It’s been a rather rough week. And I am so ready for something positive to happen.
You see, I haven’t had time to write about it just yet, but in addition to the deep and overwhelming grief I am trying to cope with, we also spent a day in the emergency room with Little MPB. Now, before everyone worries, rest assured that Little MPB is okay and will be just fine. He has a gastrointestinal virus, aka a stomach bug. This bug just has to work through his system and he’s home from daycare until he’s fever breaks and the diarrhea stops. It should clear out of his system sometime within the next 2 weeks. This is Little MPB’s first encounter with a stomach bug, and both Mr. MPB and I managed to find ourselves covered in puke and changing more diapers then we prefer to at all hours of the day and night (and as an added bonus it’s likely highly contagious – neither Mr. MPB or I are looking forward to our turn). This is definitely one of those first that we knew was coming one day, but one we hoped we could avoid for ever.
Needless to say, combining a toddler with a stomach bug and grief over our dog, and no-one in this house has slept in days.
But the trip to the emergency room and ongoing stomach bug is actually not the point today.
Instead, I want to tell a story about a parenting realization I had at the hospital.
You see, when we went to the hospital I knew Little MPB wasn’t dying. He had a high fever, but we were able to manage it with Advil and Tylenol and he wasn’t over lethargic or inconsolably irritable. And I knew that kids can have diarrhea and vomiting and they probably aren’t going to die. In fact, we only went to the hospital because we decided we needed to be safe rather then sorry since we had never experienced this type of illness. And while I was almost embarrassed for overreacting, the nurses and doctor continued to reassure us that we made the right call to bring him in.
While at the hospital, I caught myself as I said to the ER Doctor, I’m sure this will be just like when he had Roseola, we’ll freak out because it’s his first time with it. But now we are like, it’s just Roseola, no big deal.
I distinctly remember how annoyed I was when other more seasoned mom’s said it’s just Roseola, no big deal to me, after we rushed our son to the Children’s hospital with a 104 degree temperature when he was just a few months old. I remember being so filled with annoyance, maybe even rage, that they couldn’t understand how scary this was! I felt judged for taking our son to the emergency for his high fever, I didn’t understand their comment.
But, now I get it. It wasn’t that they couldn’t understand, rather it’s just that they had more experience to know that it’s not a scary illness. But they only have that experience because they too had probably rushed their own child to the hospital and/or were consumed with worry over something that scared them at one point too.
I realized that with more time as parents, we do start to learn what’s scary and what’s not so scary. We also start to learn when to be cautious and when not to be.
And, I have to say, I’m pretty darn glad that I am able to learn these parenting things, even if it means I get puked on from time to time.
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Thank you everyone for your kind words of love, we are beyond thankful for all the compassion and understanding we’ve received over the last few days.
As everyone knows, we said goodbye to our amazing dog, which put a rather large cloud over the long weekend.
Instead of a weekend away with some friends, we decided to stay home to keep our depressed selves hidden away from the world. Yet we very quickly realized our house is way too quite and eerily lonely. Its like there is a massive void in our house, she’s not at my side when I wake up in the morning or when I go to sleep at night. She’s not pawing at us asking for pets or belly rubs. The house is just silent. Everything feels still without her.
Our conversations have been filled with things we’ll never get to do again – no more walks at the park, no more running with the worlds worst runner (and we now realize she was probably a horrible runner because her heart was so tiny), no more pee breaks right before bed, no more dog vacuum after Little MPB meal times, no more mountain hikes with her leading the way, no more sleepless nights due to her irritable tummy, etc.
We also find ourselves telling each other about our favourite memories with her – our first car ride home with her wrapped in a towel when she was just a little puppy, the way she tilted her head to the side when she heard a funny sound, the way she always vomitted on Mr. MPB (but never me) in his sleeping bag after a night of sleeping in the tent, the way she desperately wanted to catch a bunny on our walks, the way she devoured her favourite snack, the time she stole a whole roast off the counter when she was a puppy, the time she ate a bandage off her paw and puked it up nearly 2 weeks later for Mr. MPB to find, and the way she always came to greet me at the door, but never bothered to get up to greet Mr. MPB when he came home (I offered her treats when I cam home, he did not). So many happy memories!
Yet, I have found myself unable to sit still. I found myself starting the process of putting away all of our dogs things – her leashes, food dish, water dish, treat jar, toys and even extra rolls of poop bags have all been put into our storage room. I’m pretty sure one day we will get another dog, but for now, I needed to put away the reminders of our missing puu-py. I even threw out the remainder of treats and her food (the bag was already opened so I decided it was unlikely a rescue agency would have taken it, and I honestly don’t have the heart to call our rescue agency and ask because I’ll have to tell them she’s gone).
I left vacuuming for last – she shed constantly (24/7, 365 days a year), so there is copious amounts of fur throughout our house, and somehow vacuuming the carpet was incredibly hard for me to do – with each passage of the vacuum, I felt like I was erasing her from our lives. But I needed to do this, otherwise the cleaners would later this week, and that just felt way to impersonal. I cried the entire time I vacuumed. And now, a day later, I look around and still see her fur everywhere – I suspect I’ll continue finding her furballs for months to come, which I’m sure will result in spontaneous tears (as I’m sure other unexpected reminders will as well).
I honestly had no idea how hard it would be to say goodbye to her. She truly was our first child, and yet also my very best friend.
My heart is so incredibly heavy. I wonder, how long will it hurt like this?
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My Perfect Breakdown 