Alrighty Now...

We give it another try today. Off to Northwestern Hospital to Intervenional Radiology to implant the PAC. I'm scared. Scared they won't get it in and what will my next steps be. Scared I'll wake up in the middle of the procedure like the last time with pain pouring out of every fiber of my being. Scared the doc won't listen to me and will just barge into the veins, piss them off and away they'll go, jumping on their spasming high horses and running for the hills. Scared, scared, scared. I'm trying to make a list of everything I need to talk to the doc about and can't think, my mind is a blank. The only thing running thru my head is "don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't hurt me". I've come to understand I'm a sissy.

Failure....

is never easy.

Yes, my implant failed. It didn't get done. I'm sitting here still so steamed I'm on the edge of tears. I probably shouldn't be writing about this in my blog because after all, I started this thing to keep my sunny disposition alive and well instead of living in a world of anger and disappointment. HOWEVER, this is also where I can come to vent, to let it all hang out, to put it to paper and lay it to rest or put it to paper so I have all events recorded for my own reference.

Let me start at the beginning. If you have been following the blog you know I have short bowel syndrom and must give myself an IV every weekend. You also know my PICC lines have failed me over and over the past year. I had my last PICC put in early January and lost it exactly 2 weeks later due to my adhesive allergy. I called my Gastro Dr. (the man who ordered the PICC) to give him the news and tell him "No More". I'm not having another PICC, end of conversation. "Well Julie, I don't know what your other options would be, you have to have this magnesium or you will die". I told him I wanted at Port-A-Cath, that it had been recommended to me by several of my nurse friends as well as my home health care, Option Care. "Well now Julie, there are problems with Ports you know. You can get an infection, they're not easy to access, blah, blah, standard blah. I would recommend a Hickman catheter instead". Bull shit. I know better. A Hickman is no more than a PICC line stuck in my chest instead of my arm, I would be back at square one, unable to keep it in, getting a new one every 4 - 6 weeks. Just NOT acceptable! I'm now convinced he's stuck in the 'yester year' of treatment. So, with that he recommended a surgeon and the nightmare began. I called the surgeon's office to make an appt and left message after message after message for his admin. She finally called me back 2 weeks later to make the appointment, apologies, voice mail got lost, she had the flu, on and on. We made the appointment for Feb 8, I communicated it to my manager (who hasn't been the most supportive) and what do you know? Scheduling called back 1 1/2 hr later to reschedule the appointment because the Dr/surgeon was not going to be in the office. I had a small fit and an appointment was made for February 15 with Dr. Baker. I arrived, checked in and SURPRISE! an entirely different Dr. appears (a partner, not Dr. Baker) to give me a quick once over, talk to me, get my med history and send me on my way. As I left I was told scheduling would call to arrange for a surgery date. That was Monday. I heard nothing all week and finally called them. Oh, no one has called you yet?? Gosh! We thought you were going to call us! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

Okay. You know something? This is just making me madder and madder as I write this. Forget the history other than NOBODY TALKED TO ANYBODY PRIOR TO SURGERY! I get there, thank you Susan, and as the multitudes of nurses come in and out prepping me for the procedure every single one of them got a funny look on their face when they checked my orders. Finally one nurse slipped and said, "Wow, we NEVER get Port implants up here". I looked at her and said "What"? She repeated herself "We NEVER get Port implants up here". I asked her where do they do the implants and she told me down in Interventional Radiology. I asked her why in the hell was I here then? The look on her face was amazing. She blanched and said "Well, sometimes we get a Port implant if there is some sort of physical reason why they can't do the procedure in IR". "Like what?" says I. "Like I don't know." says she, slowly backing out of the room. "Get back in here!" says I! By then they had already started the pre-twilight sedation and I wasn't altogether with it but not far enough out of it to not know what was going on or to ask questions. The Dr. came in to talk to me (first time I had met him EVER) to discuss the procedure and see if he could one more time talk me into a Hickman. I know now he wanted the Hickman because he truly had never had any luck putting in a PAC. And ladies and gentlemen, would you like to know why he's never had any luck? (drum roll) Because they don't have the equipment in OR to do the procedure confidently and correctly!! What that AH (for those of you who don't know me well that would be Ass Hole) should have done was tell me they don't do PAC implants up there very often, he hasn't had much luck putting them in and ask me why I was there. Why wasn't I having this done in IR. I don't know why I was there honestly, other than my Gastro Doc told me to have it surgically implanted and refered me to Dr. Fryer. I'm not a Doctor. I didn't know first hand nor had ever heard that PACs are normally implanted in IR. SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING TO ME. Now, here I am, an incision in my right juglar and an incision in my right chest because when he couldn't get it in he just gave up. Gave up!!! He had told me if they couldn't get it in on that side, they would go to the other side and he didn't even try! Maybe that was a good thing, I don't know. One thing for sure, I would have liked to talk to him afterward but he wasn't man enough to talk to me, he sent his intern. Even Susan let him have it, quite professionaly I might add, right between the eyes and he looked as though he had been soundly spanked when he finally edged his way out of my little curtain draped world. Long story short, I have an appointment with Interventional Radiology for Monday IF my INR levels (blood thinner levels) come back okay that morning.

