I have ever owned.  He would carry on long conversations with you.  I mean, real conversations.  He didn't just "meow" when he wanted food or wanted attention.  He would actually join in when people were talking and make his point of view known.  Sometimes we would be discussing some topic or another and Jack would be sleeping nearby only to raise his head up and yammer on for some minutes as if he wanted us to know that while he did have his eyes closed he clearly heard everything we said.

Mostly what I will miss is the feeling of his sleeping body lying on top of my feet late at night when insomnia grips me and I surf the Internet with no particular purpose.  His warm body and the sound of his breathing were a comfort as I sat, deep in the night, waiting for sleep to come.  He would stay with me until he felt me begin to stir from my desk and he knew that I was finally headed for bed.  He would run ahead of me and then stop and look back just to make sure I was coming.  When we got to the bedroom, he would leap up on the bed and anxiously pace up and down the mattress on my side of the bed while I changed into my pajamas.  Then, as soon as I was settled into bed, he would jump off the mattress and curl up next to the bed until I fell asleep.  Perhaps he understood that it was hard for me to fall asleep and if he was on the bed it might disturb me.  But each morning I would awake to find him curled up at my feet.

I will miss you, Jackie.  But I know you are waiting for me and one day you will again sleep at my feet.

A new beginning. . .and and ending

As a Director on the Board of San Francisco Samoyed Rescue, I wear many hats.  I do fund raising, I am a shelter coordinator, I do home inspections, provide temporary foster care and sometimes transport rescued dogs.  Today was a transport day.

Buddy, a three year old Samoyed, had been found wandering in traffic by a good Samaritan named Rina.  This kind woman took in this stinky, matted mess of a dog and she and her family opened their home to him.  They provided veterinary care, grooming, nutritious food and most import they provided love and stability.  They grew to love him and gave him a wonderful home.  Buddy, however, had one little quirk that proved very daunting indeed.  He could jump their 6 foot fence!

More times than they could count Buddy would escape from their yard and go on adventures around the neighborhood.  They tried everything they could to prevent Buddy from jumping the fence, but he was not to be denied.  Buddy was always pretty easy to find and would jump in the car when the family went to look for him.  His habit was trying, but the family was willing to deal with it.  Then over the months, Buddy became more reluctant to jump in the car when they found him.  He was harder and harder to track down.  The turning point came when Buddy was found in a busy intersection and was nearly hit by traffic.  The family realized that something had to be done to safeguard the little guy.

After much agonizing, the family contacted San Francisco Samoyed Rescue and asked if we could help place Buddy with a family who could meet the needs of this "able to leap tall buildings" dog.  After talking to the family and recognizing that there was really no way to keep Buddy in his present situation we were happy to help find Buddy a more suitable home.  The search for a new family began.

Buddy's predilection for fence jumping proved rather challenging.  Most folks have the standard 6 foot perimeter fence, so we knew it might take a while to locate a home that was safe for Buddy.  As a young dog, he was also high energy and would need a family willing to commit to the exercise required by this boy.  Buddy's current family said they were in no hurry to move Buddy and were happy to keep him with them, rather than with a foster, until the right home could be found.

Over the weeks that we were interviewing prospective families, I kept in regular contact with Rina.  I knew the decision to give Buddy up had been extremely difficult for her.  Her two children loved Buddy to death and they had invested so much time and energy into making a home for him.  They wanted to do right by him and had been taking such good care of him.  It was very painful for her - very painful.

Eventually a wonderful family with four daughters expressed a desire to adopt Buddy.  They indicated that they had 8 foot fences, a large yard and the wife was a stay at home mom.  It sounded perfect.  They met Buddy and fell in completely in love with him.   All that was left was the home inspection.  It seemed like this was going to be a wonderful placement for Buddy.

One of the other Directors went to the home of the prospective adopters to do the home inspection.  She found one of the fences to be less than 6 feet tall and the backyard was covered with foxtails!  Sadly, she informed the family that this would not work for Buddy.  The fences had to be at least 8 feet tall and as a long haired breed, Buddy simply could not be placed where the yard was full of foxtails.  It was so disappointing.

