Realizations

Today is my first free day in about forever.  I had a melding of my two lives this past weekend; five days of talking about animal wellness/cancer/nutrition and two days of singing 17th century French music. 

I say "my two lives," because sometimes that's how it feels.  I am two different people, who live two dramatically different lives in two very different places.  The cancer crusader lives in Kankakee, Illinois, and spends her time not only taking care of her own clan of animals, but also fighting to promote wellness for other pets.  She is selfless and sacrificing, and wants what is best for others.  The professional singer lives in Kankakee, Illinois but works in Chicago, and spends her time driving back and forth, entertaining people and practicing and studying.  She is selfish and egotistical, and while she wants to bring joy to others through her music, she really wants to feel good about herself and her art.  I'm not an entirely selfish person as a singer; I really honestly do want to make a connection with my audience.  But I don't think you can make it in the entertainment world without a little big of ego (with all the rejection, you'd be a muddy pile of depression if you didn't think you were pretty good). 

Because my two lives are so far apart not only in style but also geography, I've struggled for a while with how to fit the two together.  Can I fit the two together?  Spending this weekend with both selves, I didn't come up with a solid answer, but I think I got closer.

You see, the cancer crusader got to talk to a lot of parents about nutrition and wellness.  With some, it went in one ear and out the other.  That's the nature of life.  But with others, I could see the light go on; something "clicked" for them, and I could see it.  That's what I live for.  That moment when you know that what you've just said will make a difference for that person, that what you said will change the life of their pet.  I'm fairly certain I convinced a few parents to stop feeding corn-based foods in favor of holistic, human-grade products.  Call me crazy, but that kind of thing gives me a high.  I rock.

But then the singer got to do a performance for a (decently) large crowd, and while she did make one significantly (to her) large mistake, she didn't mess up where she expected to, and probably no one noticed anyway.  Hopefully.  I heard some really positive feedback from people in the audience, and while it feels great to have exceeded your own expectations, what really feels great is to know that the audience is happy.  My colleagues and I put on a great concert.  I love working with these people, making a connection with them, and making real music.  That rocks too.

I think I've been trying to talk myself into being either the cancer crusader or the singer.  But I think the answer lies in finding a balance of both.  I would never give up fighting for animals, but I don't think I'd be happy without singing in my life.  So while it complicates my life (a lot), I have to find a way to let the two me's live in harmony, if you'll pardon the pun.

Gus is Hazardous to My Health: Part Two

It has come to my attention that I never finished telling the story of my cat bite drama, and because I am super busy this week, here it is for your reading pleasure.

***WARNING!! THIS POST CONTAINS ICKY PICTURES***

(The cat that started it all. He looks so cute and innocent, right? How can you be mad at that?)

A few months ago, I started The Great Finger Saga.  A bunch of crazy things happened, and I never felt it was the right time to finish it.  But because I had already started most of the post, and because it only required a little tweaking, (and because it's lazy blogging week--yay!), here is my tale of raging infectious disease.

The finger pre-surgery. See? It totally doesn't look that awful, does it? I mean, it looked waaaay worse after it happened. I just don't have any pictures of it from then. What was I thinking?

Where we last left off in our story was the day before surgery. Fast forward to the next morning. I was pretty scared but still was feeling uncharacteristically zen about the whole thing. It was what it was. Then I got to the hospital and got super nervous. Still, I tried to see this as an adventure. A learning experience. I've always been fascinated by medical stuff and gross pictures, and here was a chance to experience it first hand. I'd never had surgery before but have watched like a million episodes of "House" and "ER," so I could put all of that medical knowledge to the test. Awesome.

They called me to surgical prep pretty quickly, and luckily they didn't offer to let Jim accompany me just yet, because I wouldn't have let him come anyway. He's medically squeamish, and has passed out before, so I wasn't letting him anywhere near needle insertion. I'm not afraid of needles, blood, or urine specimen cups, so pre-surgical was a breeze for me. They let Jim and my Dad (who came to wait with us) back into my prep room, and then the hard part came. The waiting. And the waiting.

Luckily, I got visits from the my infectious disease doctor and my surgeon. That helped pass the time. Finally, the anesthesiologist came in, and then I knew the ball would get rolling. My OR nurse finally came in, and it was time to GO! I was so ready to get it over with.

