Unimaginable.

Imagine you were reading a book, or watching a movie (for those less book-inclined), starring a fairly standard family: Mom, Dad, two boys and a younger daughter.

Now imagine that when the kids get older (teens and early twenties), their father dies. Car accident. It's terrible, but the family has each other, not to mention friends and neighbors, to help them through it. 

Life goes on; never quite the same, but things get better. Then eight or nine years later, the younger of the sons is in a car accident. He dies. The grief is tangible and the news is heartbreaking to all. Still, life manages to go on and while it is tragic, it isn't beyond belief.

Not even a year later, there's a phone call. Something terrible has happened and now the eldest son is dead, leaving only the mother and the daughter. At this point in the book or movie, you'd probably be pretty upset. Oh come on! you might think. It wasn't enough to take away the father/husband and one of the sons, now you've killed off both? This is just unbelievable!

And that's the feeling you're left with. The story isn't over, but at this point, it's hard to believe that one family could endure so much loss and grief. Most books or movies wouldn't take it to this point. The irony of the middle child's death via car accident, so similar to his father's, would have been the most tragic part, and things would have gotten better in the end.

Unfortunately, this isn't a book. Or a movie. If you remember this post, then you already know that. 

It's unimaginable what this family has gone through (and seemingly continues to go through), and my heart breaks just thinking about it. Most tragedies never even take it this far, and yet, this couldn't be further from fiction.

So, once again, I urge you all to embrace the people in your lives and be thankful for them every day. Trite as it may be, you never know when they might be gone.     

RIP, neighbor.

Riki's History Part 5: Living & Loving

I won't pretend that things were smooth sailing after the "Shane" incident.  I dated a few guys (using the term "dated" pretty loosely here) between fall 2005 and summer 2006.  Remember the old friend from my middle school days who would later introduce me to my husband?  Yeah, I was "dating" him when I met Hubby for the first time (six years ago this month... wow!). 

Hubby and I started dating in September of that year, and things were (usually) great.  He treated me like a queen, and I loved every second of it.  In early 2008, we got an apartment together, about an hour and a half away from where I had grown up and lived for my entire life.  I had very few friends out here, and Hubby had lots of them.  I would get lonely, feel unwanted, and cry.  It sort of sucked.

There was one time when I dropped the box of mac and cheese I'd been planning to make on the kitchen floor.  I started yelling and swearing, saying dinner was ruined and I had fucked it all up.  Much as he tried, Hubby couldn't convince me otherwise.  I wound up sobbing on the kitchen floor for awhile.  Same thing happened when a vase broke.  These are normal occurrences, but I was completely incapable of handling them normally.

In late July, I decided it was time to try the meds again.  I contacted my doctor (who is quite possibly the most understanding and least judgmental doctor I've ever met) and she put me back on Fluoxetine.  I started taking it again beginning in August, and I was already feeling happier just knowing that things would get better soon. 

Then came The Break-Up.  (Dun, dun, dunnnnnn.)

In August, Hubby and I were planning a camping trip, so I had worked "summer hours" that week (9-hour days Mon-Thurs, half day Friday) so we could get a head start.  Instead of trying to recall all of this, I'm going to copy/paste from my journal entry a few days after it happened.

We packed, we had lunch, we packed some more... He seemed a bit strange, but I wrote it off as lack of sleep combined with 3 cups of coffee in less than 3 hours (he stayed up late to play video games and drank a lot of coffee at work just for fun).

Then, when I asked him if he was OK again (I'd already asked, and his arm hurt, so I'd given him some ibuprofen), he said he had a lot going on in his mind. He seemed serious, so I took his hands and encouraged him to talk... He started with some stuff about how there was a lot of talk about marriage lately... and apparently he decided that he really couldn't see marrying me. I told him I wasn't looking to get married right now or anything, and we talked a bit more.

