Tripawed Chronicles

A few years back, I wrote the Bedrest Chronicles in my blog (that would have been during the summer of 2006, when I was pregnant with my littlest, if you're interested in looking it up). I wrote about my trials and tribulations and how I "survived" bedrest. The nice thing about bedrest was knowing that it had a definite endpoint, and I just had to bide my time until then. Some days I actually look back to those days of leisure where my only responsibility was to remain seated (those days aren't ever coming back!), but rest assured, I'm not about to go get pregnant again just for the guaranteed bedrest.

In any case, I brought Friday home yesterday, and figured I would chronicle his trials and tribulations as he recovers from his amputation.

The guy is a trooper. His surgery was Tuesday, and two days later, he's already starting to get around. I won't say he's used to having three legs, but he's hopping along. I put a harness on him so I can support his front half, but when he's just walking, he doesn't need me. It's only on the steps that he has trouble (and that I worry).

I went out and bought a ramp yesterday. I had bought one after one of his tumor-removal surgeries (he's had 3), since the vet told me he shouldn't put weight on it. Well, he wouldn't use it. Jumped right into the minivan. Jumped right out. Never used it. We tried setting it up so he wouldn't have to use the couple of stairs going into a side door, but he just went around it. This time, I figured he wouldn't have a choice. A tech came with me to the car as I left the clinic, and I opened up the trunk, and was going to set up the ramp, and just jumped right in. He fell down (and as he must have landed on the large surgical area, it must have hurt him bigtime!). But we managed to get him turned around and lying down comfortably.

Then we got home. I set up the ramp, and he wouldn't use it. He backed up and lay down, refusing to approach the ramp. He's about 75 pounds, so I knew I couldn't just pick him up, but I tried to get him to come. No luck. We sat in the trunk for a while and I just petted him. Rakesh was asleep (pre-night shift), so I couldn't just call him to help. Besides, I needed to do this for Friday. No way was I going to let him down. So I stopped my little pity-party, folded up the ramp, and helped him down by supporting his trunk. We did it. I helped him go to the bathroom (all the pebbles in his dog run can't be easy to balance on right now). And he made it up the steps into the back of the house (I think I held him back, frankly). I sat on the living room petting Friday and reading through my giant stack of magazines, and then slept downstairs on the couch, since I didn't think I could help Friday up and down the stairs without Rakesh around.

This morning, he slipped as he went to drink water, and his head splashed in the water bowl (without his taking a drink). So he hasn't eaten anything other than the treat I gave him this morning. And right now, while I hang out in the living room working, he's over in the dining room. I know I shouldn't read too much into that, because he would do that before his amputation, but I worry that he's depressed.

He's adapting, and actually stays put (most of the time). He can stand up by himself, and has walked from the backdoor to the dining room, and another time, across the playroom, unassisted. For more than that, though, he will stand and wait for me to come hold the harness to help him walk.

I still remember him as a puppy, seeing him for the first time at the pound in St. Louis, on April 24, 1998. I sat in a chair, and he stood up and put his front paws on me, and they barely reached my knees. I wasn't sure about getting a dog, but Rakesh and I went outside to talk it over, and I thought about what our lives would be like if I left without that puppy, and my decision was made. On our way home, I sat in the backseat of the car, with him next to me in one of those blue recycling bins (which he quickly outgrew, of course), and we took him home. Before him, I had been afraid of dogs. I took him to PetSmart once a week for dog training, and learned to be comfortable around dogs, to understand their motivations and thus their actions. They got to be much less scary then. And he aced the exam, performing better than he ever had when I practiced with him. That spring, I would drive home from grad school to let him out of his crate during his potty training (imagine my fear at having to carry down three flights of stairs a non-potty-trained puppy, and my relief that he never once peed on me!). It would then be so hard to put him back in his crate (because he was too smart to fall for any trick more than once), that I started taking him to the lab with me on days when I didn't have class. I carried some food, a bowl, and a couple of toys in my backpack (first generation diaper-bag, I suppose), and he would just sleep under one of the empty desks. When anyone wanted to take a break, they would grab a tennis ball and play fetch for a little while. The weather throughout the spring in St. Louis was wonderful, and we would walk across the campus and each lunch outside, giving Friday a nice walk.