Being rolled into an OR is a scary experience. They took my glasses off (which meant I was blind as a bat), so my view of everything was fuzzy. That's ok though, because my view was mostly of the ceiling. When I got into the OR, it was cold and bright, as I expected, having watched lots of television. (See? It's totally good for something.) There were a lot of people running around doing lots of things that I'm sure pertained to me somehow. The OR nurse never left my side and explained everything that was going on. The anesthesiologist was ticked off because her computer that keeps track of medications wasn't letting her log in, so they had to bring in some other guy to help her. It was a tad disconcerting, since you want everything to run smoothly. My awesome nurse came in close, touched my arm, and said, "This has nothing to do with you. You are totally fine. It's just a problem with the computer that keeps track of medications for billing. Don't worry." So then the other two anesthesiologists heard her, thought, "Oh, maybe we're freaking out the scared patient," so they both came over and laughed and said, "Oh, no, don't worry, you're totally fine." OK. Let's get this OVER WITH!

The plan, because I'm a sort-of-professional singer, was to avoid intubation at all costs (because they shove a plastic tube down your throat, pushing aside your vocal chords). The plan the doctors came up with was to give me several shots in the nerves of my affected finger, to numb it, put me under heavy sedation, and then do a light dose of general anesthesia over that, but only use a breathing tube that goes to the back of your throat. This was fine with me. I had two criteria: (1) avoid my vocal chords, and (2) make sure I am dead to the world. But not literally.

I was afraid of that nerve block (a needle in your nerve has to hurt, doesn't it?), so both my nurse and I requested sedation prior to that. The doctor said I might feel it just a little, but all I remember is the anesthesiologist telling me she was injecting the sedative, the nurse holding an oxygen mask over my mouth, and then....nothing. Versed, you are a wonderful drug.

The next thing I remember is coming to in the recovery room, or perhaps being wheeled there. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist asking me to sing...maybe. God only knows, when you're coming out of anesthesia. I do remember coming to, and it didn't take long. My eyes wouldn't focus for a while, and I was dreadfully thirsty, and my throat hurt. Some nice person brought me my glasses so I could see. Then I could watch my vitals monitor, which had the time on it. Large chunks of time would pass, even though it felt like time was going slowly. I don't think I slept, but apparently, I zoned out big time.

I remember the first thing I did after waking up was look at my hand. I had a small fear going in that they would have to amputate my finger, so I had to check to make sure it was still there. It was. It was wrapped up into a giant club, and I couldn't feel it at all, so that was good. I just stared at it for a really long time, inspecting it. It probably looked weird to the nurses, but I suppose they're used to that. I heard all kinds of crazy from the other patients in the room.

An hour or so later, two techs came to get me to have my PICC line inserted. If you're not familiar with a PICC line, PICC stands for Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, or Evil-Medieval-Torture-Device-That-Made-My-Life-Hell-But-Actually-Allowed-Me-To-Do-My-Own-IV-Treatments-At-Home-Instead-Of-Having-To-Be-In-The-Hospital-Or-The-Nursing-Home-For-Six-Weeks. You see, one of the problems with treating osteomyelitis, which is what I had, is that it requires really strong IV antibiotics daily for six weeks. So in otherwise healthy patients, the hospital inserts a plastic catheter in the fleshy part of your upper arm and threads it through a vein until it reaches your superior vena cava, one of the main arteries coming out of your heart. This is done using ultrasound and x-ray, which was kind of cool, but also super creepy. I was worried I would feel the catheter snaking its way into my heart, but I didn't. I won't say that the procedure hurt, because that's not quite the right word, but let's just say I hope never to have to repeat it.

Once that was done, the techs kindly let me use the bathroom (hours and hours of IV fluids + a normally weak bladder = extreme discomfort). They also gave me a glass of water, so they were at that moment officially my favorite people of the day. (No offense, OR nurse Jody-you're my fav too)

There was some confusion about which room I would be going to following surgery, even though I had been told 325 hours before, and I kept saying, "I was told 325." Eventually, where did I end up? 325.