So. Everyone. Cross your fingers, cross your eyes. Throw salt over your shoulder. Keep me in your thoughts that this gets done Monday and I come home a happy camper. If it doesn't, well... I promise you beloved friends, I'll stay away from the dog park until I can be civil again. At least it will be warmer by June.

J

The Day Has Come

Today I have my Port-a-Cath implanted. Truth be known? I'm nervous. I'm always nervous when I'm facing some sort of surgery. Four thoughts rotate thru my head during times like this, all equally important. What about my dogs? What about my kids? What about my sister? What about my friends? Odd how I don't fear death itself. I worry about the others. My kids would grieve, my sister would grieve and my dearly beloved friends would grieve. My heart breaks when I think of that, I can't bear the thought of the tears that would flow, of the hole that would be left in hearts. I'm not so vain as to think I'm oh so wonderful but I do hope that I have brought joy to the people I love.

I so love my kids, Barbara, teacher and the proud foster Mom of Devon and M'Nya. Jonathan, betrothed to Jennifer, mother of wonderful Noah, and a great lover of animals. Summer, my youngest, betrothed to John and keeper of the gentlest heart, a word smith who has yet to realize her dreams.

My beloved friends, Susan, mom of Maggie the Plott Hound, exquisite photographer. Kim, mom of Sophie the Collie, teacher and leader. Cathleen, mom of Venus the Hun, grad student of chemistry at NorthWestern, uber smart. Jim, dad of Henry the Pick Pocket American Fox Hound, patience personified and keeper of all knowledge. Mark, dad of Darwin the Beagle, nutty proffesor at NorthWestern. Don, dad of Max the St. Bernard, retired Proff, great lover and supporter of NorthWestern sports. And Ron, dad of Cooper the black lab mix, park peace keeper, strong of character and always, always kind and gentle.

My dogs. Beauford and Winslow. Rescue hounds both, they rescued me from a life of emptiness and loneliness. The Prince and The Pauper, how I love them beyond all reason. They give me hope. They give me love. They led me to my friends. They give me a reason to live.

Surgery is at 3. I may have to spend the night. Susan is taking me to the hospital, staying to bring me home. If I must stay the night Cathleen will spend the night with the dogs. There is grad student fare in the freezer, 4 cheese pizza, blue berry Pop Tarts in the cupboard and Diet Pepsi in the fridge.

To my friends, to my kids, to my sister, to my dogs...... I love you all, with all my heart.

J

Such Sweet Memories

Rooster 1999 - 2010, Mac 1997 - 2009, Badger 2002 - 2010

My sister Megan and her husband Paul choose to have the 4 legged variety of children, not two legged. With the great joy that comes with these children also comes grief, sometimes sooner than expected and sometimes after a lengthy illness. Thank God for people like my sister and her husband because although they grieve and suffer from the loss of a beloved pet they adopt again and again, providing homes to those who cannot provide for themselves. Love those who only goal in life is to provide love and joy with no expectations in return. To provide play to those who leap with unboundless energy until the years slow them to painful shuffles and dimmed views of the world around them. Thank you Megan and Paul, for all you have done for the "lost" of this world. Humanties soul would be emptier without you.

Rooster: A true couch potato, he chattered his teeth with love, smiled always, and nuzzled your neck like you were the best thing in the world.

Mac: Rescued from the Mackinaw River. Mac ran along the bank of the river frantically barking at a group of teenagers out for an afternoon tube float. When the river swept them further than Mac could follow he leaped into the water to follow them, barking, barking, barking, frantically barking. Mac was swept up by the current and pinned against a wall of fallen trees where he would have surely drowned had not one of the boys jumped into the water and pulled him to safety. When his journey brought him to Megan and Paul he was matted to the skin, filthy from river water and nearly starved to death. They nursed him back to health down a rocky road but thrive he did, he had reached his haven, his home, where he lived the rest of his days in comfort.

Badger: Badger came from the Humane Society. My oldest daughter, Barb, had a bit to do with his arrival at the Thimmigs. Megan, Paul and Barb had decided to go do a "stroll" thru the Humane Society kennels on a Sunday afternoon. There, in the biggest kennel, because Badger was a BIG dog, was this WOLF, standing there with his tongue lolling out, grinning and occasionally barking. He had been returned to the HS 3 times because he was "too big". Barb needled Megan and Paul that this was the dog for them, you have to have him, come on, take him home! They already had several dogs at home and felt they couldn't handle another. They left without Badger but Paul (dear Paul) went back on a daily basis to take him a Big Mac 'cause he was a lonely dog, being at the Humane Society and all.... After a week of Big Macs it was decided it would be cheaper to feed him at home than to continue catering Micky D's to the HS. And so Badger was added to the pack with great fan fare.

