Friday, October 24, 2014

There's no blog like no blog

Last Saturday, I wrote a blog in its entirety. I was excited because that would have been two blogs in one week, something that hasn't happened in months and months.

Then, I read it and thought, "Geez, people will need an anti-depressant or a stiff drink after reading all this stuff. So, I didn't post it.

You can thank me later.

I have gone back and forth about the blog which remains not a blog. It's still not here so it's still not a blog. .

Suffice it to say, as with most of you, there are many things demanding our attention. I find myself writing for the Caring Bridge, to keep friends updated about our friend's cancer. I'm pretending to know how to "run" a church (and, trust me, I have no idea how to do this), as Master Pastor Reiki is unable to do so at this time. I'm speaking at church on Sunday and I have yet to prepare--I'm not sure what is going to fall out of my mouth. I think I blew up the agency's work email this afternoon.

I'm kinda proud of that last one. I didn't even know that was possible. Note to self: do not blow up work email on a Friday afternoon.

Sad to say, I haven't had much time or oomph to watch Dr. Who, look for a new tattoo on Pinterest or even pluck my eyebrows. God knows they are getting ready to take over the world. I haven't even had time to worry about the "E" word (ebola). I know that many, if not most, of you understand this, as you live it. (Not the eyebrows part. Just the time and oomph part.) To get out of my oomph-funk, I've decided I need to do something that gets me out of the house for a "good" reason, a fun reason, a creative reason....

....I've decided that I'm going to take Freckles and Lucy on a "Farewell Tour." Heck, if it's good enough for Cher and the Rolling Stones, it's good enough for our dogs. This is not maudlin in any capacity. A farewell tour isn't always farewell--think of all those performers who retire and then come back to have a final farewell tour. No matter the outcome, it will be fun. The tour will feature stops at all their favorite places and will include visits to their favorite people. I sense many a portrait to be had. I also think many an ice cream cone will be consumed (for both me AND Lucy). There will be rides in the shopping cart at local pet stores, more car trips than you can shake a paw at, a few repeat performances of entertaining antics. I may be able to get enough good photos that I'll make a calendar. Christmas presents! I better get a move on.

If you'd like to see the dogs in specific settings or situations, send me a message. The more creative, the better. There are only a few parameters to which I must conform.

It's settled. I'm not posting the blog that is not a blog. We have a farewell tour to kick-off, email to fix, a calendar to make and a sermon to write.

Take that, non-blog blog. Your darkness cannot stop me now.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Wayne's W*rld

I usually think of these really creative titles for blog entries but then don't use them because they are often based on a movie or a song or a book or something....which confuses people when they google what they are looking for and find me, instead.  It might be genius on my part to use such titles, as it does indeed bring thousands of "hits." Call me chicken. I'm glad when I have 50 hits and somehow don't feel it right to dupe people into finding me. I'll work on getting over that.

I don't usually use "real" names when blogging as I like to protect the guilty. Besides, I like to make up all sorts of supposedly-witty nicknames. In the case of this blog, I am using the main man's real first name. It is a homage to him; thus, I feel it only appropriate to use his name.

Have you ever made donations of clothing or household items or anything other than money to a specific organization and then wondered what happened to the stuff or where did it go or who is now using it? I get all sorts of generous stuff donated for distribution at where I work, but the problem is that no one ever gets to see where it goes, as confidentiality abounds. I can't take photos of the people as it would be a violation of all sorts of regulations and ethical obligations. I send thank you notes, but that doesn't "capture" what truly happens.

There is magic when donations arrive. 

At my place of employment, I've seen people who haven't had a new blanket in years (if ever) stare at me in disbelief when I hand them a donation of a new bedding set. It is very confusing and overwhelming. Sometimes, there is what I call "cover anger," which is a coping skill learned over the years. It's almost as this is too good to be true and you're just gonna take it back, so now you've pissed me off." It takes time to accept things without strings attached--it's hard to grasp that only love and generosity are attached.

I've seen people hold a pile of new, donated wash clothes like they were holding something breakable, unable to comprehend that this pile is theirs to keep from someone of which they do not know. I've seen clients clutch to hand-made holiday cards like they were gold--because, to those without families, they ARE gold.

Mental illness is confusing enough--donations from strangers can be more confusing. After all, who's gonna give you something without strings attached when your own family has written you off?

This blog, I am here to tell you what happened in the case of the most recent donation of clothing from a very dear friend. Wayne, her husband, passed away very unexpectedly, much-too-soon, not very long ago. Our friend has slowly gone through Wayne's belongings--a task of which I wish on no one. A pile here, a drawer there, a part of the closet. I cannot imagine this feat. Along the way, she has made donations of his clothes to "my" clients.

Until this point, I had dispersed the items she donated here and there, seeking people in need and of the right size. While it's always rewarding to do this, I didn't realize how much a punch it didn't pack....