I was pretty darn awake at this point and feeling no pain. The nurses were really nice and got me set up with a morphine pump (which I saw as a challenge--I WILL NOT USE IT!) and got me as comfortable as possible in my room. My family all came to see me that night, and though I didn't think I was hungry, by the time dinner made its way to me, I was STARVING! My biggest complaint the whole time I was there was a nasty migraine that wouldn't go away. You'd think that in a hospital, they could fix that, but all they could give me was extra-strength Tylenol. Thankfully, I slept better than I expected, and in the morning, after breakfast, my migraine finally eased.

I had the nicest nurses while I was there. I have several nurses in my life, so I know they work really hard, are underpaid, and get treated like crap half the time. I know to be really appreciative of all they do. But these women were so kind and so laid back, and I am grateful to them for taking such good care of me!

In the morning, I woke up and knew I needed to go home. Come on, people, let's get the ball rolling. Thankfully, my daytime nurse was behind me 100%, so she did all she could to get me home ASAP. I had several doctors to see first, but luckily, they all came at almost the same time, and I got that out of the way. The nurse unwrapped my hand, and I got to see my incision for the first time. Gag. The surgeon had put a cotton pack in it, so when the nurse removed it (which I thought would hurt, but it didn't), the hole was gigantic! I am not a squeamish person, but I seriously couldn't look at it. Then blood started to ooze out. And the surgeon wanted me to start physical therapy on it right away. That actually didn't hurt at all, even though I had regained feeling in my finger at around 3am that morning. But it was gross that blood would seep out of the wound every time I bent that joint. Ick. Wanna see a picture of it, a couple of days post-surgery? It's kind of gross, be warned.

Gross, huh? But it looked far worse the day after surgery. Plus, it just got unwrapped before I took the picture, so it looks kind of squished and weird.  It only took about two weeks to heal completely, and now I only have a small scar and a small amount of scar tissue.

So anyway, the nurse got me out of the hospital by noon, which I was really happy about. I was useless at home, but at least I was surrounded by comfort and love! I knew there was a lot of crap coming up to deal with, and poor Jim was taking care of me, the animals, the house, and working 72 hours a week. I don't know how he did it. I only know that it reiterated to me how amazing he truly is.

Ok, now it's time for show-and-tell. There aren't any more graphic pictures.

My poor, useless mitten. I changed the dressing on it three times a day. I always made sure to leave three fingers carefully uncovered, or else I was totally screwed. This is, however, the main reason I couldn't drive or bathe myself.

 

My massive blister caused by some reaction to the medical tape on my PICC line. 
I actually have a small scar still from it. .

The tower of medical supplies.

Me making a fist! I hadn't been able to bend that finger for over a month, so that was progress.
It's the little things, people.

My worst enemy PICC line. A temporary/too permanent for my taste IV line inserted in a vein in my arm. It is threaded into my superior vena cava, which for those who don't remember high school biology, is in your chest. And I was awake for the insertion. Good times.

I had to do an IV once a day for six weeks. Plus, I had to make a two-hour round-trip drive once a week for a bandage change and some blood work. But the staff there was really nice, and the drive was easy, so I shouldn't complain.

My nifty little bottle of ertapenem: just plug in and go. The doctor changing my drug after the first week, from the broad-spectrum ertepenem to the more focused ceftriaxone. My finger cultures showed the bacterium Pasteurella growing in my bone, so this new drug will target that bacteria.

I still can't believe one little cat bit caused all of these problems. It took a long time for me to realize that osteomyelitis is a very serious illness, and is potentially deadly (though not if you get it treated--I'm in no danger of dying).  Being sick sucked, because I couldn't lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk until the PICC line was out, which meant I couldn't even pick up my own cats. Or laundry baskets, or bags of groceries. I also couldn't do dishes (boo hoo, huh?), and I had difficulty opening cans of pet food. I also couldn't shower by myself until  I got a nifty contraption that creates a seal over the PICC line to prevent it from getting wet. With that, I was able to put it on all by myself and shower whenever I wanted! Yippee! But I still felt like an invalid, and that depressed me.
Thanks to massive amounts of probiotics I was taking to counteract the massive amounts of antibiotics going into my body, the only side effect I had from the medicine during treatment was extreme tiredness.  My worst day was the day I had to lean against the washing machine and catch my breath after putting in a load of laundry.  This, three months after running a 5K. 