I asked at one point if he still loved me, and he took a long pause. Then he said, "I guess my silence sort of answered that..." He didn't say it in a mean way, just said it. I remained as calm and collected as I could, and continued talking to him about how we could work on things. He would say things that I found encouraging, that I thought meant we could work through it. Things about if we had hobbies together (I had recently told him I'd be happy to come out and hang with him while he worked on the car, and reiterated this, and agreed that I'd even try getting my hands dirty in the process), or if I had friends to hang with (I told him I could try being friends with [insert she-who-will-not-be-named here], and that once the meds kicked in, that I could look for a new job and have new coworkers to hang with)...

But all in all, he just wasn't sure he loved me anymore. He'd had doubts for weeks, he said. Did he still care about me? Yes. Deeply. He even said he "likes me a lot". At some point I started crying a bit, but was still trying to reason with him. Neither of us knew what to do. I told him that the logical thing might be to see if things get better with the meds, you know? But, there's nothing logical about love.

And so, I began to pack. He helped for awhile, but I couldn't stop myself from crying and saying the stupidest things. Things like, "I can't believe you went on vacation with me and didn't love me!" and "I just want you to love me again..." Lines that happen in a bad book or movie, but I just couldn't help it."

It was the worst pain I've experienced yet, and thankfully my sisters were there for me and I flew out to Las Vegas for a few days to recover. 

In my opinion, that break turned out to be one of the best things that happened to our relationship.  I got to spend some time back in my hometown, reassuring myself that I wasn't completely dependent on him, and finding that my meds were making things I normally couldn't do seem much more possible.  His time away from me made him realize that he truly did love me, depression/anxiety/insanity and all.  We were back together soon, and have been together since. 

As of this post, I'm on 40 MG of fluoxetine and 150 MG of bupropion (generic Wellbutrin), and I'm doing really well.  I used to think that being on anti-depressants meant I was dependent on them, and I hated that thought.  My mom put that into perspective for me.  She asked me, "Well, are you dependent on your glasses to see?"

"Uh, yeah..."

"The glasses don't change your eyes, they just make it easier to see.  The pills do the same thing.  They don't change who you are, they just make it easier to be you."

I still have my moments, and some days are harder than others, but it's mostly within the realm of normal emotions.  When I get sad, it's usually because something sad has happened instead of just out of the blue.  When I get frustrated, I don't yell and swear as much anymore.  And when I do have a particularly bad moment, I use some of the techniques I learned back in my days of therapy and some other relaxation methods.  I'm a nicer person to be around overall.

I've been back in school since August 2009, and am on track to get my BA in Psychology (go figure, right?).  I'm married to a wonderful man, and have a great house and an adorable dog.  I have friends who love me and family who always has my back.  I even have a hobby that I'm passionate about (photography is the most therapeutic thing I do)! 

A lot of people have contributed to my happiness and well-being.  I don't have the time or space to thank them all individually, but more than likely, you know who you are.  Thank you.  From the very bottom of my heart... Thank you.

The bottom line is something like this: Depression (and other mental illnesses) sucks.  It's trying for you and everyone around you, and some days (many days... sometimes every day) it feels like nothing will ever get better. 

It will. 

If you give it time, it will.  If you work at it, it will.  If you allow your friends and family to help you, it will.  If you find goals you want to achieve, it will.  And eventually, those days will become rarities, and when you slip back into old ways of thinking, just remember that it did get better.  And it will again.  Don't give up.

 

Riki's History Part 4: Depressed & Desperate

Even after the past three entries, I know this one is going to be the worst.  I'm reliving some seriously messed up stuff and I honestly look back at my life and wonder how I let it get to that point.  The best I can do is try to learn from the past and keep moving forward.

So, when we left off, I was about to leave college for the second time and had met Shane.  Shane was a 19 year old guy I met online.  He was from Missouri, and we had a few things in common.  At college, I didn't date much (or really at all; I was seeing one girl for awhile, but nothing really came of it), so the attention I got online (AOL, baby... I'm that cool) made me feel special.  There were a few guys I IM'd with frequently, but Shane was my favorite.

After I had gone home, my parents insisted I get a job.  I half-heartedly looked, thinking I'd be back for the spring semester, but it wasn't to be.  For a couple of weeks, I lived with my best friend L and her family because I just couldn't take my own family anymore.  "You're breaking your mother's heart, you know," my dad told me.  I knew.  But at the time, I just needed to get out.  On top of this, I had stopped taking my anti-depressants.