The Visiting Nurse...

just left. (deep sigh) Due to Crohn's Disease, short bowel syndrom and disfunctional kidneys I have chronic magnisium wasting making it necessary to infuse 4 grams of magnisium over a 6 hour period on a weekly basis. For 2 1/2 years I've been infusing thru a PICC Line when suddenly 1 year ago I developed an adhesive allergy making it nearly impossible to keep a PICC Line in my arm. I lost my last PICC in January and have had a visiting nurse coming every Sunday to start a peripheral IV. Ouch. Oh ouch, ouch, ouch. (deep sigh) I am what is called a "terrible stick". My poor old veins are tiny, wiggly, crooked, fragile and just plain unruly. They run and hide every time someone needs to stick me. Only dear Lois (favorite visiting nurse) is able to get me with one stick or sometimes two. Today it was three sticks before we got in and not in an ideal location. The VN finally had to use what they call The Interns Vein because it's big and pretty sturdy and what they train interns on but oh so, so painful. It's located on the inside of wrist, just above the joint making it painful to use that hand. I've been waiting now for 7 weeks for a Port-A-Cath. A PAC is a bladder that is surgically inserted under the skin on the chest with no external tubes hanging out. The line runs up the juglar vein and down to just short of the heart. When it's time to infuse you sterilize and numb the skin over the PAC, slap on a face mask and then insert a needle, bent at a 45 degree angle, thru the skin and into the bladder, hook up the lines, start the infusion and go to bed. No fuss, no muss, easy peasy. I hope. I will be so grateful to have my life back again. With a PICC you can't swim, can't kyack, can't sit in a hot tub (like there's anyone to sit with) must cover and tape the thing up every time you shower, untape and dismantle the protective covering when done showering, flush, pull a sock over it, blah, blah, blah. You can't hide it in the summer, it's always peeking out the sleeve of your T-shirt and people look at you funny. I tent camp a lot during the summer and must use public shower facilities at the camp grounds and have scared the hell out of little kids more than a couple of times when trying to "tape up" before I shower. It's also not the most sterile environment to infuse at, the camp ground. So.... I will be grateful when the PAC is finally implanted.

The Prince

Where to begin... Beauford came home from the rescue April of '06. We (now defunct boyfriend Bill) and I already had one Basset, Longley, that we had adopted from BBR in November, '05. It had become apparent that Longley was a disturbed and neurotic hound so I decided having a house mate would possibly provide companionship and distraction for him while we were gone to work. (oh contrair) I called Arlene at Basset Buddies Rescue to discover they had a "gorgeous" hound that had just come into the system, had no foster home available and we were welcome to drive out to see him. We hustled out to the vet and sure enough, there he was, "gorgeousness" and all. He really was a beautiful hound, a bit "reserved" but I thought "Poor guy. I'd be nervous too". (oh contrair, again) I signed the papers, we popped him in the car and off for home we went. When one introduces a new dog into the family the best bet is to take them for a long walk together, sniff butts, do the leash dance, walk and walk and walk until it looks like all is well. It was on this introductory walk that Beauford presented me with one of his unique quirks. We had mosied over to the park across the street where the park district had dumped a truck load of mulch to be spread around the bases' of the park trees. A lot of peeing had been going on, a lot of butt sniffing, etc., but not much else. As we walked by the mountain, and I do mean mountain, of mulch all of a sudden Beauford slammed it into reverse and backed up the side of that mountain until he had nearly reached the summit, stoped and POOPED. I'm telling you, this dog was nearly vertical. I stood there in complete awe, mouth hanging open, expecting him to come tumbling down arse over apple cart any second. The only thing that came tumbling down was the poop, to land neatly at my feet. The only thing that could have made it nicer was if I had spread the pooper bag at the base of the mountain and the poop had rolled into it.

A Letter To My Sister

You are 10 years younger than I and don't remember most of what I will reminice about. Born February, 1963 in the middle of a blinding snow storm, Dad drove Mom to the hospital in Fairbury, IL, hugging the side of the road while Mom leaned out the door watching for the white line that kept them out of the ditch. You were a fiery red head like the rest of us (2 sisters and 2 brothers proceeded you) and just as loud and noisey. Your legs were somehow twisted at the hips and for years you wore shoe braces that were connected at the heel to hold your legs rigid as you slept. Music was your gift, piano and saxaphone. You once played the grand piano in the ball room of the resort where The Shining was filmed. The ball room was empty when you peeked in and in typical Megan fashion took the stage and began to play. You were quite surprised when you finished, stood up, turned to leave and found the room had filled with people who all started clapping. I was so proud of you when you told me that story, so very proud.