.....this time, I decided to disperse all her newest "Wayne donations" in one fell swoop. Wayne's wife had donated an amazing assortment of new and barely-used winter clothing. I decided that by taking photos of the winter coats, ski/snow pants, sweaters, pants, socks and even shoes, I could mass-email the agency and get the word out. Of the four pair of shoes, two of them had not been worn or perhaps had been worn once. I made sure to take a photo of the unused shoe treads.

Coats are a hot commodity--barely used name brand coats are not even part of our client consciousness. I gasped as I took the photos--these high-end winter coats didn't even looked used. I knew these would make a huge difference in someone's winter.

I sent out an email to the entire agency, complete with descriptions and photos. I explained that the items were by my office and that it was first come, first dibs. I added that anything not claimed by the end of the day would be donated to the weekend's clothing drive. (I've learned that time limits go a long way.)

Within minutes of hitting the "send" button, people were at my door. Everywhere I looked, magic was swooping down upon me.

I saw one of the younger staff--a guy who happens to spend much time working outdoors--standing off to the side, casually looking at the pile. He didn't know I was watching, but I was. I saw his eyes zero in on a significantly-used pair of those outdoor brown one-piece things that guys wear when it's ridiculously cold outside. They were stained and beat up but still in one piece, had no holes and were most definitely still able to function in the capacity of which they were designed: to stay warm while working outdoors. (It is important to note that some of our line staff face many issues, including poverty; after all, no one is going to get rich working for us.) He slowly walked toward me and asked if staff could look at the donations. I assured him that was fine. He asked about the coveralls, noting he didn't have anything like this to wear when shoveling and plowing in the wee hours of the morning. I encouraged him to try the coverall on and explained that the woman who had donated this item would be glad to know someone who worked outside would get good use of the coveralls. I added how I didn't think any clients would be interested in them.

I thought he was going to cry. He was so grateful that I could actually feel it coming out of his pores. He held the coveralls up and asked if I thought they would fit. I said they looked perfect. Wayne, score one for you. This winter, you will be riding shotgun, keeping a fine young man warm during his efforts to keep our driveways and parking lots cleared of snow.

Clients were trying on things left and right. It was like a fashion show! Sweaters, coats, pants all in a flurry of motion. There was laughing and bartering and planning and even sad sighing (from those of whom could not squeeze into the chosen donated item).Within in the first hour, almost every article of clothing had found new owners.

By the end of the day, it was like I was walking in Wayne's World...everywhere I looked, little "pieces" of Wayne could be seen. One client walked by in his newly-claimed black cowboy boots. I overheard another client talking about his new socks, noting that he had no socks so he was pretty glad to get all these socks. One of Wayne's sweaters could be seen in the distance, proudly being worn by a young man who was now sweating profusely--it was too warm to wear a sweater, but he was not going to wait to wear his new clothing! I was touched at how much I got to "see" and "feel" Wayne on this day.

I noticed that a pair of new black dress shoes had been left behind--everything else was gone. I think they may have been overlooked, as they had been pushed under a chair. I didn't think much about them and left them so an owner could find them. I celebrated how our agency was Wayne's W*rld today.

That afternoon, I was off site, talking to a staff who was getting married the next day. The guy is pretty tight with money--he has a big family and lots of bills, despite being frugal and conscientious about his money. He mentioned that he had to go out and get a pair of black shoes for the wedding. I knew this guy didn't have money to spend on himself for shoes. The guy never buys new clothes, instead making sure the new stuff is there for his kids. He wore scruffy sweatshirts and shorts--all year long. I looked down at his feet and asked what size shoe he wears. When he said the size, I started laughing. I told him to call our office and see if there were still a pair of black shoes underneath the chair where I had last seen them.

Of course, the shoes were still there. Brand new black dress shoes, there for the taking. Of course, they fit perfectly. Was there  doubt? Wayne was just waiting for the right guy to come along.

I am pleased to announce that Wayne made it to the wedding. The shoes were exactly what the groom had envisioned. They looked great! Not only was Wayne's W*rld enveloping me at work--here he was at a wedding! An outdoor wedding, no less--something Wayne would have enjoyed.

I can't wait for the weather to get a bit colder so I can "see" Wayne everywhere.

Please know that when you make a donation, magic does really happen. Picture me and "my" clients in Wayne's W*rld. It's a great place to be.

***********************************
With profound Gratitude to Wayne's wife
***********************************

Saturday, October 04, 2014

Riding the Canine Rollercoaster

The photos have nothing to do with this blog entry besides the fact that the blog is about a dog and that they brought me a smile. 
I got these off of pinterest, so I can't give proper thanks. I mean no harm and only have three readers, so please do not get all crazed and sue me.

Good Ol' Freckles Warrior Princess was acting more bizarre than usual last week, so I finally took her to the vet. Thankfully (kind of a weird thing to say), Freckles presented as confused, lost and not quite on the planet when the vet took a gander. (You know how it is--your dog has a problem and you take it to the vet and when you get there, the dog doesn't have the problem? I was so glad this wasn't the case this time.) 