Since stopping the antibiotics, I'm still not 100%.  A few weeks after finishing treatment, I got suddenly, violently ill, two days before Christmas.  I almost ended up in the hospital, and for a while, I might have welcomed that.  My doctor suspected C diff, a secondary bacterial GI infection caused by the die-off of good bacteria in my GI tract.  So I was back on antibiotics; oral Flagyl this time.  That took care of the vomiting and the worst of the other-awful-GI-symptoms-that-you-all-know-what-I'm-talking-about, but the other-awful-GI-symptoms-that-you-all-know-what-I'm-talking-about lasted for about another month and a half.  And I have some memory issues (I can't remember crap right now), which my neurologist thinks is from the antibiotics and should go away eventually.  So osteomyelitis kind of ruined my life.  At least for a while.  But I learned a few things; (1) I plan to take good care of myself and never, ever get sick for the rest of my life, and (2) never, ever pick Gus up when he's mad.

My Quirks as a Parent

(Besides being ok with cat butt in my face?)

I will admit to having some "quirks" as a parent.  Some of this is a product of worry, some of it is born of necessity, and some of it, well, it's because I'm weird. 

Because I do the same thing multiple times a day, every single day, I have to have things a certain way.  For example, when I prepare a meal for my pets, I am feeding 6 creatures at a time.  Their bowls must go in a certain place on the counter, and each animal's bowl has to be in the exact same place every time.  This is partly so I can keep track of whose food is whose (all six of my animals get different medicines/supplements), but it's also because I'm OCD about it.  For instance, it makes my brain explode when Jim feeds the animals and puts the bowls in different places.  It's ok that he does it, I just can't be around to see it.

Another weird quirk:  I am picky about raw food textures.  I like the food to be soft, wet, and easy to break apart.  Isis will eat absolutely anything (she's my only raw-eater right now), so I know she doesn't care about "texture."  In fact, she eats so fast, I know she doesn't even think about texture.  Yet, I will avoid certain brands and/or meats because of the texture.

I also can't stand eye boogers.  Every pet owner knows that all pets get them, and I am constantly picking them off of my pets.  Mr. Squiggles, because he has a cataract in one eye, has a constantly weeping eye, which means a constant supply of eye boogers growing on his face that I am forever picking off, leading to a frequently annoyed cat.

I never play loud music in the house (or car when the pets are with me), because I worry that it agitates the animals. 

I always tell the animals (especially Indiana) when I am leaving; I tell them where I am going, and when I will be back.  Every single time.

Likewise, when we put the animals in the car, we tell them where we are going.

I talk to Indiana like she's people, reasoning (and even begging) with her. 

We sometimes pronounce Q*bert as Cue-bear and speak to him in French.

Each of our animals has a nick-name that is so bastardized that we often don't remember how we arrived at it.  What we most often call each pet (right now--this changes too):

     Indiana: Bear

     Isis: Noodle

     Mr. Squiggles:  Butt

     Gus: PJ

     Samson: Turd

     Q*bert: the aforementioned Cue-bear

We have a pile of dog toys literally two feet high and three feet wide, even though neither dog plays with toys anymore.

Our house is covered with cat playthings, the bigger the better.  We have the Great Wall of China, a tank, and a huge pile of cardboard bricks with which we build a different fort a few times a week.

I think I'm going to end this post before you all think I've totally lost my mind.

Things I Love Today

I had a kind of rough day yesterday (any day that involves jumper cables, police cars with their lights flashing just for you, and a tow truck is destined not to be the best day ever).  My week is already really busy, with me spending all week volunteering at the IKC Dog Show (13-14 hour days, no time to sit down, one 5-minute lunch break,  babysitting an extra critter this week along with caring for my own (beyond time-consuming) clan, a rehearsal and a big concert on Sunday...yikes!  I'm already freaking myself out!).  Now I'm down one vehicle (please, please, please be done by noon today!), and I have to get myself up to Chicago late this afternoon to begin set-up.  *Takes deep breaths*

I'm trying to be zen about the whole thing, because I have control over so little of it.  So in honor of that, today's post is about things that are making me smile today:

I love that Gus tries to play with Mr. Squiggles, and because he plays too hard, it makes Mr. Squiggles mad.

