I am finally able, after three weeks of nothing else, to get out of bed thanks to a correct diagnosis and initial treatment with much more looming on the horizon. The month of February has been lost, gone forever, and with it opportunities, including no pack photo shoot for Valentine's day; the impending end of winter with no mushing whatsoever; not breeding Kiki again, as in that time she went into, and came out of, heat. She will be six in November, a late age for a first litter. The stress of eau de estrus wafting through the house, and all the rest of that, including inactivity, seperation, and general lack of my attention and being voluntarily bedridden with me have taken a toll: Everyone, including me, is thinner, ragged, unbrushed, on edge, but they, unlike me, are all in good health.
Tuli continues to do well, although she has had bouts of vomiting and retching. Tufts of hair can be seen hanging from cots and on floors and bedding, toenails are way too long, teeth and ears need cleaning. The shame of seeing them having gotten to this state is unbearable.
When extreme chronic pain is compounded by the helplessness that accompanies it, the realization that few things about one's ability to control the body becomes an almost crushing, living, unwelcome entity come to life. I had always assumed that I would outlive my dogs, and the possibility that I may not weighs as equally as the alternative. This makes every day even more important and the frustration of not being able to realize some of those days worse.
We were finally able today to go for the daily run, and run they did, with the joy and release that one would expect. I was also, for the first time, able to use the camera Patrice gave me for my birthday. We then went for a ride in the truck, and, for the first time in nearly a month, everyone ate voraciously. Everyone, that is, but Kiki and Bayla, who eat like Marines no matter what else may be going wrong.