The Mystery of the Killer Toothbrush

I've spent the last three weeks sitting in my parents living room floor for about 22 or 23 hours a day. You'd think this would allow me to accomplish tons of work, writing, etc., but honestly, I'm doing good to watch an entire movie. More on that and an update on Gabby later, though. This story is about what all that time spent in the living room floor does to a person.

As mentioned, I spend my nights (and days) on a twin mattress in my parents' living room. Gabby's on a small dog bed between me and the window. Sadie and my parents' younger dog sleep on the sofa (just above my head), my mom's geriatric dog that they've had since I was in high school sleeps on a blanket next to my mattress, and my mom sleeps across the room in a recliner. (My mom's sleeping in here has nothing to do with Gabby and everything to do with the fact that she had to sleep in it for a few months after having surgery and has yet to transition back to the bed.) And since I've partaken in this arrangement, I've yet to get a full night's sleep. Gabby's steroids make her crazy at night, and my mom and her dog get up to use the bathroom at least twice each.

In other words, it's like the slumber party from hell.

So, two nights ago, my parents' old dog wanted to go outside. I was sitting on the bed working on my laptop, and my mom was already asleep. Despite my best attempts to loudly clear my throat and wake my mom up, she wasn't budging, so I got up and escorted said dog to the fence. I could hear something yelping from the direction of my parents' redneck neighbor's house, and I couldn't tell if it was a dog or a woman. Or just the guy sharing his excitement because it rained that day and the field across from his house was muddy enough to ride his truck, bike and four-wheeler in it until they became an unrecognizable mess. (I don't understand why caking your vehicles in mud is fun, but the people in this particular house do it often.)  My grandfather lives next door to my parents, but there's a huge Great Dane that lives between him and the aforementioned rednecks, and he was barking his head off. Honestly, it was a little troubling, but I was too tired to care. I came inside and went to bed.

A few hours later, Gabby woke me up trying to climb over me and I realized that not only had she had an accident in her bed, but she'd smeared it all over her side, so I woke up to clean that up, which woke Sadie up, which woke my mom up, which woke my parents' dog up, etc. My mom got up to go to the bathroom, and I was sitting here, cleaning Gabby up, when all of the sudden I hear gunshots. Three of them to be exact.

At first, I figured the redneck neighbors were shooting firecrackers as this is a fairly common occurrence (when the father is not in jail), but my mom said she also heard it, and it was definitely a gun. A few years ago, I would have told you that my parents live in the last neighborhood where you would hear three gunshots at 3:30 a.m., but given everything that has happened recently (fugitives on the run, redneck neighbors moving in, a string of robberies (see: redneck neighbors moving in), shot and poisoned beloved family pets, neighbors practically having sex in the road, etc.), I'm not exactly surprised. However, I was a bit on edge, and it took me a while to go back to sleep.

So, last night I went to bed around 12:30 a.m., and I was so tired, but in the back of my mind somewhere I was thinking about those three gunshots. The absence of law enforcement and neighborhood gossip told me that unless someone broke into a home and shot everyone dead and no one knew about it yet, it was probably nothing to worry about, but what if those same people were lurking outside our house, waiting to shoot me? I had't showered in days! I hadn't even been in the pool since Monday!  I couldn't die like that.

Once my head hit the pillow, exhaustion got the best of me, but about 30 minutes later, something woke me up. I thought it might have been a loud noise, but I'd been dreaming, so I couldn't be sure. I rolled over and looked at my mom, and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know. A loud crash had pulled me form my slumber. Her eyes were wide. I asked what she was doing, and she said she thought she heard something.

"It sounded like it was in the kitchen. Go look!" she told me.

"Um, no!"

"It sounded like someone tripped and knocked over the stool."  (She keeps a stool in there for cooking/washing dishes. If you came in the kitchen door and you were not paying attention, you could easily trip over it.)  

"Definitely no!"  

We established that the cat was outside and all the dogs were still sound asleep (which should have been my first clue that there was no one in the house...), so it was not something or someone that should be in the house. I got up and went to the door that separates the living room and kitchen and peeked in, but I couldn't see the entire room, and I didn't want to.

I went back to my mattress and sat down, and the two of just sat in silence for a while. Finally my mother spoke again. "I think I hear footsteps."

I pointed out that her little dog was walking around, and she said that was what she heard, but after that I kept hearing things myself. 

"Is daddy awake?"  My dad also takes a few extra trips to the bathroom most nights, so I thought maybe that's what I was hearing.  

"I don't think so."  

"Well, maybe we should wake him up?"

"Go do it!" she said as if she'd been waiting for me to say this.