The first time we talked on the phone (January 2005), Shane had told me he would sound funny, something about altering his voice.  It should've been a ginormous flag, but I just figured he was being goofy.  That's what we did!  We had fun and flirted and laughed.  Shortly thereafter, I finally got a part-time job.  A few weeks in, I bought my very first cell phone so I could talk to Shane any time I wanted.  By that summer, I was racking up some hefty phone bills (mostly because of texting).

I considered Shane my boyfriend.  I talked to him more than anyone else I knew, and we had such great conversations.  Most of the time.  Sometimes it felt like he wanted me to do nothing but sit around at home and talk to him or (in his absence) think about him or just do nothing.  One time that bothered me in particular was my 21st birthday.  He didn't want me to go out to drink, but there was no way I was missing out on hitting the bars for the first time.  Between texts and phone calls, he kept bugging me all night until I finally stopped responding.

A few times we had broken up (the first time having been a few weeks before my 21st birthday) and then gotten back together.  We were in love, and someday we would get to be together in person.  The drama kept mounting, though.  Hindsight, of course, is 20/20, and looking back, I can't believe how gullible I let myself be.  I believed all kinds of things. 

Want an example?  Once, I believed that he was at a water park and hit his head, giving him some form of amnesia.  I learned this through texts that were supposed to be from his friend telling me this, and warning me that Shane might not remember me.  I was devastated (K probably remembers this; we were over at D's for movie night, I think) and didn't know what to do.  Miraculously enough, everything ended up OK and Shane was fine.

Every day, every week it got harder and harder.  One day we'd be happy and all would be well.  The next we'd be fighting or breaking up and I'd be sure my life was over.  For awhile, we were "engaged" and were planning to get married in a few years.  I even started picking out dresses and rings online (it's the closest I ever got to dreaming of my wedding before I got engaged to Hubby).

For a year this all went on.  My friends thought I would be better off without him.  I know my parents thought so.  But he was the only person I was certain loved me at that point in my life.  I didn't get to go back to school that fall (I hadn't earned enough money for my parents to give the OK), and soon I found out that my sister (K) was moving across the country.  Nothing felt right except for Shane.

So, naturally, that's when my world came crashing down.

In November 2005, more than a year after I'd first "met" him, Shane called to say there was something important we had to talk about.  20-year-old Shane was in fact a 15-year-old girl (we'll call her Girl X).  Her parents had found out about how she had been lying to me (and them) and made her own up to things.  As I talked to her mom and things unraveled, everything started making sense.

The reason "Shane" was always at the local high school ("he" told me he worked there, but Girl X was really a student there).  All the times I heard people call her by her real name (a unisex name).  The extravagant stories meant to force us to break up because she couldn't simply do it.  The excuses for why we couldn't meet (because she wasn't who I thought), and the "altered" voice (in my defense, she had a very gender-neutral sounding voice over the phone). 

Girl X wasn't to contact me anymore, but she did.  She apologized and told me that she really did love me.  And being as depressed and desperate as I was, I kept talking to her because I loved her, too.  I don't care about gender (it's one of the perks to being bisexual, I guess).  A body is just a body; I was in love with the person inside and the body wasn't even a factor.  We secretly kept talking for a day or two until her dad found out.  At that point, it came down to this: Either I stopped contacting Girl X, or they were going to essentially flag me as a child predator and things would've gotten U-G-L-Y.  I opted for the former.

She kept trying, though.  I'd get texts, but I kept ignoring them.  Her or her friends would keep emailing me or IM'ing me.  Within a week, I changed my phone number.  I had blocked her on AOL, along with all her "friends."  At least once she tried to trick me into talking to her.  I had gotten an IM and was chatting with some guy when things started getting weird.  It dawned on me that it must've been her, and I said goodbye and blocked that name, too.  A few years later, I think she might have tried again, but I can't say for sure.  The last time I know I talked to her was 6 and a half years ago.  