The next day we received a long and heartfelt email from the family that wanted to adopt Buddy.  They were willing to make any improvements necessary to make the yard safe and secure.  They would increase the section of fence that was less than 8 feet, remove all the weeds and and place bark and turf in its place. They asked for three weeks to get this accomplished.  This was a huge sacrifice because with four children there isn't a lot of "extra" money in the budget.  I was moved to tears by the sincerity of the letter and my instincts told me that this would be a home where Buddy would be loved and well cared for.  So we agreed to allow the time to make the yard "Buddy appropriate" and I advised Rina that Buddy would likely be transported near the 25th of July.

So. . .I picked Buddy up today.  Rina had put together a basket of things for the new family.  Toys and treats and grooming supplies for Buddy.  She also sent his leash and harness and bed.  Most touching, she sent a long letter (which I did not read) with all of the things about Buddy that they might need to know.  What he liked, what he didn't like - all about living with Buddy.  We completed the relinquishment paperwork and it was time to leave.  Everyone was holding back tears - Rina most of all.  She put him in my car and each of them gave Buddy one last hug.  Lord, I thought I would fall apart myself!  I waited for them to go back in the house before I pulled away.  It just seemed better that way.

On the long drive to the pick up point, Buddy was the perfect little gentleman.  He road easily in the car and never made a peek...or a bark.  We stopped for a potty break and water and then we were back on the road to our final destination.  The new family, the Bassmans, were to meet us at a dog park in Danville.  I arrived before they did and was able to allow Buddy to stretch his legs.  I watched the Bassmans pull up and saw the four little girls tumble out of the car and come running!  They were so excited to be taking Buddy home.  They had helped with the preparation and were over the moon that IT was finally happening.

I completed the adoption contract with Mr. and Mrs. Bassman and went over a few items - calling to change the microchip information, feeding schedule, etc., and took a few pictures and then I decided it was time to leave the Bassman family with their new member.

While I had no emotional investment with Buddy, it is always hard to hand over a dog to someone you really don't know.  Whenever there is a hand-off I find myself having an emotion somewhere between elation and worry.  As I drove away, I thought about Rina and her family and what they must be feeling.  Most times, when we rescue a dog, it is from a shelter or the dog is relinquished by an owner that does not want the dog anymore (something I have never understood).  I am usually thrilled to be rescuing the dog from the situation in which I find it.  This rescue was really different.  Buddy's family loved him.  They loved him so much that they gave him up in order that he might be safe and secure.  Their act of unselfish love overwhelmed me at that moment.

 

In Judaism, we have a word for the unselfish love Rina and her family showed to Buddy.  It is the Hebrew word, "chesed".  The word is difficult to translate into English, because there really is no English equivalent.   It is most often translated at loving kindness.  Chesed is central to Jewish values, ethics and theology.  It is a virtue that contributes to "tikkun olam" (repairing the world) and is the foundation of many personal mizvot.  Chesed is so important it is said to one of the three pillars upon which the world stands.  One of our great Rabbi's said that the Torah begins with Chesed and ends with Chesed.  Rina and her family are examples to all of us.

I sent a short note to Rina to let her know that Buddy was safely delivered to his new family.  I tried, again, to emphasize that she had done the right thing and that I understood how much they loved Buddy in order to make the sacrifice they made.  I don't know if my words helped.  I ask God to wrap His arms around the family tonight.  I asked that He protect them and be with them.  They very least they deserve is comfort.  To my way of thinking, what they deserve is a place in heaven.

Feeling blue. . .

I have often wondered where the colloquial idiom, "feeling blue" came from.  When we say we are feeling blue, we mean that we are sad or depressed.  We reach for the cookie dough ice cream and schlep around the house in our favorite t-shirt and pajama bottoms.  I like to put Steel Magnolias in the DVD player so that I have a legitimate excuse to cry when I am feeling blue.

From a purely scientific point of view, blue is one of the pure spectral colors having a wavelength of about 450-475 nm and a frequency of about 631-668 THz.  As an amateur photographer, I am aware the blue of the sky has a correlated color temperature of 5600 on the Kelvin scale and is a "cool" color.  The sky is also blue due to "Rayleigh scattering" of the sunlight from the atmosphere which tends to scatter blue light more than red light.  Blue is also considered one of the additive primary colors on the traditional Red, Yellow, Blue color wheel.