I love Isis won't get into bed until after Jim and I have both gotten out of it. 

I love that Samson has started sleeping with us at night, finally, after being a member of our family for 14 months. 

I love that the minute I sit down on the couch, Mr. Squiggles heads over from anywhere in the house to sit on my lap.

I love that Indiana will always, always eat her freeze-dried patties with her liquid gold medicine.  Good girl!

I love that Indiana has been getting up  on the bed, all by herself!

I love that Q*bert has no self-control when it comes to food, and that he runs around crying like an idiot while we're preparing meals. 

I love that it's getting warmer outside, which means Indiana can sit outside as long as she wants.

I love knowing that I have a house full of kitties, happily sleeping somewhere, usually where I can't find them.

I love that in 5 days, my hell week will be over for another year!!

I Could Not Live Without This Product

(My best friend)

Meet my best friend, Stella and Chewy's freeze dried dinners.  My life has been greatly simplified by these tiny patties.  Right now it's the only thing Indiana will consistently eat.  Her new cancer supplement, Poly-MVA, comes as a liquid, so I tear up the dried patties and pour the Poly-MVA over it, let it soak in for a few minutes, and then feed the bits to Indiana.  Whatever is left on the plate, Indiana will lick that up.  So it works REALLY well for us.  Plus, as I mentioned, Indiana won't eat her turkey right now, or even always her canned food.  But she never refuses the Stella and Chewy's freeze-dried patties.  (Why isn't S & C's paying me to write this???) 

Not only is Indiana ga-ga for these patties, but it makes my cats lose their sh*t.  Seriously.  Three of my four are picky eaters (especially Mr. Squiggles), yet when I open the cabinet and pull out the Stella and Chewy's, I have four cats flying into the kitchen from all ends of the house.  The meowing starts right away, because I cannot feed them this stuff fast enough.  They'll eat and eat it until I stop feeding it to them.  It's crazy, but exciting too.  Yes, I get excited about pet food.

If you view it as a treat, I suppose it's kind of expensive (around $27 a bag), but the bag holds a lot of patties, and the patties are basically solid meat.  We go through a ridiculous number of these bags a month now, but oh my gosh, you cannot put a price on my sanity.  If you have never tried these patties, especially if you have an older pet or picky eater, I encourage you to go out right now and buy a bag.  Your life will never be the same.

You're welcome.

Tidbits

We are on Day 8 of Indiana's Poly-MVA treatment today, her second day on a full dose.  I think she's feeling a little off this morning.  She ate some of her breakfast but rejected part, which she hasn't done in a while.  I think she's having some detox issues (it can make them feel a little sick).  Not only is she acting sick this morning, but she's been super, super itchy the past several days.  This doesn't make any sense, because (a) she doesn't get any grains or any "inflammatory" foods in her diet, (b) it's the middle (end?) of winter, so there aren't a lot of allergens or even any darn fleas.  My gut instinct tells me it's a detox reaction (her body ridding itself of toxins via the skin).  My gut's usually right.

Also, and this sucks, but I think her tumor is a little bigger too.  It lays on the part of her back that she's been itching, so maybe it's inflamed from her chewing.  I also wonder if maybe it has something to do with the Poly "doing it's magic."  Maybe killing off the cancer cells causes inflammation.  I don't know.  But I'm not freaking out about it, and that usually means there is a simple reason for the problem.  There are advantages to being so mentally connected to your pet! (Does that sound crazy?)

All-in-all, we've had worse problems with drug detox.  In fact, one medicine worked so well that we simply couldn't keep her on it.  She felt so sick and I just couldn't bear to see it.  So this one, so far, isn't too bad.  We'll continue with the plan, and if she feels worse, we can always back off on the dose for a while. 

I was really hoping that my vacation a few weeks ago would be a magic fix to the winter blahs I've been having.  It was wonderful to get away, and don't get me wrong, I really needed it, but I feel again like I need a vacation!  I'm super moody some days, and I get really down on myself easily, for the stupidest mistakes.  I forget sometimes that I'm human, that it's ok for me to make mistakes.  And the thing is, I make mistakes all the time.  So I need to let up on myself and just do the best I can. 