The vet and the vet tech did a lot of frowning and looking and frowning and looking. Freckles did a lot of blank staring; in fact, at one point she was facing a wall and didn't know it. I explained the "milk dud unsuspecting poop thing" and pointed out how her butt looked awful (hey, your butt wouldn't look good if you were shooting out poop duds and didn't know it). I added that some days were really good and other days it was like no one was "home." I recalled how she got "stuck" in the closet a few weeks back and didn't know how to get out, how she barks at length for no known reason, how she has become ridiculously demanding at times. I ensured I included information on how "sharp" she was on many a day: perky, alert, acting like the puppy of old.

After listening to me and taking much time to examine Freckles, the vet looked at me and said,
"How much do you want me to do?"

I understood the question fully. I answered without hesitation, "I don't."

The vet understood my answer. This helped her with the decision-making process of how to help Freckles without putting her through all sorts of ridiculous, expensive, unnecessary testing. It wasn't "time" yet but the time was quickly approaching. The "doggy dementia" was a given and the milk dud poops were deemed part of the aging process.

For some reason, I spoke about how Freckles and I had made a deal--I had spent thousands of dollars to keep her alive many years ago and I wouldn't be doing that again, despite my undying devotion to her. The vet nodded as if she understood and didn't seem to judge my bizarre babbling.

After I described (in detail--you know how I am) the things of which I was most concerned (her pacing, restlessness, looking lost and somehow uncomfortable), the vet decided to treat either anxiety or pain. I didn't want to try medication for doggy dementia--that seemed rather over-the-top and probably very expensive (dogs take the same meds as people for dementia and I've seen the price tag of those meds--forget it!).  The vet and I talked about how when people get dementia, they often pace and shuffle about, almost always in constant motion. On other days, they don't do that. If the pacing was from the doggy dementia, an anti-anxiety med might be of help. If the pacing and restlessness was from pain, that was a whole different story. The vet gave me the choice of which she should treat: pain or anxiety. After listening to my choices (Xanax or some morphine-like pain stuff to rub on the dog's gums), I went with pain, as Freckles seemed so uncomfortable during the past 24 hours and I'd much rather know my dog was not in pain than anything else.

To be honest, cost was a factor in my decision: I thought pain meds would be cheaper than Xanax. Remember that I said that.

The vet did some "rear end maintenance" (I kid you not, that is what the bill itemization states), shaving her butt right down to the skin. She left the room to make a concoction of pain medication, leaving me and Freckles to discuss things like world politics, the state of contagious diseases, the meaning of Cutler's seven year contract. The vet tech returned and handed me the 1/4 filled little bottle of liquid medication. She explained how it is absorbed through the gums--all I had to do was aim for Freckles' cheeks, not force it down her throat. She waved a little syringe thing in front of me and showed me what to do. "She can take it up to three times a day, but if she's too stoned, you can cut back. You can use it as she needs."

It was then I was handed the bill. That little bottle of pain med--the size of a small eye drop bottle--filled only 1/4 of the way--cost over $75.00.

So much for picking the cheap route.

Her "rear end maintenance" cost $19.00. I thought that was a steal of a deal, considering how bad her butt looked.

The trip to the vet was a miracle cure. I never did use the medication--it's sitting in the bottle, on the counter, waiting for a "bad" day. That damn dog has been perfect since going to the vet--she's been perky and grounded and not restless at all. I took her back to the vet yesterday so they could clean her up (read: shave off some of that disgusting gunk) and the vet tech was astounded. "I can't believe that's Freckles! She's so different than she was the other day. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't believe it."

And so, we shall now ride the Canine Roller coaster, with both dogs in the front car. We'll keep an eye out for milk dud poops and for signs that there might be pain. Heck, I can give Lucy the pain meds if Freckles doesn't need them. Perhaps I need the pain meds and can rub it on my gums. (That stuff is stronger than Morphine--imagine the fun I could have). We'll spoil them even more rotten than we already do and we'll enjoy the ride as much as we can. They'll eat waffles (thanks, grandma!) and golden arches hamburgers and ride in the car and eat ice cream and sleep on the couch whenever they want. Freckles can drop all the marbles she wants and needs to and she can smell as bad as she does and it will be all good.

Um, the only thing they need to do is let us sleep. The wife is so sleep deprived that she no longer knows if she is coming or going. Those dogs keep her up all night. 

When the day comes, we'll get off the roller coaster. I won't ride one minute longer than I have to because I won't put the dogs through that. After all, they have given me so much more than I can ever give them.

This won't be the last you hear of these dogs, as I'm sure there will be many a tale--or, should I say tail?--to tell. Here's to pain meds and ice cream! Just watch where you step if you visit our home.