The word blue comes from the Middle English word bleu or blewe, words of Germanic origin which appears to have meant "pale, pallid, wan, light-colored; blond; discolored; blue, blue-gray ".   Few words in the English language are as idiomatic as the word blue.  In addition to the idiom "feeling blue", consider the following: 

Once in a blue moon

Blue in the face

Out of the blue

Blue blood

Talk a blue streak

Black and blue

A bolt from the blue

Blue collar

The boys in blue

Blue eyed boy

Blue blazes

Baby blues

To blue pencil something

Blue chip

Give up the blue line

Blue around the gills

Vanished into the blue

I actually found over 100 idioms that used the word blue.  Why do you suppose we love to use the word blue so much?

Blue is one of the most popular colors of both men and women.  It is a color that is associated with trustworthiness, dependability and commitment; perhaps the reason police uniforms are blue?  Blue is the color of the sky and of the sea.  It is perceived as constant in our lives.  It is the color of calm and coolness.  It is a favorite color of spas because it calls to mind feelings of calmness or serenity.  The color blue is known to lower the pulse rate and body temperature.  As for myself, I find it utterly impossible to feel sad when I stand on the beach in Lahaina and look out upon the blue ocean.  I can only feel peace and contentment as I sit on my patio and look up into the clear blue skies of late spring.  And is there anything more comfortable and familiar than an old pair of blue jeans?

In Hindu mysticism, the color blue represents the 5th chakra, Vishuddhi.  Vishuddi is the chakra of the throat.  It is known as the purification center and is the chakra of communication expression and judgement.  It also associated with the god Vishnu, the preserver of the world.  In Christianity the color blue is associated generally with purity and in Catholicism in particular it is the color of the Virgin Mary.  In Islam blue is the color or religion and is often used in decorating mosques.

As a Jew, I am aware of the strong connection that the color blue has to my religious history and customs.  The Torah commands us wear tzitzit (those long fringes on the corners of tallit) on the corners of our garments and to weave within these fringes a "twisted thread of tekhelet (blue)".  The great Rabbi, Maimonides claimed blue was "the clear noonday sky, the Rabbi Rashi said it was the evening sky.  Several other rabbinic authorities point to blue as the color of God's Glory. When my ancestors were wandering in the desert with Moses, many of the items in the Mishkan (the portable sanctuary the tribe carried from place to place) such as the menorah and other sacred vessels were covered in cloth of blue.  The Ark of the Covenant was likewise covered in cloth of blue when it was transported.  Blue is the color of Hannukah.  When Israel achieved statehood she chose blue for the Israeli flag and the Israeli coat of arms.

There are a number of blue foods that I enjoy.  While I don't really care much for blueberries on the whole, I do love a fresh from the oven blueberry muffin.  Blue M&M's are my favorite.  Blue corn chips are funky and fun and fun when served with black (which are really blue) bean dip.  Blue Gatorade is great when I am sick.  Blue jello shots are a wonderfully wicked memory from my single days.  And if one really needs a blue food fix, one can always break out the blue food dye. . .blue mashed potatos anyone?

I have blue, in some form or another, in almost every room in my home.  It figures largely in the rooms were I spend the most time doing the things I most like to do.  It makes me feel happy and relaxed and creative.  I like blue.  I like it a lot.  If I redecorated my house, blue would still be part of the landscape.

So, back to the original question.  Why do we say we are "blue" when we are sad.  Why has that empty aching loneliness associated with lost love become an entire genre of music called "the blues".  Billie Holliday describes it best when she sang:

Am I blue?
Am I blue?
Aint these tears, in these eyes telling you?
How can you ask me am I blue?
Why, wouldn't you be too -
If each plan
With your man
Done fell through?

There was a time
When I was his only one
But now im
The sad and lonely one...lonely

Was I gay
Until today
Now he's gone, and we're through
Am I blue.......