This whole thing sounds insane.  I'm aware.  It's hard to believe that I didn't see the signs, right?  You only see what you want to see sometimes, and all I wanted was someone who loved me and made me feel worthwhile.  I sometimes suspected that maybe "Shane" was in high school, but I figured maybe he was a senior and just didn't want me to write him off as being too young.  Never did I suspect he was female, nor that she was only 15. 

At first, I missed her.  Terribly.  My best friend/sister was moving away, I'd lost the person I loved, and I was feeling utterly alone.  But as time went on, I realized that she had lied to me for a year, and instead of being sad, I was just plain old pissed off.  Mostly, I think, at myself for being so trusting, so blind to everything.  I was embarrassed and hurt, and I told very, very few people the truth about what happened.  Now you all know the truth.

My depression and low self-esteem can't take all of the blame for what happened, I know, but they played a pretty major role in things.  Had I been a happier, more confident person, I wouldn't have been spending my entire life online talking to strangers who (at least seemingly) accepted me without question.  I probably would have found more joy in the world around me, I might not have felt like the only way someone could love me was without having to be physically with me, and maybe I could have found happiness in loving myself instead of seeking someone else's love.

Riki's History Part 3: Ups & Downs

Well, like I said, the rest of high school was fairly uneventful.  Toward the end of my sophomore year I started dating a great guy (thanks to my old camp friends, we already have a nickname for him - Beefy).  We were together for a year and a half (until I inevitably messed things up), and he treated me like a princess.  

My mom's side of the family has a history of severe headaches and migraines, and sadly, I didn't escape this fate.  Sometime during my junior year, Mom took me to the doctor to see what they could prescribe for my headaches.  At one point the doctor asked, "Do you have any symptoms of depression?"  Without hesitation, Mom and I both answered yes.  Based on that and a few other questions, I was prescribed Celexa.  

To this day, one of the most meaningful gestures a significant other has made for me was shortly after this.  I had told Beefy about the appointment and the name of the medication, and told him I'd be starting it soon.  The next day when he picked me up for school, he handed me a bunch of paper.  He had gone online and researched Celexa to learn more about it and gave me the results.  He wasn't exactly someone who goes out of their way to read a lot, so it was pretty amazing to know he cared so much.  I'll never forget that.

Eventually, my dosage got bumped up.  And again.  And again.  It would help for awhile, and then slowly taper off.  Beefy stuck with me through a lot of ups and downs, as did a few really amazing friends.  The real problem came if I didn't get the pills refilled quickly enough (and, being a teenager, I was terrible at being on top of things).  The results weren't pretty.  At one point I went three days without my meds and found myself curled up under a desk in an empty classroom, crying and talking to my friend's mom on the phone because my own mom wasn't being any help (so I thought).  Part of it was anxiety about getting things back in line, and part of it was my system being fairly dependent on the Celexa to function.  

I was on Celexa for a few years.  Before I started college in fall of 2002, I went to see my first proper psychiatrist, who threw some wellbutrin in there as well.  Even with that added in, things didn't go so well.  

I don't want to bore anyone with all the details, so I'll just hit on a few things.  The first is that I became an insomniac.  I would be awake for 22 or 23 hours of the day, crashing just long enough to get wired up again.  I was always online, and as much as my roommate tried to involve me, I preferred the world wide web to the actual world around me.  I was dating First again, but he never came to visit and around October I broke things off for good.  (When I broke up with him, he said he had been trying to find a bus out to see me before getting the crap beaten out of him.  I do know that he was severely hurt for awhile, but in my eyes, it was still too little too late.)

Worst of all was the suicidal thoughts.  You know that disclaimer on commercials?  The one that says children and young adults are susceptible to worsening depression and thoughts of suicide?  Yeah, they're not kidding.  There were times I would find myself sitting on the floor in the showers, holding my razor and thinking about how easy it would be.  There were other times when I would lay in bed for hours, missing class, not eating, not sleeping, just crying or aching.  I started burning myself with my lighter (I had recently started smoking at that point).  Things were bad.