I ran into my parents' bedroom and woke him up and told him we'd heard a noise. He jumped out of bed and ran to the porch door and noted that a box was knocked over, but it was empty, so that wasn't what we heard. He went into the kitchen and didn't see anything, so he took a left and went into the dining room. (FYI, the dining room connects the kitchen to my bedroom, another little room, a hall that leads back to the living room and my parents' bedroom, the laundry room and bathroom.)  I saw a light come on, and heard a bunch of clattering around. My mother and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. What if he was battling a burglar? Should we call the police? Should I grab for a weapon.

After a while, we hear the bathroom door slam and my dad's footsteps (at least, I hoped it was my dad) making their way back to the living room. He walks in, looks at us like we're stupid and says, "I think you need to buy a new toothbrush." 

He went on to explain that the basket of toiletries I keep on cabinet between the bathroom and my bedroom door had somehow fallen off and scattered everywhere, causing the noise. It's got all of my shower stuff, my tooth-brushing stuff, deodorant, etc., and I guess everything survived the five foot fall, but my toothbrush hit the ground, and that's just gross.

Oh well. At least I'm not murdered.   

Sidelined...

Sigh. This whole Gabby thing is really putting a damper on my Olympic career. 

Don't get me wrong; I realize I'm so lucky to have my almost ten-year-old dog even survive after being under a train for two or three minutes, and I really don't mind sitting with her, which I have done pretty much 24/7 since she came home on Saturday, but I do really miss swimming.

Back in June, I mentioned that I was going to start working out hardcore. I would be turning my living room into a home gym and hitting the pool daily for long, hard workouts. Well, shortly after I posted that, I decided to leave the Unabomber Cabin (and got really sick for about a week, and my mom had 8,000 doctor's appointments), so I no longer had a living room or time to swim while I tried to pack a house in two weeks. Once I got settled in with my parents new roommates, I had a lot more time on my hand to concentrate on fitness.

I found a website that offers free beginning, intermediate, advanced, and long course swimming workouts, so I texted one of the "beginner workouts" to myself and went to the pool. I had to do a lot of math, because sadly, my family did not opt to get an Olympic-size pool, but when I finished I realized the yardage did not even equal half of what I normally swim, so I moved up to intermediate, did that for a week, and went on to advanced.

For the last few weeks, time and weather permitting, I've done the advanced workouts or some combination of intermediate and my own plan (usually equal to about three miles), and I was trying to work my way through the entire list on the website (minus the ones that focus on the butterfly, because I hate the butterfly with a passion). I spent hours in the water, and I've seen such a change in my body in just a few short weeks. My muscle tone is unbelievable, my waist is whittling away, I feel 100x better overall, I have lost some weight, my stamina is great, my stress and anxiety levels have dissipated even though my life is anything but stress-free lately, and the list goes on. I just felt great, better than I have in a while.

But I haven't been in the pool since last Wednesday (other than to cool off for about ten minutes), and it's driving me nuts. I feel like I'm losing everything I gained. My goal for the end of the year (whenever my grandfather decides to close the pool) was to swim ten miles without stopping. I still hope to do that, and I probably could do it without much practice - I just haven't had time to spend that many hours out there.

Gabby is doing so much better than she was when we brought her home, unbelievably so, so I'm hoping I can start leaving her some next week. I have an indoor pen that she can stay in, but I have a feeling she won't like that. And I have a feeling my parents will call me to come back inside at the first little whimper.

I'm planning to join a gym this fall, but the one I used to belong to did away with its pool, and there's another one near here with a pool, but I drove by it the other night, and I get the feeling I would not be comfortable there. And, of course, there's the big county-run pool that is newly built and amazing, or so I'm told, but every time I've been there, it's usually full of kids. It's also way across the country from me. And then there's my whole refusal to swim and wear a bathing suit in front of other people until I've done more swimming thing.

In my dream world, my grandfather decides to keep the pool open through the end of the year, either due to an unnatural heat wave or because he buys a heater, but I know that's very unlikely to happen. It's a whole lot of work (that I haven't been able to help with), and I'm really the only person in the family who uses it anymore.

Also, I'm kind of ready for some slightly cooler weather, so I'm not down with a heatwave.

Anyway, I've read that people who swim daily will live up to 25 years longer than those who don't, so maybe I can find  away to overcome my fears. 

Planes, Trains and Veterinary Bills

I used to think that the worst sound to wake up to was the alarm clock on my now defunct iPhone. I was wrong. The worst sound in the world is waking up to your mother screaming, "Gabby got hit by a train."

Huh? My first thought was that I misunderstood her - growing up in a house that is literally across the street from train tracks, I've seen dogs hit by trains before and the end result is an unrecognizable mass of fur and blood that once caused my young brain to have nightmares for a week. My second thought was that she was probably dead. My third thought was more of a quiet prayer that this little incident would be undone immediately, because this wasn't supposed to happen today.  

After that, my thoughts and actions are a little fuzzy, but I'll try to recount them as much as possible.  