It is true that blue is linked to rain and storms and in Greek mythology, the god Zeus was sad, he would cry causing it to rain   and he would send down a storm when he was angry.  Maybe that is the origin.  Or it could be from the "Blue" laws which were designed to enforce religious standards, especially the observance of Sunday as day of worship and rest and a restriction on Sunday shopping - now that would make me really blue!  I am sure the color blue put Marie Antoinette in a serious funk as it was the color of the French revolutionary forces!  She definitely had a case of the Breton blues.  But, the nearest I can come to an explanation for the term is from a custom among old deep-water sailing ships.  If the ship lost her captain or any of the officers during its voyage, she would fly blue flags and have a blue band painted along the entire side of her hull as she returned to her home port.  The crew was said to be "blue".  Why they chose the color blue - that I haven't been able to learn.

None of this will likely cause me to stop saying that I am feeling blue when, in fact, I am.  But I really think the color blue has gotten a bad rap.  It is a great color.  I adore it.  I am wearing it as I type this.  I just wanted the color blue to know that I don't think it is a sad color.  Quite the contrary.  I would be very, well blue, if there were no blue in the world.

Balenciaga as a means to God

I traveled yesterday to San Francisco to see the Balenciaga and Spain exhibit at the De Young Museum. Coco Chanel said of Balenciaga, “He is the only couturier. He is the only one who knows how to cut a fabric, and mount it and sew it with his own hands. The others are just draughtsmen.”  While walking through this marvelous exhibit and looking at all beautiful pieces that were representative of his long and brilliant career, these words came to life for me.  Balenciaga created clothes that are classic and timeless.  So many of his designs could be worn today.  He understood how to dress a woman's body.  He understood fabrics.  His clothes are truly works of art which reflect his deeply rooted connection to his country, his culture and his religion. 

Balenciaga created 93 collections before he closed his fashion house in 1968.  Just as Alfred Hitchcock made a cameo appearance in each of his films, there was alway one black dress that was cut and sewn entirely by Balenciaga.  One of the exhibit pieces, a jacket and skirt in the blackest black I have ever seen, was cut and sewn by him.  The jacket had only one seam!  The fabric was molded around the shoulders and had one zigzag seem in the center of the jacket.  I stood, for the longest time, in complete fascination.  How does one do this?  How does one even consider it?  

Balenciaga apprenticed designers that went on to become famous themselves such as Oscar de la Renta, André Courrèges, Emanuel Ungaro, and Hubert de Givenchy.  His creations, which often resemble sculpture, must have been created in much the same way.  I stood and imagined myself in Mr. Balenciaga's atlier watching the master at work. 

I next toured the Pulp Fashion - The Art of Isabelle de Borchgrave at the Palace of the Legion of Honor.  Ms. Borchgrave, who is a painter by training, has created a collection of historical costumes entirely from rag paper.  Her creations are taken from early European paintings or iconic historical dresses from museums around the world.  She paints and manipulates the rag paper into astonishing realistic renditions of original fabrics.  I was struck by the careful attention to detail, imagining how tedious and time consuming it must have been to create these amazing pieces.

Finally, I visited my favorite fabric shop - Stone Mountain and Daughter in Berkeley.  This store is a mecca for true sewists.  They carry everything from the simplest cottons to exquisite woolens.  They have an incredibly large selection of silks of all kinds and their linen selection is amazing.  I selected a pattern which was a recreation of a 1940's blouse (having been inspired by Balenciaga's earlier pieces).  I found an beautiful linen/cotton blend by Echino in purple which resembles a vintage print.  I am anxious to begin my project.

By the time I arrived home, the Sabbath was fast approaching.  It had been a day filled with physical beauty; of are and of creativity.  It was a healing day for me, a day that I was able to put aside my sadness at Boris' departure.  It was, it seemed to me, a day that which was not a spiritual one at all and I tried to quiet my mind and prepare to light the Shabbes candles.  I lit the candles and said the prayers but I was unable to completely remove myself from the beauty I had seen that day.  I wanted to escape to that world, to create something physically beautiful.  It felt very wrong to be thinking these things, yet the thoughts were inescapable.  I decided to sit and do some reading to try to focus on things spiritual rather than temporal.  I pulled a book from our library by Robert C. Fuller, and came across the following passage:

"Spirituality exists wherever we struggle with the issue of how our lives fit into the greater cosmic scheme of things. This is true even when our questions never give way to specific answers or give rise to specific practices such as prayer or meditation. We encounter spiritual issues every time we wonder where the universe comes from, why we are here, or what happens when we die. We also become spiritual when we become moved by values such as beauty, love, or creativity that seem to reveal a meaning or power beyond our visible world. An idea or practice is "spiritual" when it reveals our personal desire to establish a felt-relationship with the deepest meanings or powers governing life".

