I Will Survive

Today marks the 4 year anniversary of Indiana's rebirth. Four years ago, Indiana was diagnosed with cancer and nearly died. A year ago today, I shared Indiana's story for the first time. It was really the first time I had let myself even think or process the story, because it caused me so much pain. Writing it out was so cathartic to me, and this year, finally, I can look back on that day and not feel such an ache in my heart.

Today, Indiana is a happy, relatively healthy, 12 year old cancer survivor. While she has some long-term effects from both the cancer and the chemo, her greatest complaints are the ailments of an old dog. Considering we were told she would die at 8, we feel fortunate every day to even have an old dog. Though Indiana is hugely spoiled (and it doesn't go to her head, thank you very much), we think she deserves every bit of it. Through surgery, chemo, physical therapy, chiropractic, acupuncture, and numerous vet visits, Indiana has issued nary a complaint (unless you try to trim her toenails; that's a whole 'nother matter). Everyone who meets her agrees that she's special. She touches everyone she meets, and she inspires me every day. Every day, I strive to live up to her standards and be the kind of parent she deserves.

So today, for the first time, I truly celebrate her accomplishment and her triumph. I banish all thoughts of the pain we suffered that day, and the past four years, and I am grateful to have a dog who is free of cancer. Congratulations, my brave, sweet girl. You make me proud every day, and you inspire me in so many ways. Thank you for making my world brighter. Our world is a better place with you in it!

Best. Daddy. Ever.

My furry babies are lucky to have the best Dad in the world. In fact, they have a whole slew of wonderful father figures. Both Grandpas are good to them too. (And both Grandmas, to be perfectly equitable.)

Jim would do anything for our pets, and I know this is sort of a rare trait for a male to have. I'm really fortunate, because I've never, ever had to fight him on anything when it comes to our kids. We've always seen eye-to-eye on every big decision, and there have been plenty of those. Expensive, risky, potentially life-saving cancer surgery? Of course. Camping out in a hotel out of town while Indiana has an overnight stay (or four overnight stays) in the hospital? Why wouldn't we? Flying in a search and rescue dog on the off chance he might provide a clue as to where our missing cat went? Absolutely.

Then there are the little things. (And they're really not so little, in my mind) He's thrilled to feed the babies a raw diet, and he usually puts the meals together so I, a vegetarian, don't have to touch the meat. (Actually, he's feeding the babies breakfast right now so I can spend time blogging.)

Jim goes out of his way to talk to the kids, usually in cute voices. He's currently "talking" for Gus in a baby voice, giving me a play-by-play of Gus' activities. And he just walked in to re-enact a physical showdown by the boys. Nothing warms your heart more than a man getting mushy over a kitten.

He has spent numerous days building special projects for the kids, like the playhouse and the indoor basement therapy pool, and he's perfectly happy with the loads of toys and play structures scattered around the inside of the house. The project he's currently mulling around in his head is a play structure for the cats...that rests on the wall of the Great Room...and allows them to climb up the wall...

I am so fortunate to have a husband who has the same values as I, and I know my kids benefit from that as well. I'm also lucky that he understands and is experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I am over the loss of Mr. Squiggles. I have a literal shoulder to cry on, and that shoulder cries right back. Really, our family couldn't ask for a better Daddy. Happy Father's Day to the best darn Papa in the whole world.

It's The Little Things

Every day, each of my four furry babies does something that I love, something that makes me smile. I live for these things.

Indiana always greets us first thing in the morning with a smile and a wag of her tail. If we're lucky, and if she's feeling particularly spry, she'll jump up on the bed with us when she hears the alarm go off.

She has a way of looking at you, when you're goofing around with her, that we call the "sideways glance." It's a look out of the corner of her eye that says, "You're nuts," but really she's saying, "I love that you're trying to make me laugh."

She loves getting in the car for a trip, even though it's usually to the vet's. She usually flies down the car stairs when we get to our destination, because she just loves going places.

She smiles and walks as fast as her arthritic legs can take her when she sees another dog. She LOVES dogs.

She always falls asleep between us every night, and if I'm really lucky, she'll lay her head on my leg, the best feeling in the world.