They reached a peak in late October when I decided it was just time to do it.  Bestie (who was at college about an hour away) had been wonderful to me, and I felt I owed it to her to say goodbye and to let my boyfriend (who went to her school) know what was going on.  I don't know if I was hoping she could talk me out of it or if I just wanted to talk to someone who loved me or what, but I pretty much scared the ever-loving life out of her.  She told her mom, and they were telling me they would call the police if I didn't stop talking like that.  So, on Bestie's advice, I took my knife to my downstairs neighbor and told him to hold onto it for awhile.

I was too late, though.  Her mom (I think) had already called the police, and soon they showed up at my dorm.  An officer peaked into our room (our door was usually open) and said, "Do you know where I can find Emily?"  Since we actually had an Emily on our floor, I pointed him down the hall.  I was trying to decide if I should make a run for it when two more officers came into my room, asking if I was Erika.  Within 10 minutes there were 4 officers (with 3 squad cars; don't you people carpool or work in partners?) and an assistant dean in my room, all asking me questions.  They almost took my scissors away (until I showed them just how dull they were), and then asked if they should take my pills away.

"My antidepressants?  Uh, I need those so I DON'T hurt myself..."  They weren't thrilled with my response, but they let me keep them anyway.  As the crowd was tapering down, my RA showed up.  He'd been at the library studying, and noticed the cop cars.  He was just curious until he realized they were parked in front of his dorm; then he was alarmed.  He was a great guy, and he made me laugh when he came in and we had this exchange:

RA: I saw all those cops and you know who I thought they were here for?

Me: [Insert other resident's name here.]

RA: Yep.  And for what?

Me: Drugs.

RA: Yep.  

When my roommate came back, she guessed the same things I had, and we joked about it, saying next time they'd be here for the other resident.  After reassuring him that the night's events were over, my RA told me to watch The Muppet Movie (I did) and that the next day he'd take me for ice cream (he did).  Best RA ever.  

The very next night a friend committed suicide.

All I could think was, "That could've been me."  My world was shaken and I finally realized that I didn't actually want to die.  A few weeks later, my roommate helped me tell my parents what was going on and that we thought I could use some time in the hospital.  Mom and Dad didn't agree, but they did agree that I should come home.  They took me to a new psychiatrist, who tried a few different meds with me and referred me to a therapist.

The combination of behavioral therapy and Fluoxetine (generic Prozac) were good to me, and in January 2003 I went back to school.  I kept going through fall of 2004, at which point, I started falling apart again.  This time, my major problems were migraines and falling asleep at the drop of a hat.  I honestly couldn't stay awake, and would find myself sleeping while sitting up with my laptop trying to do homework.  (Eventually, we found out I had sleep apnea, and that was a big part of the problem.)  I was missing classes left and right, and in late November, I decided that it was time to leave again.

But just before this happened, I met Shane.  And that, my dears, is for next time. 

Aching.

I think everyone should be entitled to one day off a year that doesn't count toward or against anything.  Not a sick day.  Not a vacation day.  No penalties.  No questions.  Just one day (unpaid for all I care) where you can call in and all is forgiven.

The reason shouldn't matter.  Could be that you stayed up way too late the night before and you're exhausted.  Could be a "mental health" day.  Could be that you're just in a funk.  Could be that you're in a fantastic mood and work shouldn't be allowed to bring you down.

And it shouldn't matter what you use that day for, either.  A huge sale at your favorite store.  An event you'd like to attend.  A TV or video game marathon.  A day to get all your errands done.  A day to do nothing.  A day to do whatever.

I think I would've taken that day on Tuesday.  For me, it would have been a day to reflect.  A day to remember.  Cry.  Laugh.  Grieve.  Ache.  I would have slept.  Or zoned out on the couch.  Or maybe gone outside with the dog.  Probably some combination thereof.

But I have no time off available (using it for Disney - definitely NOT complaining about that).  And I don't get "sick" days (all my time off is in one big lump).  So instead, I sat here and tried to work through the pain.  Then tears.  Then laughter.  Then numbness.  By mid-morning, I was emotionally drained.  I got some work done, sure, but staying focused wasn't going to happen.