It occurs to me that the love of beauty, in any form, is an acknowledgement of the abundant blessings which have been given to us by our creator.  Whether it is the beauty of creative mind, the beauty of a sunset, the beauty of a child's laughter, the beauty of the Torah or the beauty of tradition, recognizing that beauty is a way of saying, "Thank you for all blessings you bestow on me".  Perhaps God understood that I needed to focus less on what I had lost and more on what I have.  And while a museum exhibit of couture clothing might seem an odd way to interpret his message, I believe that my day of seemingly shallow pursuits was God's hand on the steerage of my course.  

Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God's handwriting - a wayside sacrament.  Welcome it in every fair face, in every fair sky, in every fair flower, and thank God for it as a cup of blessing.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Saying goodbye to Boris

In January of this year, I became a Member-at-Large of the San Francisco Samoyed Rescue Board of Directors.  While I have volunteered throughout my life for various animal welfare groups, this is my first foray into serving on a governing body.  San Francisco Samoyed Rescue was founded to help Samoyed dogs who, through no fault of her own and for a variety of reasons, find themselves homeless.  SFSR also helps owners who cannot afford veterinary care for their sick or injured Samoyed.  As dogs come into rescue, they are fostered by volunteer families until they can be placed in a permanent home.  Recently, we had a dog come into rescue who my husband and I volunteered to foster.  His name is Boris.

Every dog that comes into rescue has a story.  Most are sad, some are tragic.  Sometimes the dogs are unwanted.  Sometimes they are sick or injured.  Sometimes they are the victims of benign neglect.  One cannot help feel a variety of emotions during the rescue process including sadness, anger, hope and even rage.  Every dog that we rescue touches my heart in some way.  Mostly, I feel good about being able to place them in loving homes with people who can not only take care of them, but who understand the needs of this very special breed.  Sometimes you wish you could do more.  But as Edward Everett Hale said, "I am only one, but I am one.  I cannot do everything, but I can do something.  And I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can do".  So, once a dog goes to his permanent home, no matter what his circumstances when he arrived, there is a collective "Woo Hoo" and we move on.  That was before Boris came to live with us.

Boris' owner was the victim of a reversal of fortune, an all too familiar scenario these days.  His owner had to move to his mother's ranch after losing his own home and Boris was banished to live in the barn after being a house dog for all of his four years.  His owner reached out to us and surrendered Boris, although it was extremely difficult for him.  When Boris was picked up, his owner was teary-eyed and looked as though he had been punched in the gut.  I suspect that Boris represented the last vestige of his former life and having to give Boris up was the final signal that the life he once enjoyed was now, officially, over.  I expected Boris to be lacking in house manners.  I expected that he would have forgotten any obedience or house-training he might have once known.  I expected the normal stressed, confused and distrusting dog that we often encounter in rescue.  I never expected the gentle soul that crossed my threshold.

Boris is a love bug.  He is gentle and sweet boy.  He looks up at you with eyes that are full of trust.  He is desperate to please.  He has impeccable house manners.  He doesn't jump on furniture uninvited.  He doesn't jump up on people.  He does not table surf.  AND he is completely housebroken!  He took to our female Samoyed and our two kitties right away.  Taking his lead from Sarah, our Sammy girl, he got the drill down pretty quickly.  Before we knew it, this blithe spirit had touched our hearts in ways we could not imagine.

Boris follows us from room to room.   He WANTS to be around us every second, lying at our feet softly snoring away.  Yet, he will go outside and stay if told to, finding nondestructive ways to occupy himself.   He hears the leashes being removed from their hooks and off to the front door he goes where he patiently sits, waiting for us to "hook him up" and walk out the door.  He adores riding in the car, and while he prefers to ride shotgun, he willing jumps into the back of the SUV.  He is extremely quiet with the exception of his soft "woo woos" when he tells us how happy he is - and he is happy nearly all the time.  He is just about the perfect dog.

