A Confirmed Diagnosis

"Save your money," Stu Homer told me. As the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, he's almost as knowledgeable about dogs as a veterinarian. Over the past 15+ years, with over 1,000 adoptions under his belt, he's certainly seen everything from corns to Cancer.

"If it's a liver infection, you'll know in a few weeks when the antibiotics start working," he advised when I told him about Lucy's recent diagnosis. "Don't bother with X-rays or a biopsy because if it's anything else, it will be terminal and there will be nothing you can do."

Harsh, but true.

I couldn't stand not knowing though. And so today I took my sweet Lucy to see Dr. Arnott for a liver ultrasound and biopsy. Turned out he couldn't do the biopsy. The ultrasound showed a liver so shrunken and hardened, a biopsy was impossible. Without any symptoms whatsoever, my happy, spirited, mischevious little girl had been ill for at least six months.

"She has end-stage hepatitis," Dr. Arnott told me. "It's just a matter of time. I'm so sorry."

And once again, the tears are flowing in my household; for what was and what is about to be.

I Didn't Heed the Warning

This sign, posted on the front door of the way cool Vine Cinema, in Livermore, should have told me all I needed to know about the new epic movie, Tree of Life.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

A Good Walk Spoiled

"Grace under pressure" is a quality I've always admired in people who face adversity. Somehow, they manage to rise above their difficulties and become even kinder and better human beings.

I am not one of those people.

I fold like an umbrella in a hurricane. I get angry, confused, bewildered and stressed. Especially stressed. Last night my sweet Lucy, diagnosed with liver disease just two days ago, vomited black bile and has been having massive diarrhea. She's not eating or playing with her toys, and I am sick. Sick with sadness, sick with fear, sick with stress.

Which might explain why I snapped at that woman near the park this morning. I was taking Lucy and Elvis on a very slow, brief outing when this young woman, walking her dog, came barrelling down the sidewalk behind me. When my dogs turned around and started barking at hers, I saw that she wasn't about to slow down. So, I pulled Lucy and Elvis across the bushes and we waited on the street so the woman could pass. And pass she did, with nary a word of thanks. God help me, the words came out before I could stop myself.

"You're welcome," I said.

Ah, then she found her voice. "Why should I thank you?" she turned around and snapped. "You're the one with the vicious dogs!"

"And you're the one without any manners," I snapped back. "Just because you own an animal doesn't mean you have to behave like one."

Off we went. After a few foul exchanges, I finally crossed the street because at that heated moment, I felt capable of acting like an animal myself-a rabid wolverine to be exact--and biting her damn head off.

Really, folks, this is not me. And I suspect this may not be her either. As I resumed my walk, now crying, from across the street I observed her making a U-turn and returning home. Clearly upset, she never made it to the park to use the Ball Launcher she had intended to play with her dog.

I hope I see this woman again. I want to apologize and explain why I snapped at her. She has no idea what's going on in my life and--concurrently--I have no idea what's going on in hers. She could have lost her job the day before, fought with her husband minutes earlier, or hey, maybe she's just the animal I accused her of being.

If she rejects my apology, fine. At least I'll have tried. My best friend Pam likes to say that we can't let other people dictate how we behave, and she's right.

It may not be a shining example of grace under pressure, but I'm trying here folks, really. The best that I can.

Dog Day Afternoons

My mom was fond of saying that when you wake up in the morning, you just never know how your day will end. And not in a "whoohoo, I just won the lottery" kind of way. She was a bit of a pessimist, my mom.

But she was right. Just consider the events of this week.

Sunday morning I enjoyed a wonderful, invigorating 6.5 mile hike with a good friend. I later learned that at a barbecue that evening, she had a near-death experience when she choked on a piece of steak that defied all Heimlich maneuvers. She swears she's still here today only because a higher power stepped in and told her "it wasn't her time yet." I believe her.

On Wednesday, my sister and I indulged in a lazy, relaxing hot summer day at the beach (see evidence in previous post) that felt like a slice of pure childhood. Just hours later, on our way home, we found ourselves stranded with a flat tire on the three-inch shoulder of a blind curve on a crazy-ass, winding, narrow two-lane highway known for speeding and accidents. That sweaty, balding, overweight tow-truck driver never looked so good.

However, today's situation may not turn out so well.

Yesterday afternoon I took my greyhound, Lucy, to the vet. She hasn't been eating lately, which I attributed to our heatwave, but just to be safe I made an appointment. Really though, I wasn't worried; she's always been a picky eater and the 90+ degree heat has killed even MY appetite.

It wasn't the heat.

Blood work revealed a serious, life-threatening liver disease. What, we don't know. If it's an infection, the antibiotics she started today may buy her time. If it's anything else--Cirrhosis, Cancer, Hepatitis--it will only be a matter of time.

I am sick. Sick.

Lucy holds a special place in my heart because she was my mother's dog. When Mom passed away in 2009, I never thought twice about adopting Lucy, even though my townhouse HOA only permits one dog per home and I already had my other greyhound, Elvis. If busted, I would sell my home and move if I had to. Relinquishing LucyBelle, as I call her, simply wasn't an option.