Well, that's enough for now. I'll share more memories of Friday next time, with another progress report.

The boys came downstairs this morning in their pajamas to see Friday. Siddharth was curious what happened to the amputated leg. Shivam wondered whether a new leg would grow back. And Suryan just kept saying 'Friday no have leg' (or something like that). Some days, the boys all want to match, and the one who doesn't have matching clothes will get upset. So I will draw all parallels that I can to appease the kid ("Siddharth has blue on his shirt, you have blue on your shirt." "Shivam has stripes, you have stripes"). Siddharth, to cheer up Suryan, said "Friday has three legs, and you're almost three." It meant enough.

Third Kids Are Funny

My latest theory: third kids are the funniest.
(this is to follow up my previous theory that Indian women that don't like spicy food will eventually marry white guys who do. In other words, based on little fact, but as the theory hasn't been put out there yet, I may as well do it).

My brother-in-law, a third-born, will be performing at a comedy club in NYC on Monday. His brothers - nope. Never.

The logic behind it is: the first-born is always trying to be serious, to be grown up. Their comedic influences are their parents and the adults with whom the parents spend time. The downside of extra attention is the subsequent seriousness. Sense of humor is somewhat questionable, because parents still believe they should laugh at the kid's jokes, funny or not, much to the detriment of comedic development.

Second-borns want to be like their elder sibling. Their comedic influences are their parents (to some degree), and their elder sibling, who, as stated earlier, is too busy trying to be serious and getting false positive feedback.

Third-borns, however, are influenced not directly by their elder siblings' actions, but by the interactions between the two siblings. They benefit from the peer interactions the first-born is finally exposed to (hopefully having friends who are themselves third-borns), which is then brought home. And as the first and second born siblings spend time together, there is an absolute dispelling of seriousness because their interactions are free from parental hovering. This is what the third-born learns. That, and by then, parents are way over laughing at jokes that aren't funny. Only genuine laughter exists (or is held back).

When my youngest was one, Adam Sandler's movie, 'Don't Mess With Zohan,' was in the theaters. Nobody in my family has ever seen it, but apparently the elder two saw a preview for it on television, and started re-enacting some scene where Zohan puts his foot in another guy's face and says 'Smell it...smell it.' Well, one day, as I was changing my son's diaper, his feet are up in the air, and while I'm focused on the task at hand, he stretches out his foot and says 'mell it, mell it.' Seriously. A freaking one-year-old getting his diaper changed!

Flash forward to now, and my son, who is a month away from turning three, is hilarious. It's a bit of a problem, of course, because it's so hard to discipline him when I'm biting my lip to keep from smiling. But while he still can't properly pronounce his brothers' names, he's got comedic timing down pat.

And of course, as I write this, I cannot think of a single example of what he has said. Next time, I start with that!

The Reprieve

In my last post, I mentioned that I had scheduled an amputation for my dog. For this morning. Well, it's not happening. Not yet, anyhow. We just couldn't go through with it!

Everyone I talk to reassures me that dogs are incredibly resilient and adaptable, and that he'd adjust without all the psychological trauma that humans would have over losing a limb. He'd move his other paw more to the center, take a little while to figure it out, and move on. Just like he doesn't even notice the giant growth on his leg. It's just there (or in the case of the amputation, just isn't). There's nothing to cry about or mourn over.

So on the one hand, we could really learn a lot from dogs. They adapt, heck, they thrive. Hell, they eat vomit and feces voluntarily. They go beyond "If life gives you lemons, make lemonade." They apparently go so far as to believe "If life gives you lemons, make lemon-ice, expel it, and enjoy it again!" Dogs: Life's ultimate optimists!