You were very young when we lived on Owsley Street in Chenoa, IL. That is the house that I have always considered "home". It was a BIG green (quite ugly) house that sat at the end of Owsley on the alley. I know you don't remember playing hide and seek in Bill Liming's junk yard or the bats that flew up and down the alley just over our heads where we raced our ponies at twilight. You don't remember the sound of the train as it rumbled by the house or the bums that came to the door upon occasion asking for something to eat. I remember Bruce playing out in the graveled street we called our drive scraping roadways with his toy Caterpillar dozer. I remember the winter "someone", probably Dad, flooded the old over grown road between our house and Dorothy Hall's house and it froze overnight, making the most perfect skating rink ever. We didn't have skates but we all, the neighborhood kids and us Wilson kids, had rubber boots, most with the metal buckles down the front and they made for great sliding. I remember chasing and catching fire flies in the yard. I remember the quarter Dad gave Bruce and I to buy a comic at the drug store and then watching the hell he caught when we got home. That was grocery money but Dad loved us and it gladdened his heart to give us such a small pleasure. The rocking horse came out into the yard in the late spring and didn't go back inside until fall. I remember the giant wooden reels wire came on. We used to straddle them and play cowboys and indians, or stand on them, roll them down the alley and play circus. I remember going door to door selling Girl Scout Cookies and spending a lot of time in this old woman's home. She didn't have any money but she made dolls and traded me 2 dolls for 4 boxes of cookies. It was a hard lesson to learn when I found out dolls can't be used to pay the Girl Scout Counsel for cookies. It was at her house where I learned to love antiques. The smell and touch of things old and worn and so loved. I can remember when cousins Karen and Rick came to live with us. Karen and I shared a bedroom and in the winter she would come to my bed to huddle with me under our two thin blankets where we tried to keep warm at night as the wind driven snow sifted in around the window casings and drifted to the floor. I remember the Jungle Gym Dad bought me one year for my birthday. Janie and George Ann Powell and I were playing on it when I kicked backward on the ladder and broke Janie's nose. I remember fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Mom couldn't afford more than that to feed her growing family, but man, they were so good. I remember the day someone cared enough to send Mom a notice that there was a chit for her at Dorman's grocery worth I don't know how much so she could buy food for the family. Mom was so horribly embarrassed at the time, and young, and didn't realize that this was an act of compassion from someone in the community that cared about the Wilson family. I remember many things. Some bad and sad but the vast majority are fond memories of life on Owsley. It wasn't easy. We had very little. But we had us and that was all that matterd.

I love you Sister,

Julie

DON'T TOUCH ME!

'Nough said.

And So It Began...

And so it had begun, more than a year ago, October '08 to be exact. I received a phone call from Basset Buddies Rescue asking if I would foster, on a temporary basis, a hound that was being housed at the vet until a home could be found. Already with an adopted Basset from the rescue, Beauford, and living in an apartment in Chicago, I had reservations but couldn't turn my back on a hound in need, especially since it was "temporary" and he was a senior. So. I said "Yes" and here we are, March '10, a happy family, Beauford (well, not so happy), Winslow and me.

I call them The Prince, Beauford, and The Pauper, Winslow. The Prince is The Prince because he knows he's The Prince and wouldn't stoop to something as low as playing with the new family member, The Pauper. The Pauper is not The Prince and is treated as such by The Prince. Did you make sense of that? I don't know if I did either. I just know that Beauford is haughty unless he is on special one-on-one time with me (he purrs like a cat) and Winslow is loving, always; happy, always; playful, always; and regularly pees his pants. More on that later.

It was meant to be, Winslow coming into my life. If my job weren't so precarious in this economy I would adopt him right now. He's really slowed down all of a sudden. He still loves to give Beauford "what for" at home and loves the dog park, rip & run, but is slowing down even there. At home he lies on the floor, content, not in pain (that I can see), and waits for his dinner to be mixed and served. He comes into the bedroom when I'm putting clothes away, settles on the rug and lays his head on my foot. He stretches out on the kitchen floor, lays his head on his paws, patiently waiting while I suit up Beauford, suit up myself, boots, coat, hat, blah, blah, blah, getting ready to head out the door for our walks. He's slowing down on his walks too, spends more time sniffing, cataloging and filing every smell he comes across. I stop to chat with other dog people, look down and there he is, settled on the sidewalk to patiently wait for me to move on, watching the world go by. He's not gained or lost any weight, is eating fine, drinking well and urinating in fine Winslow fashion. If this is the aging process for this wonderful old hound I could only wish it is as graceful and filled of diginity for me as it is for him. I would sooner cut off my arm than give him up, he's that special. At least to me.