And it still isn't. Only this time I may have no say in the matter.

Sigh...you just never know.

Word to the Wise

Uh, when you spend the hottest day of the year at the beach, don't forget to apply the sunblock from head to toe and inbetween.

Just sayin'.

The Girl Who Pushed My Patience

If you're one of the handful who haven't been swept away by Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo blockbuster trilogy, I'm about to save you a chunk of time. That's because-- while the first two books were pretty good--the final one didn't quite live up to the high expectations set by its predecessors.

And so, to spare you the agony of sifting through almost 600 pages to find out what finally happens to the trilogy's heroine, Lisbeth Salander, allow me, if you will, to offer this brief but effective summary of:
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
Under armed guard in the intensive care ward of a Swedish hospital, Lisbeth Salandar was in critical condition. The brilliant computer hacker was fighting for her life after being shot in the head by her deranged father. Fuzzy thoughts filtered through her bullet-ridden brain. "If I survive, will I be charged with attempting to kill the man who attempted to kill me after I first attempted to kill him 20 years ago" she wondered. "And where can I get a decent cup of coffee?'"
Back at the office of Millennium Magazine, Salander's former lover, journalist Mikael Blomkvist, was worried too. Over a cup of coffee, he shared his concerns with his colleague Svensson. Or was this Eriksson? Jonasson maybe? Fredriksson? Who the hell knew, all their names sounded alike. "I feel oddly compelled to help prove her innocence," he mused while pouring himself another cup of coffee. "She may appear tough, but deep down she's quite vulnerable. We must unravel this cover up involving Sapo, Sweden's secret police." He absentmindedly stirred his coffee. "But how?"
Meanwhile, at a coffee shop on Sodertaljsonn Street, a surveillance team from Sapo was watching Blomkvist's every move. Confident that the trouble-making journalist wouldn't be returning home for awhile, Pieresson finished his coffee, then broke into Blomkvist's apartment and planted a kilo of cocaine behind the coffee machine. Exhilarated over setting up Blomkvist for a drug bust, Pieresson suddenly found himself famished. As he left the apartment, he returned to the coffee shop for a meatball sandwich. And another coffee.

Back at the hospital, Dr. Jacobsson pondered the condition of his infamous patient while nursing a cup of coffee. He felt oddly compelled to help this tough, yet vulnerable young woman. As he sipped his coffee, the buzz of the call button snapped him back to attention and he saw that it was his tough, yet vulnerable young patient. She was requesting more pain meds. A laptop. And coffee.
Upon Salandar's miraculous recovery, she was discharged and made to stand trial for trying to kill her father who had tried to kill her for previously trying to kill him for trying to kill her mother. But thanks to Blomkvist's undying loyalty to the tough, yet vulnerable young woman--despite the fact that she now despised him because he had slept with Berger..or had it been Bergsson? Berjkssun? Birjksson? Whatever. Sweden's corrupt government was finally exposed, the secrets of Sapo revealed, and Salandar exonerated.

And everybody went home and had a cup of coffee.
The end.

Every Picture Tells a Story

You've heard the joke about the elderly person who reads the obituaries to catch up on his friends and acquaintances. Well, I read them too, but for the photos. Those haunting, grainy, black and white pictures that accompany heartbroken prose. Each photo draws me in, nips at my curiosity and often tugs at my heart.

Obituary photos usually feature the deceased in their prime. Eleanor may have been 91 when she died, but her image captures a saucy young woman wearing a pearl choker and fashionable bob circa 1939. She had laughing eyes and full, bright lips that were, no doubt, painted fire-engine red. And, I'm guessing, toenails that matched.

William, whose obituary is featured two columns over, passed away at 87, but his photo depicts a cocky young lad with a square jaw and determined grin. He wears a dapper fedora tilted at an angle and, although you can't tell from the photo, I'm sure he flaunted a tweed jacket flung over his shoulder.

I'm intrigued by the vigor and vitality expressed in these faces. They look like women I'd befriend, men I'd date. Each picture puts a life behind each name and suddenly, each death feels a little more personal. Even though their passing warrants but a brief, formulaic mention, their image makes me ponder the loss of someone who was once very real.
Love stories and heroic deeds. Travel adventures and business ventures. Maybe this person was a lifelong resident of their community, now missed by neighbors who once enjoyed weekly potluck dinners. Perhaps mention will be made of their brave fight against cancer or AIDS. Sometimes family history is included and I learn that their parents emigrated from Italy and started the bakery I frequent on Main Street.

I might discover that they met their spouse on a blind date while attending my Alma mater decades before I was born. Maybe they returned to school after raising a family and got their degree alongside students half their age.
Dates on an obituary merely suggest an aged, wizened person whose time had come. But photos remind me otherwise. This was a parent, friend, co-worker, lover, jokester, athlete, activist. Someone once loved whose absence others now mourn.

And with their lively, vibrant, half-inch face on newsprint beaming before me, I too feel a twinge of sadness for the passing of someone I never knew.