But I digress (and disgust). The reason we decided not to go forward with the amputation was precisely because he doesn't notice it. He's not in pain, the leg is not bothering him, so removing the leg doesn't relieve him from anything except an unsightly lump that he doesn't even notice! That hardly seems fair. Sure, it's expensive to keep removing the lump again and again, but removing the leg seems a bit extreme right now. Kind of like a pre-emptive strike. Right now, at eleven-and-a-half, he can recover more easily than he would as he gets older. But it still seems too extreme.

Heck, we tried moving out to the suburbs a couple of years ago, figuring it would be easier to transition our kids to a new school before first grade and before pre-school (the start of 2 3-year cycles at their Montessori school). It was convenient and well-planned. But our hearts weren't in it, and in the end, we just couldn't do it. Things are good now. Let them be good. Enjoy them.

I don't know our long-term plans for either housing or our dog's leg. But why should I have to?

Shortly after I posted my last post, my sister was telling my dad about the scheduled amputation. Right away, he called me up to suggest various radiation treatment options for Friday, either with or without surgery to remove the lump. We owe it to Friday to at least try that first before going with an irreversible course of action. And while it will doubtlessly be pricey, that is why we earn money, right? To take care of the ones we love. For our kids we chose Ruffing. For our dog, we choose Radiation.

If My Life Were a Movie

It's been quite a summer so far. Work-wise, I haven't had much to do, which sucks only because we're still paying a sitter.

I don't believe that life is a movie, but sometimes, seemingly disparate things seem to fit together in such a way that you can't help but find the common theme.

Let me preface this by saying that I am happy. Mostly. I'm tired and cranky, and am certainly sick of the rain, but I've got a great family, great friends and neighbors, a great job where the management actually cares, and I am in great health. We're financially secure, have a roof over our heads, and live in a city where, despite the negative perception, remains a nice town with things to do with or without kids. Yes, I'm talking about Cleveland.

So why did I have to start off with that cheesy happy proclamation?

Earlier this summer, my mother-in-law had a double mastectomy after being diagnosed late this spring with breast cancer. She's obviously having a hard time with it, and we're all trying to be there for her.

Yesterday, the giant oak tree in front of our house was taken down. The crew arrived right before 8:30 and didn't leave until after 5.

And on Tuesday morning, my husband or I will be driving out to Avon Lake to drop off our eleven-and-a-half year old dog, Friday, to get his leg amputated. His recurrent tumor was removed for the third time late in March, and already it's come back in full force. It's been coming, but we kept putting off making the call. Finally, yesterday, I made the appointment. I'm sure we're going to have a harder time dealing with it than he will, or at least that's what we keep telling ourselves.

But I'm pretty sure that's what's causing the blahs that I've been feeling today. But I bet I could handle this mood a little better if I hadn't gotten the song "There's a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you" (I guess the song is actually called Hole Hearted) by Extreme stuck in my head. And not all the lyrics, which I don't know, but just that line.

That song, I suppose, would be the soundtrack of my Life as a Movie, which I suppose I would have to call "Hole-hearted". But I suppose the summer of 95 would make more sense with that title. Right, Manish?

I guess another song on the soundtrack would be "Friday, I'm in Love" by the Cure.
And apparently "If I Could Turn Back Time" by Cher (since that just popped in my head too).
Hell, while we're at it, let's throw in Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings".

Before long, I'm sure a Michael Jackson number would be added, given the airtime he's been getting over the past week.

Why does my head jump directly to cheesy eighties and nineties music?

I would have to include something like:
Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy"
Will Smith's "Summertime"
I suppose, Bananarama's "Cruel Summer" would fit
and must include Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours" only because that's my happy song.

But while we're adding happy songs, I'll have to list:
"Break my Stride" by Matthew Wilder
"No One Is To Blame" by Howard Jones (maybe not happy, but I like it)
"I Melt With You" by Modern English.

So, what would make up the soundtrack for your life?