I was 18 and in my first semester of college (which failed miserably, but that's not the point of this story).  My mental health and stability were so-so, and I didn't have many friends yet.  So, as has been my way of coping for a long time, I turned to the internet.

It was a Yahoo chatroom, I think.  Probably location based.  I'm not sure how it started, but we started talking.  We were both about the same age.  Both from Wisconsin.  Both bored.  So we kept talking.

When we met in person, my hair was red.  BRIGHT red.  Bozo red, you said.  I was easy to find, though.  We hung out, talked, enjoyed one another's company.  I think we knew dating would never happen (in fact, you had a girlfriend at the time, and I had a boyfriend, so it didn't matter anyway), but something made us want to be friends.

Maybe a few days later, we were talking about hair.  You liked long hair.  My hair was probably to my shoulders or a little longer, and you said I'd be prettier with longer hair, so I marched to the dorm bathroom with a pair of scissors and hacked at my hair.  You laughed and thought I was crazy.  I probably was.  Thankfully, it actually looked cute.  I've been cutting my own hair since.

You introduced me to web forums, and somehow made me feel like I belonged, even though I had nothing to do with the game it was associated with and didn't know any of the people there.  

You made me watch Fight Club, on the understanding that I'd have to watch it a second time to actually understand it.  

You took me to the bowling alley and we played pool.

We cruised East Wash together, listening to ICP.  

I was there when you got your first tattoo finished up.  You never did explain it to me; it never really mattered.

Best of all, you never judged me.  You always told me things the way they were, instead of telling me what I wanted to hear.  You listened, and even if you didn't care, you made me feel like you did.  I needed that.

It's been years since we talked.  Even longer since I've seen you.  A few months ago we exchanged brief messages on Facebook, the first time we'd spoken in forever.  It felt good.  

And now you're gone.  And I'm left with this ache because I don't understand.  I don't understand what happened.  I don't understand how it happened.  I don't even understand why it hurts me so much.  We haven't really been friends in a long time, but somehow, knowing you're gone and we'll never be friends again hurts so much worse than I ever would have imagined.

A lot of people will miss you.  People closer to you than I was, for sure.  But it doesn't make my pain any less real.  

RIP, DS.  

Poor Maxine McPupperkins or Why My Dog May Never Trust Again

Well, my dears, 2012 has started off less than spectacularly.  

On or just after Christmas, I noticed a tickle in my throat.  For the next week, I'd wake up in the morning with a little pain as well.  Nothing too bad and it went away after breakfast, so whatever.  Just around the 2nd of the month, I started having random coughs.  Then by the 4th, I had some sniffles.  I begged this cold to just manifest itself so we could all move on with our lives.  

Careful what you wish for.  On the 6th, it started going downhill, and I spent the majority of my weekend miserable and/or asleep.  Then, I woke up this morning feeling so shitty, I had to call in sick.  I work from home, so you know it's bad when I have to call in.  I couldn't focus on anything, I was barely coherent, and I'm reasonably certain that even if I managed to function enough to survive the workday, I would probably have to re-do a good portion of it tomorrow anyway (you know, so it would actually make sense).

But enough about me.  This post is primarily about my poor puppers.  As a warning, things are going to get a little gross.  If you don't want to read on, I totally understand.  If you read the rest of this, and then say, "Oh, man!  WTF, Erika?" just remember that you have no one to blame but yourself.

My dog has a hole in her butt.

OK, that seems obvious, but it's not.  Let me rephrase.  My dog has an EXTRA hole in her butt.  Better?

On Thursday the 5th I was giving Maxi her monthly meds (heartworm pill and flea/tick application).  To do the flea/tick stuff, I always sit on the couch, turn her around so her back is to me, and apply the stuff.  (For anyone who doesn't know, this type of flea and tick repellent has to be applied along her back, from her neck down to where her tail meets her body.)  It can take awhile sometimes, depending on how long ago she last visited the groomer's.  She's fairly fluffy right now, but it wasn't too bad.