One good thing that happened yesterday: I am heading to Boston in May for the Paws 4 A Cure Fourth Annual Walk!  Paws 4 A Cure was founded by one of my pet cancer friends, and it raises money that goes towards cancer treatments for families who can't afford it.  I'm really happy because I'll get to meet a lot of old friends, finally, in person, people who have been with me through my darkest hours (and I theirs).  We're friends for life, and it's so sweet.  I am so happy that I'm getting to go and show my support for Paws 4 A Cure and walk in honor of my own brave cancer fighter! 

Ummm...speaking of which, did you know you can visit Great Good Heart's CafePress store and order t-shirts and other merchandise showing your pride for your cancer survivor/fighter?  We have several different slogans available for purchase, and all of the proceeds go to animal cancer education and awareness!

Dang, I have blog ADD today.  This week is the big International Kennel Club Dog Show.  We do it every year, thanks to our kind supporter,  Karen Baker, our local distributor of Artemis Pet Foods.  She gives Great Good Heart a section of her booth, and in return, we help out by talking about Artemis Foods.  This is our fourth year at the show, and it's always A LOT of work, but a lot of fun too.  I get to talk about nutrition and other wellness issues and help some cancer parents along the way. 

This year, it's been hard to get ready for the show.  So much of my energy goes to helping my own dog; how do I have enough left for other people's dogs too?  But I do.  I'll dig deep and find it, and when it's all over, I'll feel good about what I've done. 

It's Tough, But Not Really

This post is written with apologies to Dr. Becker; I listened to you, I really did.  I took the rest of your advice, just not the part about not blogging about it.

Indy's been doing really great.  I can't quite explain why (though I suspect it has something to do with the decrease in stress in her life), and I certainly didn't expect it (though I did hope for it with all my heart).  She's really a fighter, and you'd think that after all these years, I'd be used to it.  It slays me every time. 

We had our twice-monthly visit with our vet on Tuesday, and Dr. Becker was pleasantly surprised when Indiana stood up to greet her when she walked in the room.  She was getting around really well, and several staff members commented on it as well.  I felt such a surge of pride that my girl was doing so well.  I stake no claim on that accomplishment; it's all her doing.

Anyway, Dr. Becker and I discussed running tests on Indiana, or, rather, not running tests on Indiana.  Dr. Becker feels (and can she read my mind? Because this has been in my thoughts for weeks) that we shouldn't run any more "unnecessary" tests on Indy; i.e. basically only treat symptoms.  (And test her kidneys, because we can alter her fluid intake to make her feel better, if necessary)  On a bigger spectrum, that means no more cancer tests at the U of I or Purdue. 

As Dr. Becker pointed out, this goes against everything I have learned as a parent in the last four and a half years.  I have learned to be proactive, to catch things before they become a problem.  And now, I'm going to stop looking for problems...especially cancer?  In a word, yes.  Indiana's stress tolerance is really low these days, and after all she's been through, she deserves to live as stress-free as possible now.

But what if the tests show cancer, you ask?  Indiana has maxed out on the most common chemo drug, doxorubicin (thanks to cancer #1), and I doubt her frail system could handle any other chemo drugs at this point.  We've already started her on Poly-MVA, the most "drastic" of our options.  Plus, we won't put her under anaesthesia for surgery.  So, armed with the potential knowledge that she has yet another form of cancer, what would our options be anyway?  It seems selfish to put her through all of the tests with no benefit gained. 

As Dr. Becker so elegantly put it, every decision we make at this point is about respecting Indiana.  Respecting her needs, but more importantly, respecting her wants. 

Maybe to some pet parents, it sounds like we're giving up on her.  We certainly are not.  We are armed with a powerful arsenal of holistic medicines and Chinese herbs as well as a crack team of veterinary specialists.  I live every day at her disposal, making sure she gets healthy foods, but ones she loves and will eat.  I painstakingly hide her pills and powders inside tasty tidbits, so she thinks she's getting yummy (yucky) things like liver sausage.  And, as we've learned is so important, I listen to what she is telling me, making sure she is happy, calm, and as mentally stimulated as she can be.  She has so many needs, yet so few wants, and it's my job to make sure she gets them.