I felt like someone pulled me out of the bed. I grabbed for the first shirt I could find in my little pile of dirty clothes and ran out of the bedroom."Where is she?" I asked, still trying to figure out what had gone on while I was asleep. My mom told me she was in the living room.

I went to the living room, and she was lying in the floor, breathing really hard. She had a bloody nose and a few black marks on her, but overall, she looked fine. My dad, on the other hand, not so much. I've only seen him cry a few times in my life. All he could say was, "I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry. She can't walk." I bent down to pet her and say something to her, and then I had to go into "only grown-up in the house" mode, because my parents were both wrecks.

I went to my mom's computer, pulled up my vet's number and grabbed my dad's cell phone to make a call. I couldn't remember if they were open on Saturday or if I should take her to the emergency hospital. The receptionist told me that the only emergency hospital open at that time was one that is a good 30-45 minutes away. I kept thinking what kind of emergency hospital isn't open on Saturday morning (a few hours later, I would realize that it was actually Friday). They told me to bring her on in.

I put on some pants from my dirty clothes pile (and let me just tell you, I looked and smelled like something out of one of those Febreze commercials before they actually spray the Febreze on it to trick the unknowing victim), instructed my dad to put Gabby in the backseat of his truck, and we all piled in to drive her to the doctor. Ironically, she was hit by a car almost exactly eight years ago to the date. Her injuries then seemed a lot more life-threatening, but she survived. I kept thinking I was not lucky enough for her to survive this too.

I held her while my mom drove, and my dad continued his hysterics. She tried to move around a bit and slept a little, and she really didn't seem to be in as much pain as one would think she'd be in after being hit by a however many ton train. She didn't even go into shock. I asked that my dad not share any of the imagery he witnessed as I already have nightmares about both airplane and train accidents, but he kept saying that it was a sight he'd never be able to erase from his memory.

Later, I did find out that the entire length of the train had gone over her. She was positioned in just the right place on the tracks so that it didn't slice into or flatten her. For several minutes. My dad said she started to stand up at one point, but he screamed at her, and she went back down. Upon learning this, I decided that one does not survive an accident like that only to be euthanized, so I would do whatever it took to fix her.  

The vet seemed surprised at her condition. He checked out her head and saw a few signs of concussion, but they were all gone the next morning. He X-rayed her and saw that her pelvis was fractured in her hip joint. He feared that she could be permanently paralyzed or it would do something to her bladder (I can't remember the medical terminology as I was given so much information in that hour), but he squeezed one of her legs and she reacted, so all hope was not lost.  He gave her a 50/50 prognosis with a lot of "ifs" and "buts." 

He told me I could take her to an orthopedic surgeon who could fix her right up, but due to her age, he said putting her through that kind of surgery could do more harm than good. He said I could leave her there over night so they could start pumping her full of steroids (apparently, these types of fractures aren't usually handled with surgery) and monitor her condition more. I was worried that she'd be scared to stay overnight, but he told me that really could make the difference, and I agreed that they would probably take better care of her than I could.

We drove home feeling slightly optimistic. It wasn't the worst news, but euthanizing her had been talked about as an option. He said many people aren't willing to put the time and money in with these types of injuries, but I told him I'd do anything for her, and he told me to just be prepared for the worst. By the time we got home, I realized that it was indeed Friday and around 11 a.m.  I didn't know what to do with myself. I was too anxious to swim laps (remember that little swimming thing I said I was going to start...I have in a big way, but it's temporarily on hold). I sat and held Sadie for a while, and finally, my mom suggested we go somewhere.

Our first stop was back by the vet's office. I took the shirt I'd been wearing (and had been wearing the day before) and asked if they'd let me leave it with her so she'd have something that smelled like me. I went back to see her, and she got really happy and tried to climb out of her cage. In just an hour or two, she seemed a lot more relaxed. I was pleased with the girl who was taking care of her and her condition and that really helped.  So, my mom and I drove around for the next several hours. We went by a few garage sales, had lunch at Wendy's in a neighboring town, drove by some places where we used to shop that have since gone out of business and went by a little store that neither of us had been to in a long time.

Around 4, we decided to go home so my dad wouldn't be by himself since he was so freaked out. The vet actually called me that afternoon and told me that Gabby was doing really well but not out of the woods. When I got excited, he warned me again to be cautious. I honestly don't remember what I did the rest of the day. I know my mom and I got back out to get pizza for supper, so we wouldn't have to cook for a couple of days. And I know I did go get in the pool for a few minutes, just to cool off.

That night I was getting into bed and the phone rang (my mom let me keep her cell phone with me, since I've yet to order a new one for myself). It was the vet's office, and my heart jumped into my throat. I knew the doctor would be going back to check on her that night, but I really didn't expect him to call. I just knew the worst had happened. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said before I could get a word in, "but I just wanted to let you know she's doing remarkably well and you should be able to take her home in the morning if it stays this way." That was all it took for me to actually get some sleep.