Anywhoozles, I had noticed her looking a little uncomfortable earlier, and, trying to be a good puppy mama, I lifted up her tail to check out her bum.  Many people are unaware, but dogs (and some other mammals) have these little sacs/glands near their anus.  The cliff's note version goes something like this: 

Dogs produce a secretion that tells other dogs who they are, what they are, etc (thus the whole bum-sniffing ritual).  This same secretion can also be used to mark their territory, warning other dogs to back off.  This secretion comes from the anal glands, which usually empty when a dog does his or her business, but can also empty randomly (like, if the dog's super stressed).  

Unfortunately, sometimes the glands don't empty themselves.  At the very first vet appointment after we adopted Maxine, the vet expressed Maxi's glands for her.  The smell is putrid.  I can't even liken it to anything.  If you've never smelled it, count your lucky stars.  Anyway, that was back in late 2009, and hadn't been an issue since.

Until last week, when I was looking at her bum going, "Huh...  It looks swollen."  So, I told Hubby to make a vet appointment for us asap.  He wasn't working on Friday, so he made her an appointment for the afternoon.  Excellent.  I knew she'd need to be expressed, and I was fairly relieved I wouldn't have to be there.  

After work, it's almost impossible to do anything without letting Maxine out first.  Thursday wasn't like that.  "Outside?" I asked her.  Nothing.  Not good.  "Outside, Maxine?"  She managed to get up and out of her crate, but then scooted her butt all the way from her crate to the kitchen.  This isn't a long distance, mind you, but she has to do a u-turn in the process, so it's a few feet.  She wouldn't listen to me when I told her no, so, fine.  Away we went.  

When she came inside, I decided to be extra careful and I cleaned her up with a baby wipe (she had been getting a rash in the fall, and the vet had suggested baby wipes, so, why not?).  And then I freaked out.  There was blood on the wipe.  I ran to my computer and left Hubby a message.  Then I called him and left a voicemail.  THEN I texted him and left ANOTHER message.  Yes, this was a full-on Riki freakout.    

To Google I went, looking up everything I could possibly think of, reading every page I could find.  Best I could tell, she had an abscess that had burst, but that didn't make me feel any better.  Called Hubby again and finally got a hold of him.  He called the vet and we rescheduled for that evening, just about an hour from our call.  So, I got dressed, poured Maxi some dinner, and waited.  She wouldn't eat.  I tried hand feeding her, and she wouldn't take anything.  Uggggggh.  I was scared out of my mind.

When we finally got to the vet, they tried to tempt her with some canned food (Maxine gets dry food at home) as a treat, but she was completely uninterested.  In fact, she actually turned away from it.  She always takes treats, even at the vet, so this was a new concept for us.  Maxi not hungry?  What?

The vet confirmed my suspicion of an abscess resulting from an impacted anal gland, and walked us through what that meant and what we would have to do to take care of her.  Essentially, all that fluid builds up in the sac, and if it isn't released in the normal way, it finds another way: it bursts through the skin.  Thus, my puppers has an extra hole in her butt.  For now, anyway.

Twice a day we have to give her meds and apply ointment in the hole.  Yep.  In it.  Not on it.  IN it.  Assuming it heals properly, we should be done with this in about a week or so.  But if it doesn't heal properly, we're SOL and we get to start the whole thing over again.  Joy.

On the plus side, the vet did say that we were lucky it burst today.  If it hadn't, the only option would've been to put her under and lance it, which would've been way more expensive than just the shot and meds.  I guess that's good, right?  He also said it was really good that we got her in that night, so thank goodness for an awesome hubby and an awesome vet!  

As soon as we got home, she ate her dinner.  Vet said she probably just didn't want to eat because of the pain (and a mild fever), and I don't blame her, but I was so glad she had her appetite back so quickly.  She's still not back to her normal, playful self, but she seems to be getting better every day (or, so we hope).  Sure, there are some blood stains in the back seat of my car (you should've seen the splattering she did at the vet's office!) and on some towels and her sofa bed, but it's a small price to pay for her to feel better.

So, now that you've made it through that lovely story, here's hoping that 2012 gets better in a jiffy! :)