So, hubby and I started talking about adopting him.  He fit so well into our "pack" and was just an easy dog to have around.  We talked about our upcoming trip to Santa Barbara for our daughter's graduation from UC and that we would have to make arrangements to board him with the same lady with whom Sarah was going to stay.  It just seemed, well. . .a given.  But then kismet intervened.

Boris accompanied me to a Samoyed specialty show where our rescue had a booth.  Samoyed are always their own best ambassadors and we like to have potential "adoptees" with us at our booths.  I told the two other board members who were helping to man the booth that Darryl and I were thinking about adopting Boris and they both encouraged me to do so.  But in the late morning a couple came by our booth and asked if they might "meet" Boris.  I took him out of the exercise pen and I could see at once that they were quite taken with him.  But gosh...who wouldn't be.  I spoke at length to this nice couple and learned that they had previously owned Samoyed.  They had also recently lost their 15 year old Collie boy and were still grieving his demise.  I then learned that the lady had worked with her dogs in therapy, visiting local hospitals.  Suddenly, I realized that this was exactly what Boris needed.  He needed a job that would take advantage of his sunny disposition, his gentle nature and his love of human contact.  The couple asked if they might fill out a pre-adoption application.  I told them it would be a great idea, and I made an appointment to do a home check.  This was wonderful, amazing, perfect. . .and my heart was breaking.

The home check could not have gone better.  The couple had the financial means to provide the best of everything to Boris.  The home was clean and spacious and the grounds, of nearly a half acre were beautifully landscaped.  Lots of trees for shade and a huge lawn to run and roll in.  They would, without doubt, provide a excellent environment for Boris.   More important, they obviously were smitten by him and he seemed to like them as well.  We made arrangements for Boris to return in a few days where he would take up residence in his "forever" home.

Today was the day Boris went to live with his new family.  Hubby and I took Boris to his new home.  We spent some time watching him check out his new digs, and play with his new "sister", Dee Dee, a blind 8 year old Collie.  We completed all of the "business" of the adoption and then I picked up my keys to leave.  Boris, who loves to ride in the car, ran to the door after me.  He sat, looking up at me with his big round eyes in expectation.  I bent down and hugged him and told him that he could not go.  Of course, he did not understand.  And it broke my heart.  I got out the door as quickly as I could because I could feel my eyes stinging from the tears that were about to erupt.


Hubby and I didn't talk much on the ride home; each of us lost in our own thoughts about this special boy that had lately inhabited our home and our hearts.  My intellect understands that this is absolutely the perfect situation for Boris and that his new "parents" will love and care for him in the manner he deserves.  I just wish someone could explain all this to my heart.  I feel like crap right now.  


Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.  ~Kahlil Gibran   

A begining. . .

In the liturgy of Yom Kippur there is a passage that speaks of they ebb and flow of our lives.  The passage tells us that getting from the beginning of our lives to the end of our lives will not be easy.  It is a caution and and an encouragement for the road ahead.  It reads:

Birth is a beginning
And death is a destination.
And life is a journey:
From childhood to maturity
And youth to age;
From innocence to awareness
And ignorance to knowing;
From foolishness to discretion
And, then, perhaps, to wisdom;
From weakness to strength
Or strength to weakness -
And, often, back again;
From health to sickness
And back, we pray, to health again;
From offense to forgiveness,
From loneliness to love,
From joy to gratitude,
From pain to compassion,
And from grief to understanding -
From fear to faith;
From defeat to defeat to defeat -
Until, looking backward or ahead,
We see that victory lies
Not at some high place along the way.
But in having made the journey, state by stage,
A sacred pilgrimage.
Birth is a beginning
And death a destination.
And life is a journey,
A sacred pilgrimage -
To life everlasting.

I always find this passage comforting because it reminds me that we are all travelers.  It reminds me that whether by design or by accident my journey has taken me places that I never thought I would go.  It reminds me that who I am at this moment is not who I will be tomorrow, or perhaps an hour from now.  It reminds me to take a deep breath, close my eyes, still my heart and just be in the moment.

And so, I begin my blog - my postcards from home - to memorialize my musings, to laugh at myself and to share my journey with those who care to tag along.