On Saturday morning, the vet called again and let me know that some things had deteriorated a little, but it was possible that it was just because she was there and not at home. He gave the okay to send her home, but he did say he would be willing to keep her there until Monday if I wanted. We talked it over, and we both decided it'd be okay for her to come home. I'm so glad I made that decision.

Again, we piled into the truck, and drove across the county. Let me just say now that there are other vets closer to my house, but I really love this guy. He's great with my dogs and has an excellent bedside manner. He's actually the first doctor Gabby saw when he was fresh out of school, working with another local doctor, and she was six weeks old. He went over her condition with us (not going to lie, he seemed a little grim at first, which worried me, but now I think he was more concerned that I wasn't up for the task), went over her medications and what kind of round-the-clock nursing care she would need (more on that in a minute). He joked that I might want to buy a back brace and ibuprofen.

They brought Gabby into the room, we said our hellos, and my dad carried her out to the truck. She was very happy to be in the car. She gave us kisses, and tried to climb about, but that is a big no-no. She ate the meat out of two roast beef sandwiches from Arby's. We went to PetSmart and Wal-Mart to look for the kind of bed he suggested and a cage he suggested we keep her in it so she couldn't move around, none of which we found.

We did get her an orthopedic bed, though, and we've got it set up in front of the window in my parents' living room, with a twin mattress next to her for me to sleep (and sit and eat and watch TV and do computer things) on. Ironically, I've been sleeping on the dog bed, while she sleeps on the mattress. Hmm.... We borrowed an indoor pen from my cousin's mother-in-law, but we have yet to set it up. I'm good sitting next to her for now, but it's killing me not to swim every day. Or shower. Because I haven't in nearly a week.

She's improved quite a bit since we brought her home. When we first got home, my parents left to get the pen, and she cried and tried to get up nearly the entire time. Her crying and whimpering was is the worst sound in the world, and I almost decided I'd made the wrong decision until we finally got her settled down. Her appetite is great. My mom has been giving her chicken and broth every few hours, and she gobbles it down. Yesterday, she finally started drinking water without me scooping it up in my hand. When she saw my dad take Sadie and my parents' two dogs outside yesterday, she cried until they came back inside. She is more alert and notices sounds and smells that are familiar to her. She went almost 24 hours without pain medication, and I really only gave it to her because I wanted her to sleep more. She slept for a long time last night without waking up every hour. She's moving her back legs a little bit. The one that's broken not so much, but she can completely lift the other one. They still dangle when I get her up, though. And she really isn't supposed to get up much for a few weeks; I've just found that's the only way I can get her to pee.

Yeah, that's the fun part! She can't use the bathroom on her own, so I have to express her bladder, though it comes out on its own when she's in a deep, pain pill-induced sleep. And last night - skip the next line if you're squeamish - it came out really dark and syrupy looking, but when I called the office this morning, he said it was most likely a bladder infection, which he anticipated anyway, and prescribed an antibiotic, so my mom just went to get that.   

I have no idea what the future holds for the Gabs, but if I have to sit by her for months, I will.  I guess it's a good thing we are staying with my parents at the moment, though I could also argue there were no trains across the street from the Unabomber Cabin. I'm pretty confident she will survive, and I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. Even if she never regains the use of her back legs or the ability to use the bathroom on her own, as long as she's not in pain that can't be treated, I'll deal with it. Gabby was with me through my twenties, and I'd like to at least let her make a dent into my thirties. And no matter where we lived or who else was in or out of our lives, we had each other. She's helped me through so much, so I can't turn my back on her now.

When I was waiting for the vet to x-ray her on Friday, I began thinking about what my life would be like without her. I still have Sadie, mind you, and I would most likely get another dog in the future, but it's just not the same. I love Sadie to death, but it's not the same kind of bond. I do fear that we won't be able to go hike miles and miles at the park in the future anymore, even if she makes a full recovery, because she will most likely have arthritis, but that's okay. The vet and a friend of mine even suggested buying her some wheels for her backside if that's necessary. 

The one regret I could come up with is that I did not get to take her to the beach. The dog loves water and up until Thursday night would sneak back to the pool and open up the gate when I took her out. She swims in every lake or creek we pass on our hikes.  Over the last year or so, I've been thinking that she needs to discover the ocean but my time and finances have been limited. In that little room, waiting for the x-ray, I cursed myself for not just doing it anyway.

So, as soon as she's able, this girl is going to the beach, even if I have to carry her into the water. (And even if I go broke buying this $3.50 a gallon gas to get her to the coast.)

P.S. If you go back in my blog, there's a huge, long post that I wrote about Gabby. I am not much in the mood to go find it, but it's got lots of pictures and stuff should you wonder what kind of dog has me giving up my great plans for now to sit at her side 24/7.