It’s been a miserable few years, and so much seems like it’s overwhelming my already sketchy autonomic nervous system. I guess some of it started with my dad’s death 10 years ago, though I coasted through with numbness and my dog. There were more medical issues (broken ankle, gallstones, surgery on my scalp), many, many medical tests, too many doctors, and in general feeling like I was forced to die while still alive. Then the intensifying of food restriction started in May 2021.
My dad was my earthly rock. He’d been sick for a month, but his death was not expected even at 83 years old. The guy didn’t even own Tylenol/paracetamol- he was healthy until that last month or so. His back had been bothering him a bit, but not so much that he didn’t drive to southern Florida for a few months with someone he knew. I got a call from the rehab place he’d been sent to after being hospitalized for some biopsied but unidentified lesions that were found on his spine. He had very low blood pressure, and was being sent to the ER. The rehab place had grossly under-reported his condition, shocking me a bit when I got to the ER, just behind the ambulance. The cognitively intact person I knew was delirious. And he was dying from what was found to be a ruptured bowel, so badly damaged that gas built up in his bladder, and the only option was comfort care.
He was gone 19 hours after I got that phone call. I was with him alone for the last 6 hours, which are so precious to me. His cousin and close friends had been there earlier. Dad and I had discussed end of life care with each other, and I’m so thankful, because his desire to be kept comfortable was the only humane thing to do. He wouldn’t have survived anesthesia to try and fix what was a catastrophic bowel perforation; he’d complained to the rehab staff about abdominal pain since his admission, and nothing was done. I miss him more than I can express. It’s been too painful to visit the cemetery after that first Father’s Day, but I think I need to go up there. He was the only human ever to have my complete trust. He never lied to me. He always included things in family trips that he and mom wouldn’t have cared about, but knew that I would love to see or do. I’m incredibly thankful for the years as an adult when I got to know him so much better. I was lucky as an adoptee to land in a home where he was my dad.
About 3 years prior to his death, he bought me a puppy after my previous dog (# 3 of an eventual 5) had died in my arms at home in late 2012. I was devastated. But my new pup ended up becoming the one who I was closest to since I’d been on disability for many years when I got her, so she never knew me working. We were together 24/7 for nearly 12 1/2 years. In 2025, she was starting to struggle. I’d been through the ‘end’ before with 2 dogs, as well as my childhood dog who was with my folks when her time came, and knew the signs to watch for. I let her dictate how things went. She had some skin issues that the vet refused to remove surgically for 3+ years of me trying to get it done for her. She also had possible mammary cancer noted at an age when it would have been more cruel to put her through major surgery away from our hometown. Initially, she just got picky with food. I ended up getting her baby food turkey, rice cereal, and applesauce that she ate eagerly, so I kept getting it for her. I knew it wasn’t ‘enough’, but I also knew that she was nearing the end, so if that’s what she wanted, that’s what she got, along with her favorite treats… until she didn’t want those.
The night she quit following me wherever I went in the apartment, I knew it was time. She wasn’t even raising her head to see what I was up to, as she always had prior to getting up and trotting behind me. She was miserable, and I loved her too much to make her go on just because I would miss her so much. She had a look in her eyes that was sort of a silent resignation that the inevitable was coming, and it was too much for her. I took her to the emergency vet place the next morning (didn’t want her former vet dictating anything else about her care), who did an amazing job with a very emotional but necessary final visit. I had time before and after, and the feeling of her weight completely limp against my chest was one that still makes me cry. My soul dog was gone. She’s probably the closest relationship I ever had. Part of me died with her.
Then the whole eating disorder “therapy” debacle added more pain to an already miserable existence. What I learned is that it is never safe to trust ‘outsiders’. Isolation is much safer. It’s dangerous to be open with someone, and believe that they’ll do what they were paid to do. It’s unconscionable that someone who knows a person’s history of trauma would use that to make it worse. And that I’m a fool for hoping that I’d matter enough to help as much as others who have gotten well with her- at least initially. The damage done with that whole situation will be with me for the rest of my life. I don’t hate her, but have absolutely no respect for what she does to people. None of it was worth it, even if it meant I would have died in 2022 without having to know the pain of the emotional trauma that I never anticipated even being a possibility. I was stupid to trust that particular person, and I’m paying the price; the offending party certainly isn’t. If there was a part of my brain that could be removed to kill the memory of the past 4 years, I’d sign up in a heartbeat. Maybe that was Lena Zavaroni’s hope when she opted for brain surgery. Instead, I just exist in a fog of disbelief at how someone could use vulnerable people for personal gain. But at least Isabella Heineken’s courage has opened the door for others of us to be able to be more open about our experiences.
So, I write. And cry. I have given up on finessing the quality of the food I do eat (can’t afford the ‘bougie’ stuff), but still keep fairly rigid limits on calories, doing enough to keep my kidneys from getting worse, but no more than that. I’m losing muscle, which is good, so hope I get rid of weight sooner, but have to keep carbs up ‘enough’ so any muscle breakdown doesn’t give my kidneys more stress. And, I get in ‘enough’ fluids for the same reason.
Each day is an exercise in waiting long enough to go back to bed with the only relief coming when I get hard-to-come-by sleep. I do watch videos or TV shows on my laptop. When it’s cool enough to be outside (below 70F if cloudy, 65F if sunny), I sometimes go sit by the pond near my home and watch the geese and ducks. If I’m lucky, the muskrat shows up just long enough to disappear again. On bad days, I hope I don’t wake up again, not being one to do anything that is intentional. On good days, I’ll find some amusement in a little frog who visits my patio when it’s rainy, seeming to enjoy the bug buffet under my patio light. There is no more ‘happy’. There is no more hope. There is only one thing to look forward to, and like everyone else on the planet, I have no idea when final peace will arrive. I look forward to seeing my dogs again, as well as my parents. Along with faith that means something to me, that’s what I have left. One day, that faith will guide me home.