Isis is our "special" dog, which automatically makes me love her.

She can't hear well, but when she sees that you've woken up for the day, or that you've come home from being away, she'll get the biggest grin on her face, wag her tail, and generally go nuts with happiness.

She has her own way of getting into bed (no people in it, thank you very much): jump up, flop down on your side, and let out a huge groan.

She gives us "crazy kisses:" the biggest, fastest, most manic kisses you've ever seen. But she also can be discriminating. Sometime we'll just get a sniff and a dismissal.

Gus is the baby and therefore our special little man. With his disability, it's hard not to get a chuckle just watching him walk.

He has a special meow that he uses to look for us. Or his dog. Or birds. Or something, we don't always know what. But this meow slays me every time. I think it's a drug to me.

He chatters at birds and squirrels, while twitching his tail.

He lives to snuggle with his dog, Indiana. He does this dutifully every night and falls asleep for a while on her feet until eventually curling up on my ankles.

His mouth is so darn cute when he's gnawing on his raw food, and darn it, I think his little man-bits are the cutest things ever.

Sam came to us during a difficult time in our lives, so we're really grateful for him.

He is the whiniest cat I've ever met. It's like he has the worst life ever, even though we know for a fact that he does not.

He attacks bread in plastic bags. While this is also really annoying, I secretly love it because it's quirky.

He is huge and gorgeous with the best paws on the planet. Though he often uses them for evil, he never uses them to hurt us, even though he easily could.

He is slowly starting to sleep with us at night, which pleases us beyond belief.

I couldn't live with myself without mentioning our other family member, Mr. Squiggles. The thing I miss about him the most is when he would lay on my chest and gently place his paw (also huge and awesome, like Sammy's) on my lips or cheek, like he just wanted to be as close to me as possible. I dream about this quirk of his day or night, and even though I miss him fiercely, thinking of him touching my face makes me smile too.

These little things are the things that make my day worth living.

Day By Day

As many of you know, my family has experienced a number of heartbreaks over the past nine months. Life started going downhill in September with the disappearance of our cat (my son), Mr. Squiggles. A few short weeks later, Jim's great aunt Betty passed away, and Indiana became grievously ill and was diagnosed with kidney disease. While still reeling from these experiences, my beloved aunt, a mother figure in my life, passed away a few days after Christmas. Add in a few other problems I won't mention here, and most days I feel in over my head.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about Mr. Squiggles or my Aunt Carole, both of whom were taken from me far too soon. Mr. Squiggles remains an open book--is he still alive? is he lost?--but Carole's loss has so much finality. Both are difficult to deal with, just in different ways.

When I think of Mr. Squiggles, which is any time I look around my home, drive by sights we've searched for him, or, really, any moment I am awake, I am filled not only with grief, but also with guilt. Charged with protecting him, I obviously let him down. Nearly nine months have passed, and we've still not been able to bring him home. What have I missed? What did I do wrong?

I think about Carole all the time too. Though I spent most of my life separated from her by most of a country, the past three years she lived 20 minutes away, something I had dreamed of my whole life. She spent all of the special days with us--birthdays, parties, holidays, or we would just get together as a family, just because. It seems like half the things I own were given to me by her, so everywhere I look, I am surrounded by her. This is a comfort and a curse. I feel her loss the most deeply when our family of 6 is gathered, and we number only 5.

Though these losses haunt me daily, I know I have much to be thankful for. Scarred by Indiana's cancer four years ago, she has survived, and I have too. I thought I would never heal, and though I still worry about her (more than I should most of the time--but that's another post), she is still stable, happy, and for a dog who has been through so much, healthy.

Every day I struggle to get out of bed, to complete all my tasks, and do all my jobs. I mess up a lot and ignore my friends more than I should. Many things seem trivial when you've faced so much death, but really, isn't life all about those trivial things? I have many things to figure out in my life, but I'm young, and I have an amazing family to support me. I try not to push myself to figure too many things out at once. There will be time for these things. Instead, as much as I am able, I take things one day at a time. Though there are always going to be good days and bad, I know that, overall, every day will be a little bit easier. My losses will never go away, but time truly does heal all wounds. At least well enough to let us live our lives, and be happy.